Imperfect Defense

by Gregg E. Brickman

  Sophia was not accustomed to wearing towering heels, even though she owned several pairs. Her feet longed for the good athletic shoes she wore for work or the flip-flops she favored when not working. When she'd bought her first pair of stilettos, her friend had provided walking lessons.

  "Damn, my feet already hurt," Sophia said.

  "Did you bring another pair of shoes?"

  "No. I can't wear sneakers with this dress. I just like to bitch about it."

  He nodded. "That and more."

  She rolled her eyes.

  They entered through huge glass doors. He nodded at an officer from the Coral Bay PD who was working a private detail, then guided her over a red carpet with a busy poker chip pattern toward the maze of slot machines.

  It had been several years since she'd ventured into a casino. The last time was on a trip to Vegas where she could barely breathe in Harrah's because of the permanent smoke stench. This casino was a surprise. Though several gamblers had lit cigarettes at their machines, the smell was mild. Thanks, she assumed, to an expensive and extensive air-filtering system.

  She pointed to the wall on the left. "All the modern conveniences. Cash your tickets. Use the ATM. Holy shit. People come here even though it's so obvious it's all about taking their money."

  "Everyone thinks they can be a winner."

  "Not me."

  "Sophie, you're inherently cheap."

  "Yeah. It's my North Dakota blood. Why else would someone come here?"

  "Well, for dinner. The steakhouse is said to be excellent. They have some good shows. Dancing. Atmosphere."

  "I agree with the atmosphere. It conveys party and happy, until you study the faces of the losers."

  "I want to walk around some and look for Dyer." He guided her left.

  A row of high-top tables with signs reading Mississippi Stud, Let It Ride, Casino War, Ultimate Texas Hold Em, and Three Card Poker lined the walkway.

  "Are any of those guys Dyer?"

  "No. He's about five-eight, almost fifty years old, thinning brown hair, didn't wear glasses when I saw him."

  "Narrows the field." Most of the players at the tables looked retired, with a smattering of younger ones mixed in.

  Next they cased the blackjack section—tall tables with green felt tops, unsmiling dealers, and unsmiling patrons, none fitting Ray's description of Dyer. The only people she saw with pleasant expressions were the servers who were dressed in skin-tight, bare-shouldered, short black dresses and knee-high black boots.

  Sophia nodded toward one of them. "Good thing I wore heels or someone would be asking me for a drink. Except of course for the boobs. Plastic surgeon's dream."

  Ray laughed, but wisely didn't comment about her less well-endowed figure. "I don't spot him. Let's go to dinner."

  When they found the restaurant, Ray spoke quietly with the maître d' who then escorted them to a table. They passed the bar and angled to the right, bypassed the private booths toward the back, and ended up close to the gaming floor.

  She pointed at the tables and slots. "To what do we owe the honor of winning the least romantic table in the joint?"

  "I asked for it."

  "Interesting choice." A series of loud chimes, flashing lights in bright, obnoxious colors, then more chimes announced a winner at the slots. "Noisy."

  "My sources tell me that blackjack is Dyer's favored game, though he sometimes hits the craps tables." Ray motioned to the angled view of gaming tables. "The ones there are for high-stakes blackjack. He sees himself as a high roller, so I'm betting that's where he'll go if he shows."

  They ordered steaks, baked potatoes, and wine along with Caesar salads. The service was fast—designed to get players fed and back to the tables—and the food was tasty.

  "Ray, is that Dyer at the second table? He just stepped up to play. Look at that stack of chips in front of him."

  Ray glanced up. "Yup." He pushed his chair a bit away from the table, then picked up his wine and sipped. "There are plenty of empty spaces in here. We can take our time finishing and watch Dyer for a while."

  "Thanks." She wiggled her toes, noting the pain was gone.

  They ordered dessert and after-dinner drinks. While they nibbled, sipped, and watched, Dyer's pile of chips shrunk, and his face reddened.

  A swarthy man in a dark jacket and grey pants stopped and said something to him. Dyer backed away from the table and out of view. When he returned, he'd replenished his supply of chips. They watched as he lost those, too, then stormed away.

  The dealer nodded to another woman dressed in the same uniform, then moved away from the table. The new dealer slipped in without missing a card.

  Ray stood. "Stay here a couple of minutes. I want to talk to the dealer, and it looks like it's time for her break."

  Sophia watched Ray stop the woman and subtly show his badge. They disappeared from view for a minute, then Ray returned.

  He sat and sipped his drink. "That was informative. She wouldn't say much, only that Dyer behaves that way a lot."

  "I thought a high roller could get a line of credit at a casino and not have to deal with loan sharks."

  "Word has it that Dyer no longer has that privilege. He finally paid up, but they won't extend credit to him at the moment." Ray pushed his drink away and hummed a few lines to a country tune. "Want to go dance?"

  "You're offering me a dance while humming Gettin' You Home."

  He smiled an invitation.

  "Let's go home."

  ***

  Sunday morning was a rare day. They awoke early to cool weather—for summer in South Florida. It was closer to the mid-seventies than the mid-eighties. Roxy, who didn't do well with the heat, was itching for a longer walk, pulling and tugging at her harness and making little Boston terrier sounds. They gave in to her wishes and trudged around the neighborhood.

  Ray pointed to the eastern sky. "Look at that bank of clouds. It's going to storm."

  "I don't care. I have plans to sit on the sofa and read while I listen for the dryer buzzer."

  "I need to work awhile. I promised to meet Deg after he's done at church."

  "Do you have time for brunch?"

  "Yup. Planned on it. Thought we'd do the gun thing, then go and soothe your wounds at IHOP."

  "You're bribing me with pancakes to cooperate."

  "I am." He unleashed a killer—somewhat guilty—smile.

  Their loose plans had been to hit the gun shop and shooting range to take care of Ray's need for her to have personal protection. So nothing had changed—except the outright bribe. She didn't like the idea, but she'd vowed to try and make this thing of theirs work. Giving in to his wishes at times was part of that. Also, she understood that worrying about her every minute interfered with him worrying about his job every minute.

  They returned home, put Roxy in her crate, and left the house before the first wave of rain passed through the neighborhood. It caught up with them as they turned south on Coral Ridge Drive.

  The first stop was at Ray's condo for the weapon. He went inside and returned a moment later with the pistol, which was in its original factory packaging.

  He handed her some papers. "Here's the info on the weapon. Give you something to read on the way to Lauderdale Lakes."

  "I so hate this." She pouted.

  "Get over it, Sophie. You've attracted another stalker, you need protection twenty-four-seven, and you can handle a gun." He grinned. "And don't stick that tongue out at me or roll your eyes."

  What the heck? she fumed. He was watching the traffic exit the Catholic Church and wasn't looking at her. Just the same, she withdrew her tongue and refrained from the eye roll.

  The pistol was a Sig Sauer P238. It used .380 caliber ammo, which, Sophia remembered, was the short 9 mm. slug. She scanned the documents, discovering the pistol with the magazine weighed around one and one-quarter pounds. Manageable in a purse or pocket, she thought.

  "Can I open the box?"

  "It's yours now. Why not
?" He raised a finger off the steering wheel. "You will not give this one to the police department. Not under any circumstances."

  "Yes, sir." She rolled her eyes and returned to her reading, looking up as he pulled into a parking space in front of Arizona Shooting Range and Emporium.

  They went inside where Ray selected a square leather pocket holster that would camouflage the gun's shape in a pocket or purse. He also bought a second magazine and a box of ammo. Before paying, he walked across the store and grabbed a gun cleaning kit.

  "That should do it." He put the last item on the counter. "We need range time as well."

  "Do you know what you're doing?" the man behind the counter said.

  Ray showed his badge, Sophia showed her concealed carry license—it hadn't expired yet—and they headed to the range.

  "I thought anyone could shoot at a range," Sophia said.

  "They can. The restrictions are for purchase and carrying. The guy was being cautious because we don't have a known instructor with us and you're the color of bleached paper. Shaking a bit, too."

  "Oh." She grasped her hands together to still them and followed him into the empty shooting range. "Lead the way."

  Ray found ear protectors and set them on the counter. Then he removed the gun from the box and checked it. "I like this little gun. Might get another to use myself."

  "You can have this one, you know."

  "Load the magazine." He used his command voice.

  Sophia opened the box of ammo, extracted six little bullets—about half the size of the standard .38, loaded the clip, and popped it into the gun, handling the tasks from memory.

  "Pull back the slide." He pointed. "This mechanism can be used to lock it open. Be careful it's not engaged when you want to fire."

  She did as instructed with minimal effort.

  "Good. That wasn't hard for you. Put on the safety."

  "I did." Then she put on a pair of ear protectors.

  He pointed at the target. "Fire away."

  She tried.

  He touched the safety with his index finger.

  After releasing the safety and grinning like a fool, she fired a couple of rounds, missing the target but hitting the surrounding walls dead on.

  "Okay. That was okay. Now let's work on the grip and stance. You haven't practiced in a long time."

  Sophia smiled at him.

  "Stand this way." He took the gun and set the safety, then demonstrated an isosceles stance with his feet shoulder-width apart, both arms fully extended. His large hands consumed the small weapon.

  She copied his stance, then let him arrange her grip. The pistol fit her hand, and she could use a proper two-handed grip with ease, even wrapping all four fingers of her left hand around the right.

  "Keep your trigger finger out of the guard until you're ready to fire."

  "Know that."

  "Look on the left side. Can you work the safety with your left thumb?"

  She demonstrated.

  "Bend your knees slightly." After she complied, he looked her up and down. "Good. Now, fire again."

  This time she hit the target. After twenty minutes of practice, she hit the bull's-eye four out of six shots, with every slug making a hole within six inches of the center. "Good enough?"

  "Damn good." He kissed her. "Let's go to breakfast."

  ***

  When they got home, he reviewed gun maintenance, then made her clean the weapon.

  "Put it in your pants pocket."

  She complied. It showed the outline, even with the fancy square holster. She tried the back pocket of her jeans.

  "That's better, but not wonderful." He patted her butt and traced the weapon's outline.

  "Hang on a minute." She went into the bedroom and changed into crops with cargo pockets on the legs. The gun fit without an outline. Next, they put it in her purse, which worked well, then into the small padded bag she carried when she walked the dog and needed a place for her cell phone or tissues. That was good.

  "Now, I'll put it in the kitchen drawer. Nice and central." She removed the clip and dropped it into the adjacent drawer.

  "What's that about?"

  "Safety."

  "No. The gun without the ammo is useless. By the time you load it, you'll be dead."

  She put the full magazine into the pistol, pulled back the slide, set the safety, rechecked the safety, put it into its holster, then looked at the safety once again. Then she retrieved a shallow plastic tray from the drawer below and positioned the gun inside. "That way I won't accidentally release the safety while I'm reaching for something else."

  Ray gave her an exasperated glare then bent to kiss her. "I gotta go. Be sure you take it with you when you leave the house for any reason, even to go with Roxy into the backyard."

  "I so hate this." She pouted.

  "I know you do, sweetheart. But it's necessary." He kissed her again. "Leave your carry permit in your purse."

  Ray left, and Sophia had a good cry. Then she dusted off, put in a load of wash, and settled on the sofa with the dog and a book.

  "I can do this. I've done it before. I can do it again," she said, petting Roxy.

  Roxy gave her a bunch of encouraging kisses, then rested her head on Sophia's lap.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ray

  On Monday morning, Ray confirmed Ironmonger had returned to work, then updated Deg about Sophia and the stalker during their ride from the police department to the elementary school. "The online cyberbully stuff is real, but we know the source. Based on Melinda Silebi's behavior at the hospital, she's like a woman obsessed."

  "That she is," Deg said. "You need to remember you're very close to this issue, maybe not seeing straight. If you know what I mean."

  "Could be." Ray paused a minute, considering what he knew. "I checked the vehicles registered to Melinda and her husband. No black muscle cars. I really didn't expect to find one. The black car is a common thread every time Sophia feels she's being watched."

  "Any other vehicles registered to their address?"

  "No."

  "What does the son, Gabe, drive?"

  "Didn't check. Gabe doesn't seem connected to the issues with his grandfather at the hospital."

  "You need to treat this like every other case," Deg said.

  "You're right. I'll run a check when we get back to the station."

  "Is Sophia going to be okay with that weapon? I remember how unglued she was the last time you forced one on her."

  "She'll be fine. She's scared this time, and she did well at the range," Ray said, feeling less than confident. He'd asked patrol to pass through the neighborhood during the time she usually walked the dog, but he could only push so far before it became an issue.

  Deg braked for the turn into the school, then glanced at Ray. "No question the lady can shoot a target, but can she shoot a man?"

  "Don't know. I hope so, if it comes to that." Ray knew Sophia wouldn't shoot to kill, which could become the issue with her safety. Her gun would only stop a big man if the aim was true. Ray pointed to the elementary school's front walk. "That leads to the main entrance. Let's park here."

  Deg parked the Taurus and extricated his bulk from behind the wheel. Meanwhile, Ray slid out easily and stood on the sidewalk to wait for his partner.

  When Deg joined him, Ray said, "I've been giving Ironmonger a lot of thought. Depending on her response today, I could be convinced to move her lower on the suspect list—right above the neighborhood boys."

  "Yes, the boys." Deg stopped walking and waited a moment for Ray to do the same. "It still could be a robbery gone wrong. No one is familiar enough with the victim's home to know what's missing."

  "Electronics were everywhere. Money in her purse. Jewelry in the box on the dresser. Doesn't feel like a common thief issue."

  "Maybe common thieves who scared themselves off with the murder," Deg said.

  "Could be." Ray resumed walking. "The neighbor Ms. Brandt is certain that Putt wasn't in t
he area on the day of the crime."

  "Assuming it went down early in the window the ME gave us versus later."

  "True. But I can't fathom a guy crawling from his bed, going down the street, and offing a lady he knew, then running home in time to talk to his sister on the phone. Given everything we know, Putt partied on Tuesday night, got loaded, then slept in on Wednesday."

  Deg grabbed the door and strode into the school, holding it open behind him for Ray. "Point well taken, my man."

  Based on the comments made by the neighbors and Sophia, Ray was convinced the boys were harmless though sometimes annoying. "Unless we come up dry, we shouldn't spend any more time chasing that angle."

  "Agreed. Where to?"

  "Bypass the office and head right to the library. Maybe we'll catch her off guard, and she'll be talkative." Ray remembered his earlier meeting with the woman. He'd left frustrated and angry following the unproductive interview.

  The school corridor was cool and well lit. The buzz of children busy with summer school drifted their way as they passed the classrooms.

  Upon reaching the library, Ray saw a small group of youngsters gathered around a table in the corner. A woman of perhaps seventy-five years appeared to be reading to them. Ray thought she was a volunteer.

  On the far side of the large room, Tracey Ironmonger stood on the bottom rung of a ladder, shelving books. She looked at the detectives, scowled, positioned two more books, then shoved her cart aside and crossed the library to meet them.

  Ironmonger glared at Ray. "How did you get in without the office calling me?"

  "We didn't tell them," Ray said.

  "I thought I was done with you," she said.

  Ray looked around the room. "Where can we talk in private?"

  "Give me a minute." Ironmonger stopped at the table with the students and spoke to the woman, then went into the hallway and returned a couple of minutes later. "The classroom next door is open and empty. Let's go there."