"This time, South Florida PI Beth Bowman finds herself leading the investigation of a kidnapping case."
Reviewed by Tanzey Cutter
Posted September 20, 2013
Mystery Cozy | Mystery Woman Sleuth
After her divorce three years ago, Beth Bowman left the Dallas police force, moved to South Florida and became a PI. She's found it's a job she loves. When powerful criminal defense attorney John Hammonds' wife is murdered and his young daughter kidnapped, Hammonds insists that Beth be the one to handle getting her back. Hammonds' past experiences with the local police have him convinced they will muck up the job and endanger his daughter's life. The police don't like it, but have no other choice than to let Beth take the lead. Realizing she will need some specialized assistance, Beth puts her trust in good friend/bar owner Bob Sandiford and his motley crew of homeless comrades for their street- smarts and knack of invisibility as she investigates clues. With few leads, it becomes a harried race against time to save the little girl. BEST DEFENSE by Randy Rawls is a nice follow-up to the first book in this delightful series. As a short little mystery, BEST DEFENSE is a quick read with a returning cast of quirky characters and a well-devised plot.
SUMMARY
When private eye Beth Bowman's latest client, society wife
Sabrina Hammonds, is found dead, she's sure the woman's two-
timing husband decided it would be easier to off her than
pay a hefty divorce settlement. To Beth's surprise, Sabrina
may have been wrongly suspicious, and the desperate
widower, hot-shot defense attorney John Hammonds, might not
be a murderer or a cheat. Hammonds has represented the most vile slime in Delray
Beach, and he suspects one of them has killed his wife and
kidnapped their five-year-old daughter. Teaming up with her
gang of bawdy street friends, Beth sets out to rescue the
girl.
ExcerptWhile I spoke to Mom on the phone, Dot and I reached my car
and crawled in. I felt good, good that Mom would be out of
my hair for a few days and good that I'd been able to solve
her problem. I sure wasn't making any headway on
mine—finding Ashley. Then I remembered Dot mentioning an
idea. "Okay, let's hear it. What's the brainstorm you came
up with?"Dot twisted in the seat to face me. "You might not like it,
but it's a shorefar way to find out if that little girl is
in one of them houses. That's what you want, ain't it?" "Yes," I said, wondering where she was heading. We'd already
spent a couple of hours with each house and come up empty. "I know how to find out. It can't miss, works ev'ry time." I stared at her, not doubting her, but trying to guess her
plan. When nothing surfaced, I said, "How?" "Garbage. Ev'rything you ever need to know about a house is
in the trash. All I got to do—"
"You're talking about dumpster-diving, aren't you?" I was
so incredulous my voice had jumped into falsetto. "I don't
want to do that." "Why not?" Dot said, defiance in her eyes. "I done a whole
lot worse. And who said anythang about you? You just drive.
I wouldn't expect you to mess up your purdy manicure. Hell,
you could even break a nail or get one stinky." Oops, I'd crossed a line, and it was time to hop back over.
"I'm sorry, Dot. I didn't mean it that way." I hesitated. "I
just meant, is this something we really want to do?" "I told you," Dot said, her voice still not normal. "Just
drive the dang car, and I'll do the diving. The answer's in
the garbage." "That's not what I mean." I could see Dot's back was up and
probably wasn't coming down anytime soon. More discussion
followed, but Dot was determined. The more she talked and
the more I listened, the more convinced I became she was
right. If there was a five-year-old in the house, the
garbage held the evidence. However, there was no way I could
let Dot go by herself. If someone called the cops, she'd be
in handcuffs in a flash. If I were along, my PI license
would cut us some slack—maybe. It might slow the police down
long enough for me to tell them I worked for Chief Elston.
And throwing John Hammonds' name around should carry some
weight, too. It took another ten minutes before Dot gave in and agreed I
could go with her—as long as I did exactly what she said.
What she said was, "You better be damn careful 'round the
back of them houses. Don't go knockin' no cans over or
bangin' 'm togther. Ain't no way nobody will think it's
cats." She said it with a great deal of reluctance in her
voice, but I might have seen a smile try to creep through.
I vowed to make up for her hurt feelings later. In the
meantime, I thought her rule was perfect. My dumpster-diving
experience was nil. I'd raided a few paper recycling bins,
but never searched a garbage can. It was her show. * * * Three hours later, I drove toward Bobby's Bar. Dot's
thoroughness had given me a whole new appreciation for those
who man the garbage trucks every day. In my newfound
appreciation, they were unsung heroes on a level with
soldiers, police officers, firemen, teachers, and others who
go above and beyond. I vowed to call them Sanitation
Engineers from that day forth. They deserved a special title.
It only took one experience for me to learn not to have my
head over the can when I yanked the lid off. That single
burst of South Florida sun-baked garbage stench almost
knocked me off my feet while Dot stood by and laughed. From
then on, it was reach as far as I could, keep my head
turned, hold my breath, and lift. I supposed it was
something I could use on my resume if I got desperate
enough. However, I never intended to get that desperate. I
might admire the Sanitation Engineers, but I had no
intention of ever joining them.
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