Best Defense (2 page)

The next morning—today—I compiled the report I was anxious to give to Ms. Hammonds. After being unable to reach her on the phone, I drove over. If I didn't deliver it, I'd have to watch Mr. H. again that evening. I could see no point in running up the bill. He was what he was, and I knew what he was.

As I re-thought the day, it was obvious he was a husband who took the easy way out of divorce and losing his riches—he killed his wife. Yeah, I knew the first reaction was to suspect the spouse, but in this case, it made sense. She knew about his philandering ways. She hired me. She wanted a divorce. She wanted all his money and possessions. Solution? Eliminate her. Sounded solid to me. However, perhaps Bannon and Sargent knew something I didn't—or maybe they were being pigheaded again as in the last time we shared an investigation. I ended up doing all the work in that one while they insulted my intellect.

Finally, after I'd gone through my
facts
the forty-eighth time, or so it seemed, Bannon approached me and dropped onto the bench. “Ms. Bowman, thank you for waiting. I'd like to get a statement, if you're willing.”

“Willing? What makes you think that? I've been picking up splinters in my butt just to pass the time of day. Anytime you're ready, as long as you make it right now. Otherwise, I'm out of here.”

He laid a small recorder on the table. “Do you mind if I tape it?”

“Whatever,” I said, fluttering a hand. “It's short and not so sweet. Let me know when to start t
alking.”

He flicked a button, then established the date, time, location, and our identities. “In your own words, Ms. Bowman, explain the events leading up to your discovery of the body and your subsequent actions.”

I went through my story, being careful not to leave anything out. I wanted them to know everything I knew—which, in the telling, didn't seem like all that much.

After asking a couple of questions to clarify points he thought I missed, he turned the recorder off. He rubbed his hand over his face, a face that now seemed old and tired. It was like wrinkles had developed since he arrived at the house. “Thank you, Ms. Bowman. We'll be in touch if we need anything else.”

“Hold on,” I said. “You're not getting off that easy. How'd she die? Are you arresting her husband? How about the maid? Any other bodies in the house?”

He gave me a look filled with fatigue. “The M.E. says two gunshot wounds in the back. Probably one penetrated the heart. No, we're not arresting her husband. No reason to. Third, someone strangled the maid. My best guess is that someone snuck up behind her with some sort of garrote. Ms. Hammonds and the maid appear to be the only victims.” He paused. “Now, if you're satisfied, I still have hours of work to do.” He started down the steps of the gazebo, then stopped. “I envy you, Ms. Bowman. You can find a body and walk away. Public employees like me have to clean up the mess.”

“What about me? Do I have to hang around any longer?”

“No, Ms. Bowman. In fact, I'd feel much better if you left.”

A day that started on a high had collapsed into a heap of nothing. My client was dead, and no one except me thought her husband was a likely suspect. Plus, I had Bannon and Sargent in my life again. All I needed to top it off was one of my mom's phone calls telling me of her premonitions. I climbed into my Toyota and backed out of the driveway.

two

I drove aimlessly, nowhere
to go, and the rest of the day to get there. The man I adored, Dr. David Rasmussen, was at a medical convention in Los Angeles. Four o'clock in Florida meant one o'clock there. Hours before I could talk to him. Besides, what would I tell him?
Hey, honey, you see it's like this. A wife hired me to follow her husband. I caught him with his honey. But before I could report to her, somebody killed her, and I'm the only one who thinks the husband is the logical suspect. Then it got worse. Bannon and Sargent caught the case. They haven't changed—still don't believe a word I say.

No, that wouldn't work. David already had doubts about us because of my profession. No need to encourage that attitude. After considering all the options, I figured going home was the best bet. My fridge was looking like a biological warfare lab—lots of green stuff growing, and I don't mean broccoli or any of that other green stuff I had to eat as a child. I could clean it while hoping a new case came along. Or Sly Bergstrom landed a client who needed me.

Sylvester Bergstrom was the senior partner at Bergstrom and Bergowitz. B&B represented major civil cases for insurance companies. I connected to them soon after moving from Dallas to South Florida. A letter of introduction and recommendation from one of the top firms in Texas got my toe in the door, but my job performance kept me there. Sly, as his friends called him, was a solid supporter as long as I developed the information he needed to keep him on top. I did, and he was. He paid a nice retainer that was sufficient to handle my mortgage, but not enough to keep food in the refrigerator and gas in the car. For that, I needed freelance work or for him to land a really big case that would allow me billable hours for days, perhaps weeks.

I pulled into my driveway and turned the engine off. I sat there. If someone had come by, I'd have said I was listening to the radio, but really, I was just killing time. I was in the midst of my own premonition, the one that said if I went into the house, my mother would call. After a few minutes, I shrugged, gave up, and went in.

Sure enough, the phone rang as soon as I opened the door. I scurried through to the kitchen and checked the caller ID. Yep. May as well get it over with.

“Hi, Mom. So good to hear from you.”

“What's up? What kind of trouble are you in?”

“None. Everything is fine. Why do you ask something like that?” Like I needed an answer to that one. I couldn't remember any time in my life she hadn't anticipated my problems, or thought she was anticipating them. Even my marriage to Sonny-the-Bunny didn't escape her radar. A week before the ceremony, she told me he'd never be faithful to one woman, least of all,
me
. She figured any woman who dressed as casually as I did could never get a man. Of course, I refused to believe her, married him, and stayed with the jerk for two years, even after suspecting she was right. Walking in on him with one of his lady-
friends
proved it was time to leave.

My mother said, “No real reason. I just had a feeling something was going on there. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes, Mom. It's been a quiet day.” Inspiration struck. “I spent the day with my head in the refrigerator. I had no idea it needed
cleaning so badly. That's probably what caused your feeling.
Some of the stuff I pulled out of there might have been toxic. Maybe that's why you thought I was in trouble.” I chuckled to reinforce my words, then swallowed it. If I laid it on too thick, she'd be sure to see through it.

“I don't think so,” she said, doubt resonating through the line. “It didn't feel like that kind of premonition.”

“Well, I can't think of anything else. Maybe it was something you ate.”

“Funny. If I've told you once, I've told you a dozen times. Funny, you are not. Now, if you're sure you're all right, I'll hang up. I have to get dressed. I have a date tonight. Bye, dear.”

“Good-bye, Mom. Have a nice time.” Her words registered with a bang. “A date? Who—” I stopped because I was speaking into a dead phone.

A date? Well, why not? My mother was an attractive woman who stayed single after my father died when I was young. She worked hard to raise my brother and me. Oh, she went out with a few men, but none of them caught her fancy. She'd say, “After your dad, no man measures up.” So I was sure that whomever she was dating would soon be history.

The refrigerator put up a hardy fight, but finally succumbed to my superior intellect and power. Well, that and a full bottle of Lysol. When I finished, the green was gone, my refrigerator smelled fresh and clean, and I had burned enough daylight to consider what to have for dinner.

The phone rang. When I checked the caller ID, the number was not familiar. “Hello.”

“Ms. Bowman,” a man said in a rushed voice. “This is John Hammonds. I need your help.”

“Slow down. Who'd you say you are?”

“John Hammonds. You know my wife, Sabrina. That's why I'm calling. I need your help.”

I lowered the phone and stared at the earpiece, then put it back into speaking position. “Did you say you need my help?”

“Yes. Can you come over—I mean, right now? Uh, if it's convenient?”

“John Hammonds? As in husband of Sabrina Hammonds?”

“Yes. I told you that. Please, I need to talk to you. Come to my house. I'll make it worth your while.”

_____

For the second time that day, I was at the Hammonds' house. No matter how I played it, his phone call made no sense. Why had he summoned me? If it had been the police, I'd have understood, but the husband I suspected of being the murderer? It just didn't add up. However, it was so intriguing I couldn't resist. So, I made a fast sandwich, grabbed a bottle of water, and jumped into my car, eating as I drove.

Hammonds' driveway was wide and long, but I still had to park near the street. There were cop cars everywhere, or so it seemed. A couple of Ford Crown Victorias, a current year black and white that shined like it had just left the showroom, patrol cars that had actually seen patrol duty, even a Dodge Charger. The common factor was each had the cheapest hubcaps money could buy. The one that didn't seem to fit, other than my Toyota, appeared to be a rental.

Lights blazed wherever I looked—front lawn, gazebo, and shining through every window. Before I could get out of my car, a uniform was beside it. “Excuse me. Are you Ms. Bowman?”

“Yes, I am. I—”

“Come with me.” He opened my door and ushered me out, then
turned and quickstepped away. As I fell behind, he said, “We'll go through the garage. The front area is still a crime scene.”

That part pleased me and not because it was a crime scene. I remembered the foyer from earlier. I didn't care to walk through there.

He punched in a code at the garage door, and it swung upward.

Fluorescent lights glared, giving everything the brightness and harshness of high noon. I flinched as memories of Sabrina's crumpled body flooded me when we passed her Mercedes. My escort rapped on the door to the house.

Another young uniform swung the door inward. From his looks, the two of them could have been in the same class. If so, I assumed the inside officer scored higher—simply because he drew the better duty—inside and air-conditioned.

“Ms. Bowman for Mr. Hammonds,” my escort said.

“She's expected.”

Their treatment made me feel like some kind of dignitary—or maybe a Miami politician slipping into a
private
meeting with Meyer Lansky during World War II. I started to crack a joke, but decided that might not be smart. The policemen were taking their duties seriously, and I should, too. Instead, I thanked my outside escort and turned toward his compatriot.

“Go through there,” he said, pointing into the kitchen. He closed the door, then took up what looked like a guard position.

I frowned, not having a clue to what was going on. But, since no one insisted on frisking me or having me spread-eagle, I felt I must be on the good-guy side of things. I walked through the kitchen to the living room into a gathering of people—three of whom I recognized. Bannon, Sargent, and Hammonds. From the uniforms, I surmised that four were policemen. And from all the trimmings on one of those uniforms, I could tell there was a senior officer present. That probably explained the beat cops' courtesy.

But the last person was the surprise that caused my mouth to flop so far open I felt I should push up on my chin. Hammonds' lady friend from the previous night sat in one of the plush chairs.
My first impulse was to stomp over and grab a handful of her dyed
hair, but common sense prevailed. Maybe the cops had brought her in for questioning. Maybe she was in cahoots with Hammonds on eliminating his wife. Maybe she … I had no idea why she was there, but I was pissed that she was.

I studied her a moment, making sure she saw my glare. She met it with a smile, a small one, but a smile. I realized she did not look as uncomfortable as she would if the cops had hauled her in, yet there was a sadness radiating from her. It was as if she had collapsed into herself. Even with that, she didn't look out of place. She looked like she belonged.

Her hair had the sheen of professional care, and the navy pantsuit she wore screamed expensive. She had on a simple necklace
ending in a pendant that box stores could not afford to stock. I flashed
to my image of her the previous night and realized she had been well dressed then also. I figured her services must be so good she could overcome age and looks. Not something I chose to give a lot of thought—too gross.

“Ms. Bowman,” Hammonds said, coming to his feet. “Thank you for coming. Can we talk a moment?”

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the broad Hammonds had shacked up with, but answered as best I could. “Yeah, I have some things to say to you.”

“Let's find a place with some privacy.” He waved me forward, then walked down a hall, stopping at an open doorway.

I followed and when I caught up, saw that he was leading me into an office. From the masculine cut of the furniture, I supposed it was his. “I hope they whack your nuts off, then hang you,” I said. “A simple ending with a shot of drugs is too good for you.”

“Please,” he said, moving into the chair behind the desk. “Before you damn me to hell—and worse—have a seat and hear me out. Then, if you're willing, I'd like to hire you.”

There my danged mouth went again, flopping open. “Hire me? You have to be crazy. Either that or you've got the biggest pair of balls hung on any man. Which is it?”

“Neither,” he said, the sadness on his face reminding me of a bloodhound. “I'm simply a man who lost the woman he loves … and more. Will you give me a few minutes of your time? I'll even pay you if it will help. Name your rate.”

“Talk. Listening is free. But don't drag it out too long. I have a weak stomach. I'd hate to throw up on your fancy carpet.”

“Everything okay in here?” Sargent stood in the doorway.

“Yes,” Hammonds said, a bit of snarl in his voice. “I told you I wanted privacy. Now get the hell out of here and close the door behind you. I'll let you know if I need your intervention.”

Sargent's expression was priceless. I'd have paid admission to see it. He knew Hammonds had slammed him, but he was powerless. His lips became a thin line as he pulled the door closed, disappearing behind it.

Hammonds rubbed his hand over his face, and his weariness returned. It was no façade. His reaction to Sargent was the façade.

I studied him, noticing the bloodshot eyes and the puffiness beneath them. I fought my female instinct to feel sorry for him. He looked old and sad and bereft and … John Hammonds was a man in pain.

“I need your help,” he said. “But I know you won't give it unless I convince you I did
not
kill my wife. Ms. Bowman, I beg you to believe me. I did
not
kill her. I loved her. She and my daughter were my reasons for living. They were everything to me.”