Best Defense (8 page)

eleven

Not knowing where Mom
was in the house, I slipped in as quietly as I once did when coming home late from a date. No lights
and no noise. She slept like a cat—awake at any change in vibrations. I wanted my small travel clock, the one on my nightstand beside my clock radio. It was battery powered, therefore trustworthy when the power went off. As I passed the guestroom, I peeked in and hoped the lump in the bed was my mother. She chose that moment to snort and turn over. Yep, my mom. All was well.

After retrieving and setting the travel clock, I tiptoed back into the living room where I curled up in my recliner, hoping to cop a few Z's. Until the alarm dinged at two a.m., I flipped back and forth. Maybe, I'm not sure, there were a few minutes of unconsciousness during that time.

_____

After wiping the sleep from my eyes, I headed out the door, into my car, and stopped at the first 7-Eleven that crossed my path. Coffee was the magic elixir needed to sharpen my mind. I was already awake—wide awake—with anticipation of what the rest of the night would bring.

My driving went on autopilot as my mind wrestled with the situ
ation. What kind of lowlifes could murder a mother and kidnap a five-year-old? Not to mention the needless death of the maid.
What did she do to incite such violence? Wrong place at the wrong
time? Leave no witnesses? Disgusting.

There was little doubt I was rushing toward a person or, at the minimum, a note telling Hammonds what it would cost to see his daughter again. How could they put a price on the love of a parent? I wanted them, wanted them bad. Where I wanted them was in the sights of my Walther. The judicial system was too good for them.

Of course, I wasn't naïve enough to think they were unique. I remembered some of the reprobates I pursued in Dallas while a cop. No section of the country has a monopoly on scum. But this particular pond in South Florida would be sanitized.

I took University Drive to Wiles, then turned west. Approaching Royal Springs Drive, I scanned the area. On my left was a rectangular, one-story school surrounded by small trees and bushes. The parking lot had no cars. Same with the business beside it that occupied the corner lot. The shadows were dark and deep in the full moon, but there was no obvious lurker.

I turned to the right and pulled into the parking area alongside the soccer field. One lonely streetlight illuminated the darkness, while all others were dark. Saving energy, maybe. I appreciated the city's thrift, but wouldn't have complained if the place looked like high noon.

It was a full-sized playing surface, at least a hundred yards long. The width was sixty to seventy yards, and I had to cross half of it. I parked so my headlights shone across the center circle, but if there was anything there, I couldn't see it. Leaving the engine running, I slid out, careful to make sure the door did not close. I wanted it open in case I needed to make a hasty getaway. Also, the open door and the inside light might deter any bad people. Yeah, right. Folks who would strangle a maid and put two slugs into Ms. Hammonds' back deterred by a small light? Happens every day—not.

I took the Walther from my purse, then slung the bag over my body, crosswise. I didn't want anyone to be able to grab it and run. Bumping my chest with my wrist, I reassured myself the derringer was in place. Okay, I thought. Enough with the stalling. Let's get it over with.

After scanning the area one more time, especially the school and the business across the street, I filled my lungs, then moved into the tough first step, holding the pistol along the seam of my jeans. I set a fast pace, staying on the edge of the beams of the headlights. I wanted to see, not cast a shadow. I couldn't hide, but there was no point in illuminating myself. They already held all the cards except the joker. That was my role.

Approaching the center circle, I saw an envelope laying on the kickoff spot. It appeared to be plain manila, five by seven. My first thought was letter bomb, showing how paranoid I was—and how scared. I fumbled in my purse, found a pair of latex gloves, and slipped them on over my sweaty palms—with difficulty. If there was evidence, I didn't want to ruin it.

With the padded envelope firmly between my fingers, I stepped into the darkness and did a slow pirouette, scanning the area. Nothing. I didn't see a thing that looked human, just the quietness of the middle of the night in a city park.

My eyes kept jumping to the envelope until I finished my scrutiny
of my surroundings in a herky-jerky fashion. Then I examined it in the glare of my headlights. No identifying data. No writing of any kind. A metal clasp secured it.

I hotfooted it toward my car, my head spinning in one direction,
then another. I won't say I ran, but I didn't bruise the grass as my feet flew over it. If there were any of Bob's people in the area, they'd have a great story to embellish for him. If there were any of the bad guys in the area, they would know they had me spooked. I didn't care.

Once in the car, I raced out of the parking lot with no thought of my speed. My only goal was to clear the area as fast as I could. If I attracted the attention of a policeman, that was fine, too. At that point, I didn't mind what anyone said about my running like a coward. I intended to be around to run another day.

twelve

He watched as the
woman scrambled away from the center circle of the soccer field, never looking back.
Now, that's an inter
esting sight. We didn't figure on a woman. Wonder who she is. Probably some lady cop in plain clothes. Shouldn't matter though. She picked up the message, and that's the important part.
His brow furrowed as he again scanned the area, a worried expression plastering his face.
She has to have someone spotting for her. Nobody would send a lone woman for something like this, even a female cop. I'll just sit tight for a while. They'll get tired of waiting and make a move.

He had been there for over three hours, having arrived at eleven-thirty. Their plan was for him to be in place before the police could put together a plan. That way, he'd be in position to watch the cops swarm in—if they came. He wasn't concerned about anyone spotting him. He figured anything other than a direct flashlight in his face would never detect him. And, if they found him, no big deal. Just another homeless bum sleeping it off. They'd give him a lecture and send him on his way.

Days before, he had scouted the area and selected the location for
the drop—some place in the open where the messenger would be in plain view. Over the weekend, he watched youth soccer games on the field, sitting in the bleachers with the proud parents. That gave him ample opportunity to watch his selected hiding place. No one went near it. Even the smaller children who played games among themselves stayed away. He had smiled at how smart his selection was.

He frowned as the woman's car roared to life, and she pulled away, her wheels spinning on the blacktop. At the street, she didn't hesitate, just charged onto Wiles Road.

Chuckling, he mumbled, “It's a good thing we picked a time when there's little traffic. I wouldn't want her in an accident before Hammonds gets the word.”

He settled back onto the short, three-legged stool and scanned the area again.
Time to sit quiet. I'll give it forty-five minutes to see if anyone pops up. Ought to have that much time before there's too much light. That broad must have someone covering her back. I can't believe the cops would let her come alone.
He stuck his legs straight out in front of him, flexing his calf muscles to stop a cramping sensation.
Sure wish I'd brought a cushion. I'm stiff as a board, and my butt's killing me.

He turned away from the field and lit a cigarette, cupping the flame to obscure it. Taking a deep drag, he swiveled on his perch, keeping one hand over the end of the glowing tip as he did a three-sixty of the area. “No way anyone can see anything in here.” He stared at the butt. “Nasty habit. Another rotten thing I learned in prison.”

Enjoying his smoke, he kept a sharp watch but saw nothing. The soccer field, parking lot, even the business and school across the street stayed quiet. Nothing moved except an occasional car passing on Wiles Road or Royal Springs Drive.

After his self-allotted forty-five minutes, he picked up his stool and edged his way out of his hidey-hole, shaking his head. “I don't understand why she came alone, but if she didn't, they hid too good for me to spot them. I reckon they're gone by now, and I don't want to be here when the sun comes up.”

thirteen

The envelope lay on
the passenger seat of my car, tugging at my attention like a burning fuse. I tried to focus on the road, but couldn't keep my eyes off the package. I was fortunate traffic was sparse, or I might have plowed into someone.

My cell phone sang its ditty, startling me. I fumbled it out of my purse and answered with a nervous, “Hello.”

“Bob here. Are you on your way back to Hammonds with the envelope?”

“Yes. Wait a minute. How did you know I found an envelope?”

“I just got off the phone with one of my people. He was covering you.”

“Where was he? I didn't see him.” Even though my crisis was over, the knowledge that Bob had my back reassured me.

“Beth, you have to understand the homeless learn fast to be invisible, especially in the middle of the night. There are too many punks out there who think it's good sport to beat up on someone sleeping on a park bench. No way you or anyone else would ever spot him. What's in the envelope?”

“I don't know. I haven't opened it yet. I figure I owe Hammonds the first look.”

“Yeah, probably so. Just for your info, my man saw no one in the
area. Whoever left the envelope didn't hang around to see if you picked it up. Either that or he was really good. And, before you ask, we're very good at spotting others. It's called survival.”

“Thanks, Bob. I should have remembered. Who was it? I'd like to thank him the next time I see him.”

“You don't need to know. He prefers to stay in the background. Just pretend he's any homeless person you meet. Treat them with kindness, and he'll be happy.”

“You know I will.”

_____

Even if I had been lost and never been to Hammonds' house before, the moment I turned onto his street his address would have been obvious. Light blazed across the yard, from the gazebo, and from each window. I pulled into the driveway, coasted close to the garage, and killed the engine.

I felt safer than I had since heading for the soccer field. It was nice to be back in the cocoon of society. I let out a deep breath, my lungs complaining like I'd held it for the past hour.

Before getting out of the car, I picked up the envelope, glad I hadn't removed the latex gloves. Time to get it inside to Hammonds. I got out of the car and walked up the driveway.

The garage door swung upward, startling me.

Sargent stood inside, his eyes bloodshot—from lack of sleep, I assumed. His gaze locked on the package I carried. He had loosened his tie and taken off his jacket. The stubble covering his jaw was black with traces of gray, like his hair.

“Is that what they left?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Well, don't just stand there. Mr. Hammonds is waiting for us.”

He turned and headed into the house with me hot on his heels, hitting the garage door button as he went. If chivalry had to depend on him, its reported demise was indeed true. When we reached the hallway, he stopped and pointed. I took that to mean Hammonds was in his office. Apparently, the two of them would not exchange Christmas cards. Two Type A personalities clashing, but Sargent had to back away or risk his career.

I found Hammonds at his desk, sitting in semi-darkness, only a small lamp for illumination. Even under the poor lighting, I could see he looked as tired as Sargent. No, more so, more tired than any person I'd ever seen. If I hadn't known he was only forty-two, I'd have sworn he was in his seventies. The attractive professional I met had deteriorated into an old man filled with grief. My heart went out to him, wishing I could offer peace, but knowing only the return of Ashley could do that—and then, only partially.

His head came up, and he attempted to smile. It didn't work. He still wore the blue polo shirt he had on when I left, but now it looked bedraggled, which pretty much summed up his whole appearance. He reflected a man hovering on the edge of collapse. He stared at me as if I were his last hope—which, as phony as it might sound, I guess I was.

I scanned his desk to see what he was drinking, but saw only a half-filled coffee cup, and that looked cold. As far as I could tell, he had not sought solace in a bottle. That must have taken strength—strength I'm not sure I would have had in the same situation. I'm not much of a drinker, but there are times I crave a smooth scotch. Had I been in Hammonds' position, I might have been reaching for the bottle.

Further scrutiny revealed that everything was in its proper place. The office was spotless, not one loose paperclip. I assumed he spent his time sprucing up the office, burning off the nervous energy that threatened to consume him. My heart went out to him.

Still wearing my gloves, I placed the envelope on the desk. “This is what they left.”

“Don't touch that.” It was Sargent.

The voice came as a surprise because I hadn't realized he'd
followed me. My first thought was he looked different, fresher somehow. Then it registered that he'd put on his suit jacket and tightened his tie.

“We need to have our crime scene techs go over it first,” Sargent said. “There could be evidence that'll lead us to the kidnappers. Or,” he frowned, his eyes hard, “it could be a bomb. In any case, let me handle it.”

I stared at Sargent, knowing he was right. We needed to follow set procedure. On the other hand, we needed to know whatever message it contained—and every minute could be critical. More damned dilemmas.

I swallowed hard, looking at Hammonds. The uplift I'd seen in his chin when I placed the envelope in front of him was gone. His hands hovered in the air, frozen by Sargent's words. They trembled, and the tiredness had returned to his face. Then, stubbornness moved in. “I have to know what's in here.”

“I know, sir,” Sargent said, compassion in his tone. “But we can't risk destroying evidence—evidence that might lead us to your daughter.”

“Damn—”

“Maybe you could open it,” I injected, my comment directed at Sargent. Both of them were right, and the last thing we needed was a pissing contest. “It appears to be sealed with the clasp, no glue. I'm sure you can empty it without messing it up.”

Sargent chewed on his bottom lip.

“C'mon,” I said. “You know we have to see the contents. Take a chance. Where's your heart?”

Sargent glared at me, then looked at Hammonds. “Alright. But not in here. I'll take it out by the pool—me, just me. You two remain right here. If it's a bomb …” His voice drifted away, but a stubborn look claimed his face, reminding me of the stony countenances carved into Mount Rushmore.

“It can't be an explosive,” I said. “They didn't kidnap Ashley to blow somebody away. They want money, probably lots of it.”

“I'm not as prescient as you,” Sargent said. “One of my many shortcomings.” His sarcasm hovered in the air as he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and worked his hands into them. He picked up the envelope like it held one of the dead sea scrolls—one that had not been deciphered. “Stay here. I'll bring the contents back … if I can.”

After Sargent left the room, Hammonds rose, came around the desk, and headed for the door. “No way I can sit here and wait. We can at least keep an eye on him.”

“We can watch from the patio,” I said. “Sargent is right. It's his play, and he's taking a big chance for us. You and I are bystanders until he's ready to show us what's in the envelope.” To myself, I added,
Please don't be a bomb.

When we stepped outside, I pretended to stumble and saved myself by grabbing Hammonds' arm. I feared he'd keep following Sargent. He cut me a look, but stopped. I may or may not have sighed with relief. Part of me said we had to stay back and let Sargent do his job, while the rest yelled for me to stay with him. But I was responsible for Hammonds, and I needed to keep him safe—and under control.

Forcing my emotions down, I said, “We may as well sit,” indicating a couple of comfortable-looking lounge chairs. “It's going to be a long day, no matter what he finds.” I settled onto the cushion and leaned back. To my surprise, but not to my surprise, my eyelids threatened to close. It had been a long, tough night, and my adrenalin flow had slowed. The thought of sleep came uninvited to my mind.

“I suppose you're right.” Hammonds voice sounded as tired as I felt. He sat beside me.

Along the edge of the pool, Sargent knelt and placed the envelope on a snack table. From his briefcase, he took out a recorder and rested it on a chaise lounge a few feet away. He was about thirty feet from us, but I had no problem seeing his every move. Hammonds had enough pool lights to support an Olympic high-diving event.

Sargent removed his suit coat, folded it in half, and lay it beside the recorder. He loosened his tie, then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a clasp knife. He swiped his forearm across his forehead, opened a blade on the knife, then pushed a button on the recording device.

His lips appeared to form words as he began working on one wing of the clasp, moving at the speed of an arthritic snail. I assumed he chose to record every motion he made, leaving me to wonder if the recorder was bombproof.

The predawn hour wasn't hot. In fact, for South Florida, it was pretty cool, low seventies, maybe. But sweat ran down my cheeks, defying the weather. When I glanced at Hammonds, he wiped his face, his palm coming away wet. The external temperature had nothing to do with our perspiration. Our internal thermostats were registering well above sweat production. We were victims of tension. But only Sargent was in a position to physically feel it, especially if things went bad.

For a long moment, I saw strain on Sargent's face, then he relaxed. He sat back on his haunches and wiped his face again. Several deep breaths later, he walked to the other side of the table and repeated his act on the second wing of the clasp, moving no faster than before. I stared as his lips continued to move, forming words for the recorder. His professionalism and courage forced me to upgrade my opinion of him—but not much. He was still a horse's ass.

After what seemed an eternity, while my racing heart waited for an explosion, he leaned back and flexed his neck and shoulders. I realized I had been holding my breath, or as close thereto as one can come. My eyes hurt from squinting. I could picture every hair on his fingers. That's how closely I watched as he worked. I imitated his stretching, taking deep breaths, forcing myself to relax. I couldn't imagine the stress he felt, but my neck hurt. Sargent was a better man than I had given him credit for.

Rubbing the back of his head, he stood and circled the table, his eyes glued to the envelope. I hoped he saw whatever he sought. Or maybe I hoped he didn't see it. I wanted the darn thing to be innocent so we could get the message that might be inside.

After three or four trips around the table, Sargent knelt again, grasped the end of the envelope, and gently shook it. Something slid out and he froze, I froze, and I'm sure Hammonds beside me froze. Then Sargent smiled and picked up the object and held it in the air for us to see.

A DVD.

As if it was an omen, the first hint of daybreak peeked at us
above the trees bordering Hammonds' back yard. The world looked
brighter, in more ways than one.