Naked Frame Read online

  Naked Frame

  Robert Burton Robinson

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2010 Robert Burton Robinson.

  Cover background: www.flickr.com/photos/phlezk

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Books by Robert Burton Robinson

  Greg Tenorly Suspense Series

  Bicycle Shop Murder

  Hideaway Hospital Murders

  Illusion of Luck

  Fly the Rain

  Sweet Ginger Poison - a whodunit mystery

  Classical Revenge - Thirteen Short Stories

  Rebecca Ranghorn Mystery Series

  Naked Frame

  (Book 2 - coming in Feb. 2011)

  (Book 3 - coming in May 2011)

  Special thanks to

  Don Neuman

  Lynda Robinson

  Synopsis

  Rebecca Ranghorn is wanted for murder. The dead man in her office has a bullet in his head. Her bullet. But she’s not the killer. At least she doesn’t think so.

  Rebecca is a private investigator working mostly cheating husband cases. She knows how to kick butt, and she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.

  In NAKED FRAME, her client is a mother wanting proof that her teenage daughter is having sex with a sleazy Dallas businessman, Big Bill Smotherburn. Once Rebecca shoots the video, the mother begins to threaten him.

  Big Bill drops by Rebecca’s office unannounced, after hours, and tries to buy the video. But within minutes, Rebecca has passed out, warm pistol in hand, and Big Bill is sprawled out on the floor with half his face blown off.

  Rebecca had been pointing the gun at Big Bill, unsure of his intentions. But she’s sure she wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. She believes somebody framed her.

  She knows it’s only a matter of time before police discover the body, and come looking for her. It’s an odd time to reconnect with her best friend, Gabby, from high school. But he wants to help Rebecca.

  The two of them will unravel the mystery. Or die trying.

  CHAPTER 1 - Monday, 5:43 p.m.

  Rebecca Ranghorn stared at her noisy wall clock. Each tick felt like a little hammer pounding at the back of her skull. The four aspirin had done nothing for her headache.

  She commanded the clock to be silent.

  It ticked on.

  Her sanity hanging by a thread, she jumped up from her chair, ready to quick-draw her pistol like a Wild West gunfighter, and blow the damn thing to kingdom come.

  Rebecca was an imposing figure: a lean, six-foot frame, long brown hair pulled back tight, steely eyes, and a kick-ass attitude.

  Her desk phone rang, and her head nearly exploded. "Rebecca Ranghorn Investigations," she barked.

  "Becca, I'm so sorry. I had a flat tire, and—"

  "—it's okay, Gabby." She sat down. "But instead of you coming here, why don't we just meet for dinner? I've got an errand to run in a few minutes. But I could meet you someplace at around 7:00."

  "I really need to talk to you privately, if you don't mind. I can be there in fifteen minutes."

  "Okay. I'll wait. But my secretary has already gone home. So, just knock, and I'll come out and let you in."

  Maybe Gabby had something stronger for a headache. Like opium. Rebecca was no druggy. But right now she couldn't think of anything over-the-counter that would do the trick.

  She got up, and snatched the battery out of the wall clock. Ah, silence. But after a few seconds she realized the silence might be even worse than the ticking. She sat back down at her desk, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

  Rebecca was excited to see her old buddy. But why wouldn't he tell her what this was about? They'd had no contact whatsoever since high school. She had no idea what he'd been up to for the past fifteen years.

  Maybe he had a cheating wife. Surely he hadn't killed somebody. Was that why he didn't want to meet in public? Was he running from the cops? Didn't sound like the Gabby she knew. But, then again, a person can change in fifteen years.

  Rebecca no longer worked murder cases. Not since college, when she was partnering with her dad.

  She caught cheaters, all over Dallas. That was her thing. Snooping. Gathering evidence—usually with her video camera. A little movie, starring the husband and the other woman, usually gave the wife all the leverage she needed in divorce court. The husbands hated Rebecca for it, and sometimes threatened her.

  "Bitch, I've got half a mind to jam my fist right down your throat."

  "Try it, and I'll pull my gun and blow your damn balls off."

  In truth, she had never shot anyone, and didn't even know if she could. She was impressive at the shooting range. But those targets weren't breathing. Good thing Rebecca was a stone-cold bluffer. Randy Ranghorn had taught his daughter well.

  She leaned back in her rickety office chair, and tried to relax her headache away—imagining a steamy hot bubble bath. Soaking for an hour. An occasional toe to the faucet handle, releasing an influx of heat when needed. Reading a romance novel in the soft light of a dozen scented candles.

  Someday she would take that bubble bath. But tonight would probably end like most other nights. Five minutes under the showerhead. Collapsing into bed. Too tired to even turn off the lamp.

  Most women would be skittish about hanging around an empty office after hours. Particularly in a mostly vacant strip mall. But the rent was cheap. And Rebecca had learned to ignore the slight stench of mildew in her office.

  If she screamed for help, nobody would hear her. But Rebecca wouldn't scream. She'd reach under her suit jacket for the blue steel pistol snuggled inside her shoulder holster.

  She unlocked the bottom desk drawer, picked up the handcrafted wooden case, and placed it on top of her desk. Her dad's old Smith and Wesson Model 27 revolver held such strong memories. She took it out of the case and aimed at an imaginary criminal.

  Rebecca loved remembering her first time. She was ten years old. It was a chilly Thanksgiving day on her grandfather's old farm. After the football game, her dad had asked her to join him for a walk around the property. They agreed it would help work off the turkey and dressing.

  ——

  "How about a little target practice?" he said, nodding to an old galvanized trash can lid that had been wired onto the side of a bale of hay. It was riddled with holes. "Think you could hit the bull's eye?"

  "Sure. Give me your gun."

  "Take it easy, Rebel. We'll do it together."

  "Aw, come on, Daddy, I can do it by myself."

  He pulled the revolver out of its holster. Rebecca always wondered why her dad carried a weapon to family get-togethers. She later came to understand that P.I.'s were always in danger. You never knew when some guy you had investigated would come looking for payback.

  He pointed the gun toward the target. "Now, do what I tell you, Rebel."

  She faked a pouty face. "My name is Rebecca." But she loved it when he called her Rebel. She wanted to be tough—like her daddy.

  "Now, take the weapon in your right hand like this." He showed her how to grip it, and placed his hands on the sides of hers.

  "What if I'm left-handed?"

  "A
re you left-handed?"

  "No."

  "Then shut up and listen."

  She stuck her tongue out at him. "I can do it myself."

  "Not the first time. Okay, now take aim."

  "Got it."

  "Are you sure? Because if you accidentally shoot one of grandpa's cows, we're going to be eating cow patties for dinner."

  "You mean hamburgers?"

  "No, I mean cow patties."

  "Yuck."

  He chuckled. "Well, it's the truth."

  "Grandpa wouldn't be mean to me. He loves me."

  "Well, let's not chance it."

  She squeezed the trigger. When the gun fired, Rebecca was surprised—not so much by the way it felt. She was surprised at how much she liked the way it felt. The sheer power of the weapon excited her.

  Rebecca had no idea whether she could ever shoot an animal or a bad guy. But she was instantly addicted to that magnificent feeling of power. Yeah. She liked feeling tough.

  ——

  It was a wonderful memory of her dad and his gun. For her next birthday, he gave her a silver charm bracelet. One of the charms was a pistol. She still wore that bracelet every day.

  But the good memories were always followed by the bad: that horrible night when she found him in a pool of blood, on the floor of that abandoned old house.

  His gun was still holstered. The drug dealer had caught him by surprise. Three shots to the back. Damn coward.

  But her dad's old revolver was for more than just memories. Rebecca cleaned it regularly, and kept it loaded, as a backup weapon. It gave her the feeling that her dad was there with her. That he always had her back.

  She heard a noise from the reception area. Perhaps her young secretary had forgotten something and come back for it. Wouldn't be the first time. "Wendy?"

  No reply.

  Her door swung open, and Big Bill Smotherburn stepped into her office, turning sideways to clear the doorway. At 6-foot-3, 350 lbs., he could knock down a door, frame and all, just by bumping into it.

  She pointed the revolver at him. "You son of a bitch. How did you get in here?"

  He seemed no more threatened by her gun than if she were holding a lollypop. "So, this is the office of Rebecca Ranghorn, Private Investigator." He looked around as though he were actually interested. "What a dump." He grinned. "Mind if I have a seat?"

  "Mind if I blow your damn head off?"

  "Now, now, Rebecca. You're not gonna shoot me, and we both know it." He walked over to the metal chair sitting in front of her desk.

  "Wanna bet?" She released the safety, and aimed the gun at his head.

  "Look, I didn't make it this far in life without being a pretty good judge of character." As he eased himself down onto the chair, it groaned in protest.

  "What do you want from me?"

  He set two cups on her desk. They were from her coffee bar in the reception area. "I want you to get your client to back off."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Her head was still throbbing.

  "Yes, you do. Carly Cinaway."

  She hesitated. "I don't tell my clients what to do."

  He reached into his suit coat pocket.

  She cocked the gun. "Careful."

  He pulled out a flask and unscrewed the lid.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "It's tequila. Your favorite brand."

  "I don't have a favorite brand. I don't drink...anymore."

  He poured a few ounces into each cup. "I'm here to celebrate with you." He picked up one of the cups.

  "Really? What are we celebrating? The fact that you're headed for prison?"

  "I'll be happy to tell you as soon as you join me." He held up his cup and nodded to hers.

  Rebecca knew she shouldn't. It could be drugged. And, besides, she was afraid she was becoming an alcoholic. Her mind said No. But her pounding headache said YES, PLEASE. "You first."

  "You think I've come here to poison you?" He laughed. "My dear, if I had wanted you dead, your cute little ass would already be in the morgue." He drank half of the tequila in his cup. "I don't do business that way."

  Rebecca picked up the cup with her left hand, and took a sip. It didn't taste funny.

  "Excellent, huh?"

  She gulped it down. It was so good. Better than sex. Although, it had been a long time.

  "That old beat-up Lincoln sitting out front is a piece of shit."

  "Hey! That was my dad's car."

  He held up his hands. "I apologize. It was a great automobile—in its time. But not anymore. And it's just not you, Rebecca. Picture yourself in a brand new shiny convertible. Imagine how hot you'd look driving around town."

  "What's your point?"

  He carefully and slowly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a thick envelope, and dropped it on her desk.

  "You're not seriously trying to bribe me?"

  "Of course not. I'd like to make a purchase." He pointed to the envelope. "Go ahead. Count it. Make sure there's fifty thousand in there. I think that's more than a fair price for an amateur movie."

  "Carly told you about the video."

  "Wasn't that foolish of her? She even admitted she didn't have a copy yet. Obviously, my offer is for the original and all copies."

  Rebecca slammed her empty coffee cup down on the desk. "You're disgusting. I can't get it out of my mind—you and her young daughter. How do you sleep at night?"

  "We were two consenting adults having a little fun."

  "She's seventeen!"

  "She told me she was 21. It's not my fault she lied. How was I to know?"

  "You're a dirty stinking pig."

  "Can I help it if women throw themselves at me?" He laughed. "Look, the truth is she wanted a job."

  "She's a high school student."

  He shrugged. "What can you do? Girls lie to get what they want." He wagged his long, fat index finger at her, as though it were a magic wand. "But don't you think for one minute that Mrs. Cinaway is going to win this thing. I have some very expensive lawyers. All she's going to do is humiliate her daughter in open court. And for what? Nothing."

  "If you're so sure about that, why are you here offering me fifty thousand dollars?"

  "Look, Rebecca, I'm a practical man. By handling it this way, everybody's happy. Once I have all the copies, I'll give you another fifty thousand—for your client."

  "What about her daughter?"

  "I'll take care of her myself." He grinned.

  Rebecca began to feel very drowsy. "You did put something in my drink." She tried to point the gun at him. But she could not raise her arm. Her whole body went limp and her torso fell forward, onto the desk. She couldn't find the strength to even open her eyes. But she could still hear him talking.

  "Put that thing down," he said.

  The last thing she heard was a gunshot.

  CHAPTER 2 - Monday, 10:09 p.m.

  Rebecca tried to force her eyes open. Her head was spinning. How long had she been asleep? She hadn't felt this bad since the last time she downed a full bottle of tequila. But she didn't remember drinking. She glanced over at her alarm clock, but couldn't see it.

  The door opened. Somebody was coming into her bedroom. She rolled to her side, opened the night table drawer, and reached for her pistol—but found a book instead.

  A book? She wasn't at home. She was in a motel room. Rebecca needed a weapon. But instead of a gun, all she had was a Gideon Bible.

  "Take it easy. You're going to be fine." The man flipped the wall switch, and a lamp came on.

  Rebecca's eyes were still blurry. She threw off the covers, leaped out of bed, and ran blindly at the intruder with all her might.

  "Whoa!" He backpedaled into the door.

  Rebecca slammed into him at full speed, grabbed his wrists, and plowed a knee deep into his crotch.

  He yelped, bent forward, and grabbed himself.

  She pushed him hard to the floor, and went for the door knob.

  He st
ruggled to catch his breath. "Are you sure you want to go out dressed like that?"

  Rebecca looked down. Her vision had cleared just enough for her to see she was wearing only a bra and panties. "Where are my clothes? What did you do to me, you pervert?" She kicked him in the ribs with her bare foot.

  "Stop it. I didn't do anything to you."

  She pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around herself. "Then why am I here? And why did you take my clothes off?" She kicked him again—harder.

  "Becca, stop! Please."

  "Gabby?"

  "Yeah, Sweetie. It's me. I rescued you. If it wasn't for me, you'd probably be in jail right now—for murder."

  "Murder?"

  "I'm sure you had a good reason for killing him. Or maybe it was accidental."

  Now she remembered Big Bill breaking into her office and trying to bribe her...offering her a drink. She remembered how she began to feel drowsy. "Bill Smotherburn is dead?"

  "Yeah. When I got there, you were passed out across your desk—with a gun in your hand."

  "I do remember having the gun. My dad's old revolver. I was holding it when Big Bill broke into my office."

  "Well, by the time I got there, he was sprawled out across the floor with half his face blown off."

  "No. No way. I didn't kill him. There's no way in hell I killed that bastard. But now the police are never going to believe me—since I left the scene of the crime. What were you thinking?"

  "Well, what was I supposed to do? Call the police? Let them see you there with a smoking gun in your hand?"