Best Defense (6 page)

eight

Those church bells again.
They couldn't fool me twice in the same night. I knew there was no church nearby. An alarm clock, yes. A church, no. I opened my eyes and stared. Yep. It was my too-reliable clock, and it read seven-thirty. I felt like I'd just fallen asleep, which wasn't far from the truth.

After Ike's phone call and the last conversation with Mom, I spent forever rolling from one side of my bed to the other. The last time I noticed, the clock hands sat at four-thirty. Then, the church bells.

Groaning, I threw back the covers and headed for the kitchen. Coffee. I needed coffee. After that, a shower, a nice
hot
shower—then more coffee. Since neither Hammonds nor the police contacted me during the night, I assumed things remained the same with Ashley's disappearance.

I considered what to wear. I didn't know when I'd next be
able to change clothes. It depended on how fast the case moved once the kidnappers made contact. They had control. All I could do was be ready.

I grabbed one item without any deep thought about it. For lack
of a better name, I labeled it my gun bra. After a recent case
when I found myself unarmed, facing the business end of a thug's
pistol, I
decided to find a solution. First, I combed the Internet until I found
the weapon I wanted, a .22 caliber American Derringer. I chose the .22 to hold the weight down because I knew where I wanted to conceal it, and a derringer to minimize the size.

With the derringer in hand, I bought several full-coverage bras and took them to Mrs. Gonzalez, a seamstress I knew in Fort Lauderdale. Her ability with a needle and thread was mystical. When I showed her the gun and explained what I wanted, using her daughter as a translator, she gave me her
can do
smile, and told me to come back next week.

Upon my return, I found she had modified the bras by reinforcing the center gore and sewing in a snug holster made from a soft material. When I tried the bra on and slipped the derringer in under a T-shirt, I saw no hint of the weapon. Like I said, she could work magic.

I kept the derringer on the top shelf of my closet out of harm's way in a shoebox. The ammo snuggled in the back of my makeup drawer. I'm a great believer in keeping guns and ammunition separate. Make it as difficult as possible for a burglar to arm himself, that's my motto.

I took out the derringer and its ammo and checked both. All looked well so I loaded it, set the safety, and concealed it, then pulled out my usual jeans and a V-neck T-shirt. However, as I stood in front of the mirror, I realized I had no idea what the day might br
ing. Perhaps a T-shirt was not the best choice. I rummaged through the drawer and came up with a black knit top with a scoop neck. It looked dressy enough to get me into all but the ritziest places in South Florida, but casual enough for Walmart. Definitely a better choice. And the neckline dipped low enough to allow me to reac
h the derringer. A lightweight black windbreaker finished my ensemble. No way to tell what over-air-conditioned places I might have to visit.

My last chore was to open the box my Walther P99C came in. I wanted the two empty eight-round magazines I kept there. From another box, I retrieved nine-millimeter ammo and filled them. Then I took the Walther out of my purse, ejected the magazine, and checked it. Once convinced everything was in perfect working order, I re-loaded the pistol, chambered a round, and set the safety to the on position.

The sub-compact Walther was also a recent acquisition, bought after the same experience that sent me looking for a bra gun. The Walther didn't measure up to the full-sized Beretta M9 I wanted—too heavy for a purse—but it would do.

Once I filled my bag with the pistol and extra rounds, along with the other paraphernalia I carried, it felt like a weapon itself. And, with its shoulder strap, I could give it a good swing. Anyone who happened to stand in the way would go down, no doubt about it.

I took a last look in the mirror, knowing Mom would have something to say about my ensemble. There'd be lots of words, but the gist of it would be that no man would find me attractive until I learned to dress to make myself attractive—like wearing a
daring
bikini. Oh, brother.

As I walked out of the house, I smiled, picturing the look on a wannabe rapist's face when I reached into my bra and came out with a gun. I suspected his
weapon
would wilt. The same went for any other thug that tried to take me on.

I headed for Hammonds' place, figuring I'd get a briefing on what the police learned overnight, if anything. It wouldn't do any good to hit Ashley's school too early. Plus, there was always the possibility one of my homeless friends would call to say they spotted the woman who took Ashley. Or maybe the kidnapper would make contact. With Sargent on duty, I'd feel better if I were near Hammonds' phone when it rang.

I pulled into Hammonds' driveway, and a uniform stepped out.
She wasn't expecting me, so I had to identify myself, then prove it. I guess she accepted that I wasn't the master criminal returning to the scene of the crime because she walked me through the garage and turned me over to an inside cop.

I heard steps coming my way, and Sargent soon faced me.

“Well, my favorite skirt-PI. You're getting better. Found your way in with no help this time.”

Jerk, I thought, but bit back the words that formed. “I'm here to see John Hammonds. You, I do
not
need to see.”

He laughed. “Shucks, ma'am. I'm right sorry you feel that way. You know I always look forward to being with you.” His smirk put the lie to his words. “Mr. Hammonds is in his study. I reckon a smart PI like you can find her way.” He turned and walked back the way he'd come.

There were things I wanted to say, things I needed to say, but I wasn't there to fight. I was there to help John Hammonds. I followed Sargent, then abandoned his trail to head toward Hammonds' office.

Stopping in the doorway, I didn't see him. “Mr. Hammonds?” I said. “Are you in here?”

It seemed a stupid question because I could see the entire office—a conversation niche surrounding a coffee table, and his desk with his chair behind it, facing away from me. Of course, the chair back was tall enough and wide enough to hide a man twice his size. I waited a respectable amount of time, then stepped into the room. “Mr. Hammonds? Would you prefer I come back later?”

If he was in the room, he had to be in the chair. If he wasn't, I could only hope Sargent wasn't listening. If so, for the rest of my life—well, his part of it—he'd harass me that I talked to myself.

The chair swiveled.

“Ms. Bowman. Sorry. Guess I was wool gathering.”

The chair continued its trip, and Hammonds came into full front view. He had shaved and changed clothes since I last saw him, but it hadn't improved his appearance. His face was vapid, and, if possible, he looked worse than the night before. His eyes were roadmaps to nowhere, all small secondary roads in red.

“Ever think about that old saying?” he said, his expression showing a bit of life. “Wool gathering. They say all colloquialisms have a foundation in fact, but I can't for the life of me figure that one out. I just can't find a connection between daydreaming and sheep shearing, or wherever the term originated.” He lapsed into silence, and his face went blank again.

“If this is a bad time, I can come back this afternoon. Would that be better?”

“No, I'm glad you're here. Did you accomplish what you set out to do?”

In the hours I'd been gone, Hammonds had aged years. The skin
on his face sagged, and the bags under his eyes were big enough to cost him dearly if he checked them on an airplane.

I walked to the desk, reached across, and touched his arm. “I did as much as I could. We'll see if it pays off today. How are things here?”

Hammonds glanced toward the living room and let out a heavy
sigh before letting his head drop. “Every chance he gets, that cop tells me I'm making a mistake by trusting my daughter to you. I'm tired of hearing it. I told him to give it a rest, but he doesn't.”

I stood across from one of the most successful lawyers in South Florida, but no one would have ever known it. His whole demeanor was one of defeat. I had to add another layer.

I lifted his chin. “John, he may be right. They have a lot more resources than I do. I'm just one person. Perhaps you should—”

“I know that, Beth,” he flared. “But I've handled enough criminal cases to know amateurs panic at the first sign of the cops. From what I've seen, these people are not pros. A pro would never have committed murder to set up a kidnapping. Murder is a capital offense in Florida, kidnapping is jail time. Now they know if they're caught, they stand a good chance of getting a death sentence. That means we have to approach them easy.”

He stared at me. “Don't you know that having cops near a drop site or setting up some kind of sting is the best way I know to ensure Ashley—” He choked and didn't finish.

“I agree, John, but they have the assets. I only have me and a few friends.”

“Yeah, but whatever they have, they'll share with you. Like I said before, if they get cute, I'll have the governor down here. I'll cash every IOU I've ever accepted to get Ashley back—and I don't give a damn whose feelings get bruised.”

I backed away and took a visitor's chair. “So what's been happening here?”

“Quiet. Too darn quiet. Why don't they make contact?” He rested
his face in his hands and his words came out muffled. “They must know I received their message loud and clear. They must know I'll pay anything.”

It hurt to see such a proud man reduced to this level, but I tried not to show it. One of us had to project strength. “Pressure, John. It's all about building up the pressure. And I'm sure they're getting a feel for how the police are reacting. They'll have to find some sneaky way to make contact, expecting your phone calls to be recorded.”

“How about emails? The police brought in a laptop and are monitoring my inbox. Do you think they'll email me?”

“Possible, if they use a public computer. I doubt they'd be dumb enough to use a personal one. The library is always a possibility … or a FedEx Office or something like that. Hotels, motels. There are business centers everywhere these days, even some coffee shops. Anyone can use them, and setting up a phony account is a snap. When the authorities backtrack the email, the trail ends at the computer that sent it. No way to identify the author. So I'd say email is a distinct possibility.”

“I'll take your word for it. All that techy stuff is too much for me. I yearn for the good old days of handwritten words on a legal pad.”

“Did your sister leave?” I asked, hoping to get his mind off his daughter.

“No. She said she'll stay until Ashley comes home. She's a rock, one I need. My whole life she's been the one who stood up when courage was needed.”

So much for diverting his thoughts with his sister. Another try was in order. “Yeah, I have a brother like that. He's always there for me.” It wasn't exactly the truth, but it kept the conversation moving. I went on, embellishing on what had been a pretty normal big brother-little sister relationship. Harve thought I was a pain in the ass, and I thought he was a macho pig. “When my dad died, Mom had to go to work. Harve was the one I came home from school to, the one who made me a snack, helped me with my homework. I think I know what you mean about your sister.”

“Harve?”

“His name is Harvey. Mom always kidded that she named him after Harvey the Rabbit from the old movie. Actually, there's been
a Harvey on Mom's side of the family every other generation from
way back. Harve lives in Wisconsin with his wife, Delores, and two
adorable children. Mom loves his kids and tells me all the time I need
to give her grandkids. She—”

“Beth. You're babbling. It's not necessary. I'm not going to fall apart.”

Caught. What could I do? I smiled. “Hey, does that mean you don't find my family fascinating?”

My cell phone sang its ditty. I stared at the caller ID a moment, wondering if Mom was testing to see if I'd given her the correct number. Didn't matter. She was about to storm into my life.

Throwing Hammonds an apologetic smile, I said into the phone, “Hi, Mom. Did you get a flight?”

“Yes. I fly out of DFW at two. I'll land in Fort Lauderdale at six-fifteen. It's only a three-hour flight, but we lose an hour because of the time zones.”

“Great. Call me when you arrive. Do you still want to rent a car?
I can pick you up.”

“No. I don't want to be stranded. If you have to work, I can always
go to the beach or Disney World. Are you working now?”

I chose not to tell her Disney World was over three hours north of me. Texans tend to think that anywhere except their home state is small with everything located close together. I know because I overcame that same tendency—almost.

“Yes. I'm meeting with a client right now, so I need to cut this short.” I threw another smile accompanied by a shrug at Hammonds, who appeared to have forgotten I was in the room. “Sorry, but when the opportunity arises, I have to go with it.”

“I understand, Beth. You just go on about your business. I know how to take care of myself.”

“That's great, Mom, I—”

“You didn't tell me Ike was such a delightful man. We shared a wonderful breakfast. It seemed like the right thing to do after he sat outside all night. Did you know he's a widower? His wife died two years ago.”