Naked Frame

Naked Frame

Robert Burton Robinson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 Robert Burton Robinson.

Cover background:
www.flickr.com/photos/phlezk

Discover other titles by Robert Burton
Robinson at:

Smashwords

or

RobertBurtonRobinson.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you
share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it,
or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return
to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.

Books by Robert Burton Robinson

Greg Tenorly Suspense Series

Bicycle Shop Murder

Hideaway Hospital Murders

Illusion of Luck

Fly the Rain

Sweet Ginger Poison - a whodunit mystery

Classical Revenge - Thirteen Short
Stories

Rebecca Ranghorn Mystery Series

Naked Frame

(Book 2 - coming in Feb. 2011)

(Book 3 - coming in May 2011)

Special thanks to

Don Neuman

Lynda Robinson

Synopsis

Rebecca Ranghorn is wanted for murder. The
dead man in her office has a bullet in his head. Her bullet. But
she’s not the killer. At least she doesn’t think so.

Rebecca is a private investigator working
mostly cheating husband cases. She knows how to kick butt, and
she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.

In NAKED FRAME, her client is a mother
wanting proof that her teenage daughter is having sex with a sleazy
Dallas businessman, Big Bill Smotherburn. Once Rebecca shoots the
video, the mother begins to threaten him.

Big Bill drops by Rebecca’s office
unannounced, after hours, and tries to buy the video. But within
minutes, Rebecca has passed out, warm pistol in hand, and Big Bill
is sprawled out on the floor with half his face blown off.

Rebecca had been pointing the gun at Big
Bill, unsure of his intentions. But she’s sure she wouldn’t have
pulled the trigger. She believes somebody framed her.

She knows it’s only a matter of time before
police discover the body, and come looking for her. It’s an odd
time to reconnect with her best friend, Gabby, from high school.
But he wants to help Rebecca.

The two of them will unravel the mystery. Or
die trying.

CHAPTER 1 - Monday, 5:43 p.m.

Rebecca Ranghorn stared at her noisy wall
clock. Each tick felt like a little hammer pounding at the back of
her skull. The four aspirin had done nothing for her headache.

She commanded the clock to be silent.

It ticked on.

Her sanity hanging by a thread, she jumped
up from her chair, ready to quick-draw her pistol like a Wild West
gunfighter, and blow the damn thing to kingdom come.

Rebecca was an imposing figure: a lean,
six-foot frame, long brown hair pulled back tight, steely eyes, and
a kick-ass attitude.

Her desk phone rang, and her head nearly
exploded. "Rebecca Ranghorn Investigations," she barked.

"Becca, I'm so sorry. I had a flat tire,
and—"

"—it's okay, Gabby." She sat down. "But
instead of you coming here, why don't we just meet for dinner? I've
got an errand to run in a few minutes. But I could meet you
someplace at around 7:00."

"I really need to talk to you privately, if
you don't mind. I can be there in fifteen minutes."

"Okay. I'll wait. But my secretary has
already gone home. So, just knock, and I'll come out and let you
in."

Maybe Gabby had something
stronger for a headache. Like
opium
. Rebecca was no druggy. But
right now she couldn't think of anything over-the-counter that
would do the trick.

She got up, and snatched the battery out of
the wall clock. Ah, silence. But after a few seconds she realized
the silence might be even worse than the ticking. She sat back down
at her desk, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

Rebecca was excited to see her old buddy.
But why wouldn't he tell her what this was about? They'd had no
contact whatsoever since high school. She had no idea what he'd
been up to for the past fifteen years.

Maybe he had a cheating wife. Surely he
hadn't killed somebody. Was that why he didn't want to meet in
public? Was he running from the cops? Didn't sound like the Gabby
she knew. But, then again, a person can change in fifteen
years.

Rebecca no longer worked murder cases. Not
since college, when she was partnering with her dad.

She caught cheaters, all over Dallas. That
was her thing. Snooping. Gathering evidence—usually with her video
camera. A little movie, starring the husband and the other woman,
usually gave the wife all the leverage she needed in divorce court.
The husbands hated Rebecca for it, and sometimes threatened
her.

"Bitch, I've got half a mind to jam my fist
right down your throat."

"Try it, and I'll pull my gun and blow your
damn balls off."

In truth, she had never shot anyone, and
didn't even know if she could. She was impressive at the shooting
range. But those targets weren't breathing. Good thing Rebecca was
a stone-cold bluffer. Randy Ranghorn had taught his daughter
well.

She leaned back in her rickety office chair,
and tried to relax her headache away—imagining a steamy hot bubble
bath. Soaking for an hour. An occasional toe to the faucet handle,
releasing an influx of heat when needed. Reading a romance novel in
the soft light of a dozen scented candles.

Someday she would take that bubble bath. But
tonight would probably end like most other nights. Five minutes
under the showerhead. Collapsing into bed. Too tired to even turn
off the lamp.

Most women would be skittish about hanging
around an empty office after hours. Particularly in a mostly vacant
strip mall. But the rent was cheap. And Rebecca had learned to
ignore the slight stench of mildew in her office.

If she screamed for help, nobody would hear
her. But Rebecca wouldn't scream. She'd reach under her suit jacket
for the blue steel pistol snuggled inside her shoulder holster.

She unlocked the bottom desk drawer, picked
up the handcrafted wooden case, and placed it on top of her desk.
Her dad's old Smith and Wesson Model 27 revolver held such strong
memories. She took it out of the case and aimed at an imaginary
criminal.

Rebecca loved remembering her first time.
She was ten years old. It was a chilly Thanksgiving day on her
grandfather's old farm. After the football game, her dad had asked
her to join him for a walk around the property. They agreed it
would help work off the turkey and dressing.

——

"How about a little target practice?" he
said, nodding to an old galvanized trash can lid that had been
wired onto the side of a bale of hay. It was riddled with holes.
"Think you could hit the bull's eye?"

"Sure. Give me your gun."

"Take it easy, Rebel. We'll do it
together."

"Aw, come on, Daddy, I can do it by
myself."

He pulled the revolver out of its holster.
Rebecca always wondered why her dad carried a weapon to family
get-togethers. She later came to understand that P.I.'s were always
in danger. You never knew when some guy you had investigated would
come looking for payback.

He pointed the gun toward the target. "Now,
do what I tell you, Rebel."

She faked a pouty face. "My name is
Rebecca." But she loved it when he called her Rebel. She wanted to
be tough—like her daddy.

"Now, take the weapon in your right hand
like this." He showed her how to grip it, and placed his hands on
the sides of hers.

"What if I'm
left-handed?
"

"Are you left-handed?"

"No."

"Then shut up and listen."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "I can do
it myself."

"Not the first time. Okay, now take
aim."

"Got it."

"Are you sure? Because if you accidentally
shoot one of grandpa's cows, we're going to be eating cow patties
for dinner."

"You mean hamburgers?"

"No, I mean cow patties."

"Yuck."

He chuckled. "Well, it's the truth."

"Grandpa wouldn't be mean to me. He loves
me."

"Well, let's not chance it."

She squeezed the trigger.
When the gun fired, Rebecca was surprised—not so much by the
way
it felt. She was
surprised at how much she
liked
the way it felt. The sheer power of the weapon
excited her.

Rebecca had no idea whether she could ever
shoot an animal or a bad guy. But she was instantly addicted to
that magnificent feeling of power. Yeah. She liked feeling
tough.

——

It was a wonderful memory of her dad and his
gun. For her next birthday, he gave her a silver charm bracelet.
One of the charms was a pistol. She still wore that bracelet every
day.

But the good memories were always followed
by the bad: that horrible night when she found him in a pool of
blood, on the floor of that abandoned old house.

His gun was still holstered. The drug dealer
had caught him by surprise. Three shots to the back. Damn
coward.

But her dad's old revolver was for more than
just memories. Rebecca cleaned it regularly, and kept it loaded, as
a backup weapon. It gave her the feeling that her dad was there
with her. That he always had her back.

She heard a noise from the reception area.
Perhaps her young secretary had forgotten something and come back
for it. Wouldn't be the first time. "Wendy?"

No reply.

Her door swung open, and Big Bill
Smotherburn stepped into her office, turning sideways to clear the
doorway. At 6-foot-3, 350 lbs., he could knock down a door, frame
and all, just by bumping into it.

She pointed the revolver at him. "You son of
a bitch. How did you get in here?"

He seemed no more threatened by her gun than
if she were holding a lollypop. "So, this is the office of Rebecca
Ranghorn, Private Investigator." He looked around as though he were
actually interested. "What a dump." He grinned. "Mind if I have a
seat?"

"Mind if I blow your damn head off?"

"Now, now, Rebecca. You're not gonna shoot
me, and we both know it." He walked over to the metal chair sitting
in front of her desk.

"Wanna bet?" She released the safety, and
aimed the gun at his head.

"Look, I didn't make it this far in life
without being a pretty good judge of character." As he eased
himself down onto the chair, it groaned in protest.

"What do you want from me?"

He set two cups on her desk. They were from
her coffee bar in the reception area. "I want you to get your
client to back off."

"I don't know what you're talking about."
Her head was still throbbing.

"Yes, you do. Carly Cinaway."

She hesitated. "I don't tell my clients what
to do."

He reached into his suit coat pocket.

She cocked the gun. "Careful."

He pulled out a flask and unscrewed the
lid.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"It's tequila. Your favorite brand."

"I don't have a favorite brand. I don't
drink...anymore."

He poured a few ounces into each cup. "I'm
here to celebrate with you." He picked up one of the cups.

"Really? What are we celebrating? The fact
that you're headed for prison?"

"I'll be happy to tell you as soon as you
join me." He held up his cup and nodded to hers.

Rebecca knew she shouldn't. It could be
drugged. And, besides, she was afraid she was becoming an
alcoholic. Her mind said No. But her pounding headache said YES,
PLEASE. "You first."

"You think I've come here to poison you?" He
laughed. "My dear, if I had wanted you dead, your cute little ass
would already be in the morgue." He drank half of the tequila in
his cup. "I don't do business that way."

Rebecca picked up the cup with her left
hand, and took a sip. It didn't taste funny.

"Excellent, huh?"

She gulped it down. It
was
so
good.
Better than sex. Although, it had been a long time.

"That old beat-up Lincoln sitting out front
is a piece of shit."