I stood there, water running red from my body, and watched as Ray bagged my clothing. He left the room, reappearing a minute later with some things of Vanessa's.
Ray stayed with me while I cleaned myself and dressed in Vanessa's shorts and top. I'd have to go barefoot. Her shoes were too large and mine were ruined.
He said, "I'm going to take you downstairs to the car. Stay in it until I come. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
He guided me past the room full of local police. The paramedics, I noticed, had gone. I recognized one of the Tamarac officers, but he said nothing to me, and I said nothing to him.
***
It was dusk. I settled into the S2000 and waited as Ray lowered the top.
He kissed me on the forehead. "Please stay here. You don't need to see or hear what's going on upstairs."
I nodded.
He turned to leave.
"She confessed," I said, my voice almost a whisper.
"What did she say?"
I repeated her confession, her few guilt-ridden words. "I think she was powerless to do anything about it. She was afraid of losing everything. I think she saw no choice but to kill him."
A couple of Tamarac officers released Craig Vanderbilt from the railing and loaded him into a waiting squad car. He glanced in my direction, then looked away in apparent disgust. Remembering all the dinners Vanessa, Craig, and I shared, I wondered how I ever thought he was a nice person.
I sat there for what seemed like forever. Every so often, Ray peered over the railing, sometimes waving a hand, sometimes just looking. The medical examiner came and took Vanessa's body away. It was wrapped in a big zippered bag, then partially covered with a sheet. No one could see the damage to her beautiful body.
Ray returned and handed me the keys. "You look a little better."
"I'm okay."
"Go now," he said. "I'll be home later. You can go to the station tomorrow to make your statement."
He bent and kissed me.
"Home," I said as I turned onto the street. "He called my house his home."
I fell asleep when my head hit the pillow. I hadn't expected that. Much later, I heard the garage door open. I'm going to have to give him a key, I thought in my sleepy stupor. I listened as Sunshine greeted him. Then I heard the shower on the other side of the house. I wondered if he would join me in bed or use the spare room. I drifted off again, then became aware of him next to me.
"Ray," I said, snuggling. "I'm glad you're here."
"I'm glad I'm here too." He wrapped his strong arms around me and drew me close. "Vanderbilt confessed to abusing Vanessa. He even admitted harassing you. He wanted to scare you off. He thought Vanessa would tell you everything, and he didn't want that to happen."
"She did. Unfortunately, she was dying at the time." I thought for a moment. "Strange isn't it. He was violent enough to kill her, yet he protected her."
"He needed to be in control." He kissed me. "Sleep now. We'll talk in the morning."
Epilogue
It was early July, and the summer heat was unbearable. Connie and I chatted in front of the nurses' station on the pediatric unit, surrounded by murals of jungle animals, safari trains, and hanging vines. We watched a couple of toddlers explore the playroom across the hall.
Our supervisor granted our transfer requests within days of each other. I transferred to the pediatric emergency department, and she transferred to the pediatric inpatient unit. I had floated upstairs in response to a staffing crisis, and Connie seemed intent on catching up on the news.
She said, "You're telling me Craig Vanderbilt won't fry? Ah, come on. He killed her in cold blood, grabbed her from the hospital for the purpose."
"The deal was that if he pleaded guilty to the murder, the state wouldn't ask for the death penalty."
"It's too bad he took it. I would have enjoyed knowing the state was going to execute him."
"Not going to happen. Ray said he'll be sentenced to life with no hope of parole. At least he won't be exerting his control over another woman." I watched the toddlers playing, one on each side of the small playroom. We would discharge them later today into the arms of their loving families. "And the good thing is he'll spend the rest of his life thinking about and reliving what he did to Vanessa. I think he deserves to suffer."
Connie looked thoughtful. "What I can't understand is why and how Vanessa contacted the hit men."
"That's the strange part. Hutchinson was jerking her around, and she wanted out of the real estate contract. Hutchinson wouldn't budge, so she decided to take care of the situation. Craig came to town, showed up at her apartment, then offered to help. He knew some guys from the gym he used to frequent. They put him in touch with the right people. Then, after the shooting, Amelia told her the contract was still binding. By the time Amelia fessed up about the contract not being complete, Vanessa and Craig had decided to give their relationship another go of it. They planned to live in the townhouse. That's why Vanessa insisted Amelia push the sale through."
"But Vanessa was angry about being forced to buy the house."
"That was all show. She was concerned Ray would make the connection, especially after the shooters were arrested."
Connie knitted her brows. "So Vanessa didn't place the contract herself?"
"I don't know for sure. In his statement, Craig said he took her to the meeting and gave her the money she needed."
"That makes Craig guilty in Hutchinson's death, too."
I nodded, then glanced in the direction of the elevators and saw Ray exit when the doors opened. "Hi, Babe," I said after I buzzed Ray into our locked unit. "What's up?"
"Not a thing. I thought I'd come by and take you to lunch." He kissed my cheek and smiled at Connie. He looked spiffy in his navy blue sport coat and khaki slacks. "Connie, want to join us?"
"Can't do that," Connie said. "But thanks anyway. One of us has to stay with the kids."
I put my hand on Connie's shoulder. "Mind if I take first lunch?"
"No, go ahead. Enjoy." She flashed us a big smile, then hurried into the playroom to keep a closer eye on the toddlers.
As Ray and I stood waiting for the elevator, I asked, "What's the occasion?"
"I have an offer on my condo." He put his arm around my shoulders. I felt the warmth of his hand though the thin cotton of my uniform.
"Really?" I looked at him and smiled.
"You'll never believe who the realtor is."
"Try me."
"Amelia Hutchinson." He grinned. "She looks good. She must have lost forty pounds since her husband died, and she seemed full of energy."
"Who's she working for?" The elevator door opened in front of us.
"One of the big firms." He mentioned the name. "She said it wouldn't have worked with Wiley, so she sold what she could from the existing business and went on her way. She said she's doing fine."
"Did you ask about Jamel?" I asked, stepping onto the empty elevator.
"He's still having problems, but he's registered to go to school in the fall, and she thinks he's working regularly."
"That's something. She deserves a break." I turned to face Ray and took both of his hands in mine. "Was it a good offer?"
"Decent, not wonderful." He smiled and told me the details.
"You going to take it?" I asked.
"I'd like to. Are you sure you can handle having me around full-time?"
"I think so." I put my hands on his shoulders and stretched to kiss him. The elevator doors opened on the first floor. "I know so."
The End
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 o
pen, 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.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Preview of Imperfect Murder
About the Author
Imperfect Contract Page 22