Imperfect Contract (25 page)

Imperfect

Murder

A Sophia Burgess

and Ray Stone Mystery

Preview

Gregg E. Brickman

Imperfect Murder

1

The telltale buzz of a cell phone set on vibrate interrupted the condo closing.  Both men patted their pockets, and Kathleen and I reached for our purses.  Dick produced the offending device, flipped it open, and grunted a hello.

"I'm on my way," Dick said after listening in silence for thirty seconds.  "Stone's here.  We'll come together."

"What's that about?" Ray asked, rising to his feet.

Dick glanced at his wife then at Ray.  "Woman and small boy dead.  A young girl hurt."

"Sophi, I'll see you later," Ray said, bending to kiss me good-bye.  "Dick, what you drivin'?"

"The Taurus."  It was Dick's department-issue vehicle.  It carried equipment they'd need at the scene.  "We'll take it."

Ray tossed me the keys to his Honda S2000.  "I'll call you so you can drop the car at the scene later."

Kathleen and I watched as the two men departed.  Dick, whose full name was Richard Reeves Schneider, looked so much like Raymond Robert Stone they could have been brothers.  Of the two detectives, my boyfriend, Ray, was slightly taller—six-two compared with six feet—and had blue eyes rather than brown.  They sported trimmed dark goatees, short dark brown hair, and muscular builds with broad shoulders.  Both used RRS to sign notes and mark belongings.  Ray had tiny cramped script, Dick a distinctive scrawl.

Their similarities were a constant source of confusion on the job.  Ray investigated homicides, and Dick specialized in child abuse.  Sometimes they worked together when a homicide involved a child.  It caused a stir in the Coral Bay Police Department when Dick and his wife decided to purchase Ray's condominium. 

As had happened before, we stayed behind to deal with the routines of life while the two detectives went off to poke at the dirty underside of the world, which, in truth, was an area we dealt with regularly ourselves.  We worked as nurses in the Emergency Room of Coral Bay Medical Center. 

Though she still worked limited hours, Kathleen's multiple sclerosis made getting into the S2000 a challenge.  I grabbed onto her right arm and supported her weight while she dropped into the car. 

I slipped into the driver's seat and buckled up.  Kathleen did likewise.  She'd had more than one experience with my driving Ray's little red roadster.  I turned the key in its cylinder, pushed the red start button, lowered the ragtop, released the parking brake, and slid the six-speed transmission into first gear.  We were off. 

The engine roared, and when I glanced in Kathleen's direction, I saw the wind sweeping through her long blond hair.  The temperature was in the high eighties, and the sky was clear.  It would have been a perfect Florida summer day except for the hideous crime that had wiped out a family in our community.  Trying to force the horror out of my mind, I accelerated onto the Sawgrass Expressway, pushing the powerful VTEC engine to its maximum.  We went from zero-to-sixty in six seconds.  I timed it.

Having secured my adrenaline rush from rapid acceleration, I slowed to the posted speed limit.  We were at the Mini dealership in less than ten minutes, where my own red car awaited me.  I loaded Kathleen into the car and sent her to fetch her four-year-old son, Mikey, from day-care.  Then I headed in the direction of the crime scene, having heard Dick tell Ray the name of the development as they hurried out of Quality Title.  Kathleen would swing by and pick me up as soon as she could.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gregg E. Brickman was born the daughter of a North Dakota country printer. She migrated to Florida and completed her education, embarking on a varied career in clinical, administrative, and academic nursing.

Gregg started writing as a teenager, turning out pages of sappy poetry. In the mid-nineties, she bought a book about writing a novel and committed the story burning in her head to paper. She called that first novel a learner's effort, joined Mystery Writers of America, and actively pursued the craft.

Credits include
Illegally Dead
[Kindle and CreateSpace], Chapter 14 of
Naked Came the Flamingo
, a Murder on the Beach progressive novella edited by Barbara Parker and Joan Mickelson, and
On the Edge
, a short story [MiamiARTzine.com]. The Writers' Network of South Florida recognized
On the Edge
among the finalists in their Seventh Annual Short Story Contest.