Best Defense Read Free Page B

over—I mean, right now? Uh, if it’s convenient?”
    â€œJohn Hammonds? As in husband of Sabrina Hammonds?”
    â€œYes. 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?”
    â€œYes, I am. I—”
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œMs. Bowman for Mr. Hammonds,” my escort said.
    â€œShe’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.
    â€œGo 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