Best Defense, by Randy Rawls by Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.

Mystery

Rules and Beth Bowman are not synonymous, making her the perfect PI to rescue a kidnapped child Sabrina Hammonds has hired South Florida PI Beth Bowman to catch her husband, John Hammonds, in an affair. But Beth suspects this is no routine philandering husband case. Exhibit A: The “other woman” happens to be John’s sister. Exhibit B: Sabrina has been murdered. Exhibit C: John and Sabrina’s five-year-old daughter, Ashley, has been kidnapped. With few leads to act on, Beth asks her friend Bob Sandiford and his crew of homeless associates to act as extra eyes and ears on the street. Racing against the clock, Beth knows that if their low-profile investigation doesn’t turn up the identity of the kidnappers, there’s little hope of finding Ashley alive.

Praise for HOT ROCKS: “[Rawls’s] new heroine is a keeper who will hopefully be investigating lots more criminal shenanigans on her Florida home turf.”—MYSTERY SCENE MAGAZINE “[Rawls] has done a fine job of putting the fun and humor back into the very cool mystery genre!”—SUSPENSE MAGAZINE $14.99 US / $17.50 CAN ISBN 978-0-7387-3461-3

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BEST DEFENSE

midnight ink books by randy rawls Hot Rocks, Beth Bowman, P.I.

other books by randy rawls Thorns on Roses, a Tom Jeffries thriller Jake’s Burn, an Ace Edwards, Dallas PI mystery, Book 1 Joseph’s Kidnapping, an Ace Edwards, Dallas PI mystery, Book 2 Jade’s Photos, an Ace Edwards, Dallas PI mystery, Book 3 Jingle’s Christmas, an Ace Edwards, Dallas PI mystery, Book 4 Jasmine’s Fate, an Ace Edwards, Dallas PI mystery, Book 5 Jeb’s Deception, an Ace Edwards, Dallas PI mystery, Book 6 Further information is available by contacting the author at RandyRawls@att.net and at www.RandyRawls.com.

BEST

DEFENSE beth bowman, p.i.

RANDYRAWLS Midnight Ink

woodbury, minnesota

Best Defense: Beth Bowman, P.I. © 2013 by Randy Rawls. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2013 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover illustration by Stephen Bailey Cover image: iStockphoto.com/1730194/AlexMax Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rawls, Randy, 1938– Best Defense : Beth Bowman, P.I. / Randy Rawls. — First Edition. pages cm ISBN 978-0-7387-3461-3 1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Florida—Fiction. 5. Mystery fiction. I. Title. PS3618.A967B47 2013 813'.6—dc23 2013025846 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

dedication Best Defense is dedicated to My Honey, Ronnie Bender, who tolerates me well, and to my wonderful children, Theresa (Tracy) Rawls Eilers and David Rawls.

acknowledgments Every author, especially this one, needs others to lean on; to get through a difficult scene, to insure the words say exactly what you mean them to say, and, of course, to help with all those pesky typos and grammar issues. I am fortunate to have some wonderful friends, each of them accomplished authors, to review my material and keep me straight. So, a hearty thanks to Sylvia Dickey Smith, Earl Staggs, Gregg Brickman, Vicki Landis, Stephanie Levine, Rich Hodes, and Ann Meier. Each of you have significant fingerprints on Best Defense, and I am fortunate you were there.

on e

My client, Sabrina Hammonds, lived in one of Broward County’s many upscale neighborhoods. Large, single-family homes on lots big enough to stage a rodeo. From the street, I could see the fenced area in the back that surrounded their Olympic-sized pool. The front yard sprouted the obligatory palm trees and blooming flora. Landscaping blocks divided everything into neat sections. Either Mr. Hammonds was a nature freak, or he used a lawn care service. From what I’d seen of him, probably the latter. His tastes ran more to skanky women. The wide driveway leading to the three-car garage was empty. Not much of an indicator since it was the same when I first visited Ms. Hammonds. She kept her S-Class Mercedes out of the hot Florida sun. I’d have done the same—if I’d had a garage and a hundred thousand dollar car. Especially if I had such a luxury ride. I parked under the porte-cochere, checked my briefcase to make sure I hadn’t forgotten the report, then headed for the massive front 1

entrance. As I reached toward the bell, I noticed the door was ajar. Not open, mind you, just a small gap like someone had come out and let the door swing closed behind them. I pushed the button and the chimes of Big Ben sounded. They didn’t seem a bit out of context. While waiting for the echo to die away, I looked around. It was a fancy protected entryway with a half-circle stained glass window above the oversized walnut double doors. The window had the inevitable palm tree etched into it. An air conditioning vent pumped cold air into the semi-enclosed area, making it almost comfortable, despite the ninety-plus degrees temperature a few steps away. When I was there before, the maid had opened the door, then reported my presence to Ms. Hammonds. I figured she could be in the back of the house—a long way from the front. Since I didn’t want to appear pushy, I waited longer than my norm before nudging the bell again. As before, the day ticked away with no response. I supposed it could be the maid’s day off. Since I’d never had enough money to employ a domestic, I wasn’t sure how their workweeks went. If so, Ms. Hammonds might be slow getting to the door. I waited. After what I considered a suitable time, I rang the bell a third time. Same result. Could Ms. Hammonds be out, no one home? Always possible and even probable, given the length of time I’d stood there. Yet, the unsecured door beckoned me. Would I be remiss to walk away, leaving the house open? Wouldn’t I be doing my civic duty to stick my head in to see if everything was all right? I mean, it was something any good citizen would be expected to do, right? Sure, it would. 2

I sounded the chimes of Big Ben once more. By this time, my normal personality was kicking in. I have a great deal of difficulty with patience. I realize that might sound incongruent with my working as a PI. My job requires I spend hours waiting for something to happen, whether it be a stakeout on a criminal or waiting for a husband or a wife to make a meet. In those instances, I fidget, I pace, I play mental word and number games. I’ve taught myself to multiply three digit numbers by three digit numbers while lurking in inconspicuous places. I checked my watch—for at least the tenth time. No response to the doorbell. Time to see what the story was. I pulled on the door and peeked into the house. The contrast between the outside brightness and the inside dimness made it tough to see. I stepped across the threshold and hit a switch on the panel beside the door. When the lights came on, I saw two things—the first was closed blinds. The second sent a chill to my soul. In the middle of the foyer, a body sprawled on the floor. From the position of the arms and legs, I knew the person was not napping. I rushed over, hoping against hope my first impression was wrong. But checking the carotid artery gave truth to my fear—no pulse. With all the blood on her clothing and puddled on the floor around her, I wasn’t surprised. The body lay face down, but I was sure I knew her. From the shape and size, it had to be Ms. Hammonds. It looked like her husband got to her before I did. I wanted to roll her over, but knew that would be stupid. The police would not appreciate my messing with their crime scene. Her husband. Could he still be in the house? I whirled around, my eyes digging into every corner. No one there, but I saw only one of the twenty or so rooms that made up the Hammonds’ 3

mansion. I took my pistol out of my purse, then set off to ensure I was alone—or that no one wishing me harm was there. While searching the lower level, I called nine-one-one and reported my discoveries. The operator told me to meet the police out front, but I ignored her. If someone was in the house, I wanted to know. In a large pantry off the kitchen, I found the maid. She, too, was dead. From the marks on her neck, my guess was someone had strangled her. As I completed my trip around the downstairs, I heard a noise from the front of the house, then a call of, “Police. Anyone here?” I took a deep breath and started toward the front room. The cops met me in the hall with the obligatory order to drop my weapon and assume the position against the wall. I complied and a young patrolman named Johnson explored areas I preferred not touched by a stranger. However, I understood. I’d have done the same if I had found anyone during my search, and I wouldn’t have concerned myself about his or her private parts. Once he finished, I showed my PI credentials. “Before this goes too far, I suggest you go after the victim’s husband. His name is John Hammonds, and he’s an attorney with Hammonds, Perches, and Ballson in Fort Lauderdale.” “And why should I do that?” “Because,” I said, frustration setting in, “she hired me to catch him with one of his women. She was going to divorce him and clean out his bank accounts. From the look of things, he figured it out and took care of the problem.” Johnson said, “Sorry, your hunches aren’t enough for me to act on. You’ll have to save it for the detectives. They should be here soon. Anyone else in the house?” 4

“I didn’t make it upstairs, but I found another body.” I told him about the maid. “She must have seen him, so he killed her also. I’m telling you, the sooner you arrest the husband, the quicker you close the case.” “Like I said, ma’am, that’s the detectives’ call. Now, if you’ll just wait out front with Officer LaBelle, I’ll secure the scene.” He walked me to the front door. On the lawn, I repeated my plea to LaBelle. Same results. Someone had given them specific instructions about their duties at a homicide scene, and I assumed they had scored high in that class. That left me nothing to do but exercise patience—again—so I walked to my car, climbed in, fired it up, and started the air conditioner. Mom always said you don’t have to practice to be miserable. Standing in South Florida’s blazing sun equaled miserable. Sitting in an air-conditioned car equaled better. No contest. I took the surveillance report out of my briefcase. A wasted effort. No one now to deliver it to. I spent a few minutes feeling sorry for the lost fee, sorry for myself. But if I thought my day was bad, it hit rock bottom when the unmarked police car came to a stop behind me. I may have steamed up my rearview mirror when Detectives Dick Bannon and Major Sargent got out. I knew them. They knew me. I had no respect for them. They didn’t like me. And those were the parts of our relationship you could mention in mixed company. They didn’t look any different from the first time I saw them— or the last time. They were both six-footers, give or take an inch. Dark blue off-the-rack suits that showed the wear and tear of the street. However, the clothing didn’t really matter, they just carried an aura of cop. Maybe it was the squint of their eyes or the way 5

they walked. I couldn’t identify it, but they may as well have worn their badges on their foreheads. Bannon tapped on my window. When I lowered it, he said, “Well, Ms. Bowman, so nice to see you again. I understand we have another homicide with your fingerprints on it.” “Not exactly,” I said. “You have a homicide. I’m just the citizen who found the bodies.” “So I heard. Let’s find some place we can sit and talk. This sun is too hot for my liking. The M.E. is on the way.” “My favorite skirt-PI,” Sargent said from behind Bannon, giving me his pretty smile, the one he reserved for use with his most sarcastic remarks. “Somehow I just knew we’d meet again. How many bodies this time? Dispatch said only one, but I figure I misheard. You’re better than that.” I wanted to tell him there was one less body than I’d like— his—but decided that wouldn’t be smart. Also, I had to admit, he had a point. The last time I saw him and Bannon, the body count would have made a car-bomber proud. Rather than match their attitudes, I went with, “Sorry, it’s two. And yes, before you ask, one of them was a client of mine. Sabrina Hammonds, wife of John Hammonds of Hammonds, Perches, and Ballson.” “Looks like you’re moving up in society,” Bannon said. “And I’m impressed. You even learned the name of your client. Last time we crossed paths, you didn’t have a clue about the identity of the woman who hired you.” That elicited a laugh from the two of them and a grimace from me. He was right, but I wasn’t there to revisit that situation. Of course, I could have enjoyed telling them I’d solved the case, not them. 6

They hadn’t changed a bit since our last encounter. If forced to talk to them, and they were cops so I had no choice, I preferred Bannon. At least I could catch him in a listening mode once in a while. Sargent, never—always sour, always sarcastic, always a horse’s ass. I said, “If you can drag yourselves out of the past, there’s a dead woman in there whose husband killed her. I tried to explain to the two uniforms, but they have heads carved from the same oak tree as yours. Is it a requirement to have a hardwood cranium to be a cop in this town?” I smiled my most innocent smile while hesitating, then jumped in when I saw a response appear in Sargent’s eyes. “Now, listen carefully, and I will explain this to you. Don’t worry about taking notes, I will enunciate very slowly. Ms. Hammonds came to me because her loving husband has been sleeping around on her. She planned to divorce him and take every dime he has. He discovered her plot and took care of the problem before it went too far. That’s it. End of case. Now, I recommend you put out a BOLO on him before he skips the state.” Bannon looked at Sargent and shook his head. The look in his eyes told me there was a hole in my hypothesis. “Yeah,” Sargent said. “She’s hallucinating again. Ma’am, Ms. Private Investigator, Mr. Hammonds is on his way. He should be here any minute. He was in court when we made contact. It took a few minutes for him to get an adjournment, or he’d be here already.” My stomach sailed south. “You sure?” “Oh no, Ma’am, I’m not sure. I just make up stories like this on the fly. However, I really must get on about my business instead of listening to your fairy tales. But, if you’d like, I’ll give you time to 7

explain your crazy theory to him as soon as he arrives. Detective Bannon, if you will please take the lady’s statement, I’ll get things rolling inside.” “Hold up, Major,” Bannon said. “That could be Mr. Hammonds turning into the driveway now. Ms. Bowman, please don’t leave. I’d better escort Mr. Hammonds. He can’t like what he’ll see.” _____ I cooled my heels for the next two hours while detectives, uniforms, and the medical examiner did their thing. After an eternity, the bodies were removed. Various groups went into the house with few leaving. I recognized some of the faces, crime scene techs I’d seen on previous jobs. I didn’t envy them. The place had at least twenty rooms that would require detailed examination. I hoped they didn’t find any more victims. To save gas—one never knew how much the next tank full would cost—I killed my engine and left the car. The Hammonds had a gazebo in an area of the yard shaded by palm trees so I camped out there. The time gave me a chance to review the bad fortune that placed me in a position to find the bodies. Ms. Hammonds had hired me to get the goods on her husband, John Hammonds, Attorney at Law. She said he was unfaithful, and she wanted a divorce—along with the houses, the cars, his property, and all his money. Based on her description, he was easy to spot leaving his office. Picture the successful attorney as played by the newest Hollywood superstar and that was John Hammonds. Over six feet tall, weight under control, and black, well-trimmed hair that

bounced with each step—but not too much—wearing a suit that fit him perfectly. While he didn’t have the Hollywood-scruffy beard, his five o’clock shadow made his face swarthy. The kind of man who could make any girl’s heart flutter—handsome by every definition in every dictionary. Since I’d planted a GPS tracking device under his right rear wheel well, following him was no problem. He drove straight to an expensive restaurant where he approached a woman sitting alone at a table in the bar, kissed her on the cheek, and sat across from her, taking her hand in his. She didn’t fit the image of a floozy, having passed several years of her prime, but their actions showed they were close. From my position across the room, nursing an overpriced mixed drink, heavy on the water, I could see familiarity flowing between them. They were circumspect though, not groping in public. After a couple of drinks, they went to dinner while I sat in my car and watched through the window, munching a stale sandwich. They took their time as if they were in no rush to get to the deed. When they left, they went in Mr. Hammonds’ car. He drove to a Hilton, let the valet have his car, then walked with her through the lobby. I followed his example and stayed with them until she led him into a room. Enough for me. Case wrapped, time to go home to bed. 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 talking.” 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 10

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.

t wo

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 hop-

ing 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-theBunny didn’t escape her radar. A week before the ceremony, she 13

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 14

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. 16

“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 17

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.”

t h re e

Daughter? Had I heard right? I didn’t know they had children. But why should I? I only had the one meeting with Ms. Hammonds. We sat in the living room and talked business. Specifically, her husband’s philandering and my fees. She explained she was sure he’d be with one of his loose women that night, and she wanted to know. According to her, he ran around on her, telling her he had to work or had meetings or some such. She was tired of it and wanted a divorce. If I could get her the evidence, she’d make it worth my while. Since I’d heard a variation of the same story many times before from many different wives—and a few husbands—we came to a quick agreement, and I was on my way. The session only lasted an hour or so. She could have had a whole passel of kids hidden all over the house. Not to mention school, daycare, and camps. They could have been lost in the acreage behind the house, and I’d have never known. Kids were not part of my assignment.

That didn’t change the jolt I felt, though. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a family.” I hesitated, wondering if I should continue, then did, “But that doesn’t excuse last night.” “That’s what I need to explain.” Hammonds stopped and rubbed his face again, the rasp of his five o’clock shadow audible through his fingers. “I need to correct your misconception.” The bags under his eyes seemed to grow even as I stared at him, but I kept my face hard and held my tongue. If he wanted to explain, he could do it without any encouragement from me. He leaned forward and placed his forearms on his desk as if to emphasize his sincerity. “This might come as a surprise, but I know my wife hired you to watch me. The two of you met yesterday morning here at the house. She told you I had a history of picking up women for sex. She asked you to follow me and obtain evidence she could use in court for a divorce. Am I right?” My mouth dropped open again, or that’s how I felt. He knew about his wife hiring me? I expected excuses. I expected explanations. I expected revelations about his wife’s frigidity. I expected about anything except what he’d said. I squeaked out, “Yes, but—” “Ms. Bowman, please understand that I love my wife very much. And, I believe she loves … uh, loved me the same. However, she was possessive. Yes, even jealous—something I never gave her reason to be. You’re not the first she hired to get the goods on me. Over the years, I learned to live with it. Anytime I was out at night, I expected to have someone documenting my activities. Last night, it was you. When I saw you watching me, I thought you might be the one, but having someone like you around was old hat. I knew I was doing nothing wrong.”

“Yes, but—” He held up a hand. “As soon as you left yesterday, Sabrina called to let me know she hired you. She always did that.” He hesitated, took a linen handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket, and wiped his eyes. “I never understood, but I lived with it. It was as if … like she had to punish me—or something. I hope you’ll understand that your assignment was just one of many. However, don’t fret. I’ll pay you. Just send me an invoice.” Tears beat an unwanted path to my eyes as I studied him, but I forced them down. It was a different story than I’d heard before, but no way was I going to buy it. “That’s a nice twist,” I said, waving my hand to let him know I was unconvinced. “But you had to anticipate I might have a difficult time believing it. Talk’s cheap. What else do you have?” “I understand. How can I convince you?” “Tell me about last night. Also, explain why your honey’s sitting in the front room?” “Ah. Yes, you did follow us, didn’t you? The honey I had dinner with, then escorted to her hotel is my sister—my older sister by two years. She’s in the living room now because I need her here. Her name is Madeline Hammonds. She’s in town on business and has a room at The Hilton. She lives in New York and only comes to Florida occasionally. When she does, we have dinner.” He leaned back and rested his head on the back of his chair as if those words had exhausted him further. I went into my dropped chin routine again. However, I recovered with what I knew was the killer question. I leaned forward to put maximum energy into it. “Why wasn’t your wife with you if that woman is your sister? Why didn’t the three of you go to dinner?” 22

He looked away, then back at me, and sighed. “Another family secret outed. Nothing mysterious about it. The simple fact is my wife and my sister can’t stand one another. It goes back many years, before we married. I doubt either remembers why they decided to hate one another, but that doesn’t stop them from keeping as much space between them as possible. If I’d shown up with Sabrina, my sister would have walked out, or vice versa.” I stared at him, my mind in high spin. A lot of husbands—and wives for that matter—had tried to talk their way out of their indiscretions, but Hammonds’ story was the most incredible I’d ever heard. So damned incredible, it could be true. He was a top lawyer. Would he come up with such a cockamamie story if it weren’t true? Could I trust him? Did I want to trust him? Could I shift him from suspect number one to misunderstood husband? Quite a dilemma, one filled with more questions than I could ever find answers for. “Look, Ms. Bowman,” Hammonds said, his eyes imploring me, “I can see by the look on your face, you don’t believe me. I know it sounds strange, but it’s the truth. I’d like for you to trust me.” I kept staring. “I checked you out after Sabrina called yesterday. I know you’re on retainer to Bergstrom and Bergowitz. Sly Bergstrom is a golfing partner and close friend. Anyone who’s good enough for Sly is good enough for me.” “Excuse me,” I said, letting indignation slip into my voice, “but we’re not debating whether I’m good enough for you. My debate is whether you’re honest enough for me. And with that cock and bull story you spun, I’m not sure you are. It’s quite convenient that your wife is not alive to verify what you say.” 23

From the shock and pain in his face, I knew my crudeness had gone too far. “Sorry. That was out of line. But you have to admit, your story is pretty strange,” I said with less vehemence than my previous statement. He waved his hand, as if accepting my apology. “I can call my sister in. She’ll verify what I said.” “No need. I believe that woman, sister or not, will support your story. Money can buy more than just a night of ecstasy. Sorry. You’ll have to do better than that.” He frowned. “You do have a suspicious mind. However, I understand. It goes with the territory. What kind of PI would you be if you believed everything you heard?” He appeared to think, looking toward the ceiling. “I have it. Call Sly. He knows my wife and her problem. He’ll vouch for me.” No way I could argue with that. Sylvester Bergstrom, called Sly by friends, was senior partner in Bergstrom and Bergowitz, one of the most respected law firms in South Florida. When Sly spoke, everyone listened. If he backed up Hammonds’ story, that made it fact. “Look,” he said, standing. “I’ll leave you alone. Think about what I said. There’s the phone. Call Sly if you like. When you make a decision, come get me. Whichever way you decide, I’ll try to understand. But, if you believe me, I have something very important to discuss with you.” He walked to the door, then turned back, his face questioning. “I hope you’re the woman Sly says you are.” I stared at the door as he pulled it closed behind him. I had been confused before, but his performance and story took me to new heights. What gall on his part to wonder if I was the right kind of woman? But, could he be telling the truth? If not, what possible

purpose could such a farfetched tale serve? He must know I’d punch holes in it big enough for his Mercedes to race through. I took out my cell phone and scrolled down to Sly’s number, then hesitated. He had made it obvious when I went to work for him that he did not enjoy being bothered at home. His exact words were, “I separate my home life from my business life.” However, he added that it was permissible to call in case of an emergency. I blew my breath up at my bangs, wondering how much of an emergency this was. For me, a big one. For Sly, probably not. Besides, if Hammonds was willing for me to call, it probably meant he was on the level. Or maybe that’s what he wanted me to think. If he could sucker me into not calling Sly, it would prove I believed him. Should I trust him? Not a chance—maybe. To hell with it. I had to know. I could always apologize later and buy Sly a bottle of his favorite scotch. I speed-dialed his number, then counted rings. He picked up after the third. “Beth, what can I do for you on a Tuesday evening when I’m at home with my family?” He might have put some extra emphasis on evening and again on home. I knew I’d better make it good, so I jumped straight to the key question. “How well do you know John Hammonds?” Sly sighed as if about to address a three-year-old. “Very well. We play golf together and are often at the same social events. Is that why you called, to check up on my social life? I hope you have a better reason.” Uh-oh. Not a good beginning. Quickly, I started from the beginning, but only got as far as finding Ms. Hammonds’ body.

Sly jumped in. “Oh my God. John must be devastated. How’s Ashley?” “Who’s Ashley?” “Their daughter. How is she?” “I don’t know. I didn’t know they had children until a few minutes ago. Can I finish my story?” “I’m sorry, Beth. You obviously didn’t call just to tell me about Sabrina. What else do you have?” I finished a quick summary, then said, “I don’t know what to think. His story is so farfetched.” There was silence on the line, and I sensed that Sly might be having a quarrel within himself. I waited. After a moment he said, “I make it a habit to treat what I know about my friends’ private lives as a client-attorney situation. But this time, I suppose it’s different.” He paused. “What John said is true. I’ve been party to some of her jealous accusations. It got to the point that when he and I attended a meeting at night, I’d take him home and go in with him. Inevitably, she accused him of having been with a woman.” “That’s nuts,” I said. “Why’d he stay with her?” “In one word, love. He loved her, and he loved Ashley. He’d never do anything to hurt the marriage. Incidentally, she loved him just as much.” He sighed. “Sabrina was an insecure person from a poor background. I guess she could never believe someone like John would want her.” “Damn,” I muttered. “You’re saying I should believe whatever he tells me. And, if he wants to hire me, I should take the job?”

“Not only that,” he said, “but I’ll clear your calendar for as long as it takes to help John. You let me know when you’re available to take on one of our cases.” I only hesitated a split second. “Thanks, Sly. I’m sorry to have bothered you at home.” “Under the circumstances, not a problem this time. Just find the son-of-a-bitch that killed Sabrina.” He hung up. I pondered my phone for about half a moment, then opened the office door. “Mr. Hammonds. Can I see you for a minute?” He broke off the conversation he was having with the woman he called his sister and looked toward me, then scanned the room. “If you’ll excuse me.” As he closed the door behind him, I said, “Sly says I should believe you. But if I discover you’re lying to me, I’ll dedicate myself to pinning your wife’s murder on you.” “Fair enough.” He looked relieved. “Can I assume you’re ready to work for me?” “If the situation is right and the money fits, yes.” He took a deep breath amidst a look of sadness. “My five-yearold daughter, Ashley, is missing. It’s logical to assume the people who killed my wife kidnapped her. Perhaps my wife put up too much of a fight, or perhaps they were leaving a message. We won’t know until we capture them. That’s where you come in. I want to hire you to bring my daughter home.” “Me?” Damn, he kept catching me off guard. “You have access to all the cops in the universe. Several of them are in your living room. Why me?”

“Because they have to follow the rules—rules that too often benefit the guilty and impede an investigation. Plus, they are captives of the media. Please understand, I know that world. I’m a defense attorney, and I use those rules to my advantage every day. From what I’ve heard Sly say, rules and Beth Bowman are not synonymous.”

fo u r

Mr. Hammonds had a point. Cops are too often hogtied when it comes to bringing down criminals. The slanted slope causes them to run uphill all the time—in slick-soled shoes. Me, I take a more downhill approach. If there is an advantage to be found, I grab it. “Maybe you should explain what rules you expect me to break,” I said. “I’d look terrible in prison garb.” “Does that mean you’ll take the job?” “Not so fast. I still need to know what you expect.” He stared at me, then rubbed his chin. “I want my daughter home. I don’t care what it costs or what it takes, I simply want her home. And, before I have to hear it again, I know the odds of getting her back alive. That doesn’t change anything.” He choked back a sob. “If the worst should happen, I at least want her buried beside her mother.” I couldn’t help myself. I reached across and laid my hand on his arm. “I’ll do anything I can to help. I don’t know how much that will be, but you’ll get the best I have to give.” 29

He opened a desk drawer, took out a tissue, and blew his nose. “That’s all I ask.” “Mr. Hammonds, I need a full briefing on what has happened and what’s in the process of happening.” “Please, call me John.” “And I’m Beth. But amenities will have to wait. As I’m sure you know, time is short.” The experts say kidnapped victims who aren’t recovered in the first forty-eight hours aren’t likely to be found alive. However, I simply couldn’t bring myself to mouth the words. Instead, I asked, “Have you heard from the kidnappers yet?” “No. According to the police, that’s bothersome. It could be good news though. It might mean they’re still formulating their plans.” He stood. “Let’s go into the living room. I’m sure they’re wondering what we’re concocting.” We entered the living room and had the instant attention of everyone there. John walked to a couch and sat, waving me down beside him. The others relaxed, but not much. John took his time, eyeing each person, then leaned forward. “If anyone here has not met Beth Bowman, let me introduce her.” He turned to me. “This is Beth Bowman.” The officer with the most braid on his uniform said, “My pleasure, Ms. Bowman.” Hammonds eyed him. “Beth. This is Chief Elston of the Coral Lakes police.” “I’m familiar with Ms. Bowman,” he said. “At least by reputation.” He walked over and stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to put a face with it. You don’t look near as fierce as Bannon and Sargent describe you—or as incompetent.” 30

I took his hand. “Considering the sources, I take that as a compliment. You must be a pretty forgiving fellow if you keep those two on the payroll.” I wanted him to know I could play the hardass game as well as he. Hammonds interrupted. “Chief, I want Beth in on everything you’re doing. She will be my personal representative in the investigation. I’m hiring her to recover my daughter.” Elston said, “Mr. Hammonds, I’m sure you realize that’s not a workable situation. She’s nothing more than a private investigator. My people and I owe her nothing.” His words and tone sent several caustic comments toward my tongue, but before they arrived, Hammonds took over. “Perhaps I’d better clarify a few things. To me, they’re obvious, but apparently not to you. First, it was my home that was invaded, my wife who was murdered, and most important of all, my daughter who has disappeared. If Ashley cannot be returned alive, it is I who will mourn her for the rest of my life, even as I mourn the loss of my wife. And, in spite of any priority you might have, mine is the successful recovery of my daughter. Anyone in this room that doesn’t concur can leave now.” He slammed down on the word now. John sat back and gazed around the room, meeting every eye that would look at him. Bannon and Sargent were two who studied the toes of their shoes, but they held their seats. John leaned forward again. “Good. Since no one left, I assume you agree with me. So, here’s the deal. You go about your investigation of my wife’s and Carmina’s deaths as you would any other case. Behind the scenes, I want you to monitor Ashley’s disappearance as you would with any other kidnapping. But, and here’s the difference, you will report everything you find to Beth. If the 31

kidnappers call for a face-to-face, she will attend, agreeing to whatever requirements they demand. At all times and in all things having to do with my daughter, Beth and I will make the decisions. I will meet whatever conditions they impose to save Ashley. Is that understood?” Chief Elston returned to his chair and sat. “Mr. Hammonds, I have the utmost respect for you and sympathy for your situation. However, you’re not thinking clearly. This is a police matter. We must handle it. It can be no other way.” “There are two problems with that,” Hammonds said. “First, as a defense attorney, I live much of my life with criminals, some of the lowest forms of humanity. I babysit them, I dress them, I prep them, I dig into their heads. You arrest them and let the prosecutor take it from there. Second, if you don’t agree to cooperate as I laid it out, I’ll pick up the phone and call the mayor, the attorney general, and the governor. I’m sure they can find some other agency to handle the case.” “Are you threatening me?” Elston said, fire in his eyes. “I’ll—” “That’s not a threat,” Hammonds growled. “It’s a statement of fact. My way or the highway. Take your pick. I suggest you quit wasting time and begin Beth’s briefing now. The kidnappers could call at any minute.” The chief and Hammonds glared like two dogs vying for a bone. The only thing missing was they didn’t circle one another. Then, as often happens in the pack, one folded. Elston said, “Bannon, you’re the lead detective. Get your team together and tell Ms. Bowman everything we know.” He looked at Hammonds. “And I do mean everything. When this blows up, I

don’t want our host to be able to say we withheld information.” He stood, walked to the window, and stared into the night. _____ Over the next hour, the police briefed me. They said it was everything they knew. I took their word for that as John Hammonds had insisted they not hold anything back. The gist of it was a woman appeared at Ashley’s school during the morning with a note ostensibly signed by Ms. Hammonds authorizing her to pick up Ashley. Since everything looked in order, school officials released Ashley into the lady’s custody. Both had disappeared, neither seen nor heard from since. The two school officials who spoke with the woman were at the stationhouse going through mug shots. A sketch artist was creating an image based on descriptions provided by the two women. “Once we have a sketch and a solid case file, we’ll contact FDLE— that’s Florida Department of Law Enforcement—and they’ll institute an AMBER Alert,” Bannon said. “I’m well aware of FDLE,” I said. “You might remember that I worked with them not so long ago.” Bannon blushed, then continued, “Authorities will flash Ashley’s picture, the sketch, and details all over Florida by TV, radio, and the interactive signs along the Interstates and toll roads. By tomorrow morning, everyone in the state will be on the lookout for her.” Hammonds spoke for the first time since the briefing began. “No AMBER Alert.” “Excuse me,” Bannon said, an incredulous look on his face. “Did you say no AMBER Alert?”

“That’s what I said, and that’s what I mean. There will be no publicity about Ashley’s disappearance.” “Why? We need that. I mean, AMBER Alerts exist for just this kind of situation. It lets everyone know and invites them to call in sightings.” Hammonds flared. “I know all that. Dammit, don’t treat me like you do Joe Sixpack. I’ve already told you, I know these kinds of people. I know more about the people who did this than you do. I know their strengths and their weaknesses. I also know their fears and what causes them to snap. So when I say no AMBER Alert, I damn well mean no AMBER Alert.” “Easy, John,” Chief Elston said. The outburst had apparently caught his attention, bringing him back into our group. He swallowed. “Tell us what you’re thinking.” “Nothing complicated,” Hammonds said. “You seem to forget that I’m a defense attorney. I’ve defended some of the finest slime in this state. I’ve spent more time with them than you’ve ever dreamed about. You spend all your time trying to get inside their heads to catch them. I spend my time getting to know them, really know them. I have to know what triggers them, what causes them to go off.” He hesitated, then continued in a softer voice, “What causes them to panic. Most of them don’t handle pressure well. You put the pressure on, they react. That reaction is usually to get rid of the evidence. That would doom Ashley.” Hammonds had walked around the room as he spoke. Now he dropped into a chair and buried his hands in his face. “I can’t take that chance. That’s why no AMBER Alert, no publicity. We must not panic them.”

“I see,” Chief Elston said. “What you say might make sense to you, but it goes against everything I’ve learned about apprehending criminals. I may not have the authority to do what you want.” “That’s how it must be.” Chief Elston walked back to the window and stared out. In a voice perhaps only for himself, he said, “I hate this job. So many times, there is a chasm between following the rules and doing what might work better. This may be one of those times.” He clasped his hands behind him and paced, his head down and brow furrowed, as the rest of us watched. After two circuits, he stopped in front of Hammonds. “Friday. I’ll give you until Friday. That’s three days. If your approach hasn’t worked, and I hope to God it does, I’m pulling out all stops.” Hammonds stood. “Fair enough. Friday evening, it is.” “But,” the chief continued, “I’m still going to brief all my officers and tell them to be on the watch for Ashley and the woman who took her. That won’t create much of a hubbub.” He glared at me. “And even that small effort will get more results than Ms. Bowman can produce. You’re making a huge mistake, John.” Hammonds appeared to consider the chief ’s words, then nodded. Since they’d reached some form of agreement, and it involved me, it was time to join the conversation. “Chief. I hope you didn’t give in too fast. Now, can we get back to my briefing?” Sargent gave me a nasty look, and Chief Elston said, “Yes. I think that’s appropriate. Do you have anything else, Detective Bannon?” “If we’re killing the AMBER Alert, there’s not much we can do until we hear from the kidnappers. We have recorders attached to 35

every phone that Mr. Hammonds uses here at the house and at his office. We’ve alerted his cell carrier, and they’re ready to cooperate by monitoring incoming calls to him.” “Sounds like you’re neck deep into privacy issues,” I said. “I hope you got his permission in writing.” I smiled, hoping to inject a touch of humor into the somber gathering. Sargent continued to scowl, Bannon’s face remained impassive, and the chief looked like I had tracked doggy doo-doo onto his white carpet. Hammonds gave a weak look. “Yes. I insisted on it. Sly told me your opinion of lawyers—you’re willing to work for them, but you’ll never trust one.” He went sad again. “I just want Ashley back.” Seeing any man as sad as John was just too tough. The expression hangdog look only scratched the surface of his appearance. Misery emanated out of every pore. It took willpower not to sit beside him and lay his head on my shoulder like I’ve seen so many mothers do to soothe a hurt child. I tore my eyes away from Hammonds and turned to the chief. “The note from the school. Did you get it?” “Yes. Looks like a computer printout with a signature at the bottom. Mr. Hammonds gave us samples of his wife’s handwriting. We have our people comparing the note to them.” He looked at Hammonds whose head now rested in his open hands. “Keep talking, chief. I’m all in,” he mumbled. “Why don’t you lie down?” the chief said. “We have everything under control.” He hesitated. “Tomorrow, you’ll be faced with a myriad of decisions. Plus, the damned media will probably be all over you.”

“I agree, Mr. Hammonds,” I said. “You need your rest. Before you go, though, I need a recent picture of Ashley.” Hammonds stood. “I’ll get one from my office.” He shuffled out of the room. To the chief, I said, “I need a copy of the sketch and a copy of the note the woman used at the school. Can you arrange that?” Hammonds returned and handed me an eight by ten of Ashley. “This was taken a couple of weeks ago. Do whatever you need with it. I have other copies.” Chief Elston looked at Bannon. “Check downtown and see if they have a sketch yet. If so, tell them to email it. Make it high res so we can make copies. Also, get a copy of the note for Ms. Bowman.” We sat around looking uncomfortable while Bannon followed orders. The sketch was complete, and soon I had a hard copy in hand. I studied the woman. Shouldn’t be too tough to spot her. Red hair, fancy glasses, heavy lipstick. She should be obvious in any crowd. Standing, I said, “I expect to know the moment anyone contacts Mr. Hammonds and the full content of what they have to say.” Sargent scowled some more, but Hammonds said, “You will. I promise.” “I’ll be waiting for info. Now, I’d better hit the street.” I started toward the front door, then stopped, picturing my afternoon visit to the foyer. “I’ll go through the garage.”