Best Defense by Randy Rawls Page B

no. It’s on top of the nightstand.”
    I rolled my eyes. Mothers can be so specific. “Good. Make sure it’s loaded. Is your bedroom door closed and locked?”
    â€œNo. I want—”
    â€œForget want. Close and lock it now. Put that old straight-backed chair you keep in the bedroom under the doorknob. Then crawl in bed, put the phone in your lap, and listen. If you hear anything at a window or an outside door, call nine-one-one and report an attempted burglary. If he gets in without your hearing him and tries your bedroom door, put a slug through the door, chest high. If that doesn’t stop him, wait until he steps into the room and blow him away. Don’t hesitate. Just do it.”
    â€œBut Beth, Lanny is not—”
    â€œNo buts. You either put a bullet in him or be ready for rape and maybe worse. I’ll call around and see if I can cash some IOU’s. There must still be someone on the Dallas force who owes me. As soon as I have something lined up, I’ll be back to you. Understand?”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œDon’t but me, Mom. Can you do it? I can’t get help until I know you can take care of yourself.”
    â€œYes.” This time her voice sounded stronger. “If he hits that door, he’s a dead man.”
    â€œGood. Center of mass, Mom. Aim for center of mass—just like at the shooting range. Hang on. Help is on the way.” I hung up and rubbed my eyes, digging out the last vestiges of sleep.
    I had tried to sound more confident than I felt. I’d been gone from the Dallas police force for three years and gone from Dallas for two. While I’d had conversations with old friends in the department, they had become more infrequent as time passed. Whom could I call? Whom could I expect to be on duty at two in the morning? And, it didn’t help that Mom lived in Richardson, not Dallas proper where I had carried a badge.
    I pulled my phone index from my nightstand and flipped through, looking for a name, any name that could help me. Nothing, no one, acquaintances once, strangers now. Then, pay dirt in the L’s. Pam LaToya. Yes, Pam was a possibility. She was a detective on the night shift, or was the last time I spoke with her. We’d been pretty tight when I assisted on one of her cases while still a uniform. After I quit the force and became a PI, I trapped an embezzler and handed the collar to her. She owed me.
    I dialed the number, hoping she still worked night shift.

seven
    â€œDallas Police Department, Northeast Operations, Officer Morrison speaking,” a voice said into my ear.
    At least the number was still current. That was a relief. “This is Beth Bowman. I used to be a uniform on the force. I’m trying to reach Detective LaToya. Is she available?”
    â€œBowman? Elizabeth Bowman? How the hell are you, Beth? I haven’t heard a word about you in two-three years.”
    Stunned, I tried to recall how the officer had answered the phone. Nothing. I was so intent on Pam I hadn’t listened. One of my many failings—not assimilating what I hear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name. Who is this?”
    He laughed, a sound that triggered a memory.
    â€œIke? Ike Morrison, is that you?” He had the most distinctive laugh I ever heard—somewhere between a serious case of the hiccups and a horse’s neigh.
    â€œOf course. Who’d you expect? You think the chief answers the phone here?”
    Memories flooded in, images of an experienced officer who served as my unofficial mentor when I was a bumbling rookie. Ike Morrison seemed to materialize every time I did something dumb. He’d pat me on the back and say, “Same kinda mistake I made a bunch of years ago. I’ll square it with the sergeant.” And he would. I might get a lecture, but Ike would stand beside me and help me absorb the wisdom in the words.
    â€œWhat are you doing there?” I