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    Deadly Defense: A Grace Gaynor Christian Mystery
    Deadly Defense: A Grace Gaynor Christian Mystery
    Deadly Defense: A Grace Gaynor Christian Mystery
    Ebook299 pages4 hours

    Deadly Defense: A Grace Gaynor Christian Mystery

    By R. Barri Flowers

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    About this ebook

    Deadly Defense: A Grace Gaynor Christian Mystery is a powerful psychological suspense and legal thriller by bestselling crime writer R. Barri Flowers.

    Three years ago, Miami defense attorney Grace Gaynor was the victim of a violent sexual assault in which she killed her attacker. She has been undergoing therapy to deal with the trauma.

    When her therapist Doctor Austin Winchester, whom she had begun to develop feelings for, is arrested and charged with the violent murder of her friend Kara Pedrosa, Grace reluctantly takes on his case for her law firm of Kendall, Francois, and Larosa.

    She goes up against brilliant Miami-Dade prosecutor Perry MacAlister, a former colleague whom she still considers a friend. He's as tough as they come and believes he has a slam dunk case against Dr. Winchester, a highly respected psychiatrist.

    In order to prove otherwise, Grace must call upon all of her skills, faith, and gut instincts to win an acquittal in the face of uncertainties and mixed loyalties.

    The intriguing and complex storyline, three-dimensional characters, and shocking conclusion will keep readers engrossed from beginning to end.

    Bonus material includes two mystery short stories by the author.

    In "Target of a Killer," a journalist is targeted for death by a drug kingpin whose operation she had exposed. Staying alive becomes a real challenge when not knowing who to trust, with a ruthless killer taking aim.

    In "PhD in Murder," a doctoral student's independent study reenactment of the well-known and still unsolved murder of Marilyn Sheppard ends with a modern-day murder and a killer on the loose.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherR. Barri Flowers
    Release dateAug 17, 2017
    ISBN9781370783274
    Deadly Defense: A Grace Gaynor Christian Mystery
    Author

    R. Barri Flowers

    R. Barri Flowers is the award winning, bestselling author of mystery and thriller novels, true crime books, relationship fiction, young adult mysteries, and children's books. Follow R. Barri Flowers on Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Goodreads, LibraryThing, and YouTube. Learn more about the author on Wikipedia and www.rbarriflowers.com.

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      Book preview

      Deadly Defense - R. Barri Flowers

      PROLOGUE

      She quietly drove the bright red Porsche Boxster down the street in downtown Fort Lauderdale, oblivious to other traffic or drivers that took to the road this night. Thoughts flooded her head like poison gas, and there seemed to be nothing she could do to save herself from its devastating effect. In spite of her attempts to get past the nightmare she had been forced to endure, as though cursed by the devil himself, she had been unable to do so. He had destroyed her life in more ways than she could count.

      Her boyfriend, Craig, couldn't deal with what had happened and abandoned her when she needed him most. The intimacy she had once craved in a loving relationship had all but vanished after her terrible ordeal. The moodiness, which enveloped her like a vise, had manifested itself among family, friends, and in the workplace. It had spiraled out of control and she was unable to maintain her emotions or her sense of self-respect.

      She had reached the breaking point and could no longer take the pain she felt day and night. She just wanted it to end and maybe then she could finally be at peace again.

      The sports car pulled into the parking garage of a high rise. She wiped away tears and sat behind the wheel for a moment before getting out, knowing what she must do.

      Wearing her favorite outfit—a black sheath dress and matching wedge sandals—she headed toward the elevator, flipping her long blonde hair to one side out of habit.

      Inside the elevator, she rode alone to the twenty-fourth floor rooftop lounge. The ride up seemed to take forever, giving her time to have second thoughts from which there would be no turning back. But what was there to reconsider? Her life had been ruined forever. Pretending otherwise had proven to be futile and only made matters worse. No, this was the only way to put it behind her once and for all.

      She stepped off the elevator and into the lounge. Last month, she had come there with Craig to celebrate two years together. Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.

      A few familiar faces greeted her, as though compelled to do so just for effect. She responded in kind, wanting to keep up appearances till the end, if only to prevent anyone from stopping her before it was too late.

      She passed several couples who seemed to be in love and a group of people who laughed on cue at what appeared to be a joke.

      She walked out onto the terrace, which reminded her of an oasis with its clusters of bamboo and climbing vines. Her blue eyes made contact with a waiter who worked the outside bar. She quickly turned away and pretended that she was about to join a thirtysomething gentleman sitting alone.

      Instead, she headed straight for the balustrade, which was low enough for her intended purpose.

      Reaching it, she glanced down the twenty-four stories. It gave her the chills, but she had come too far to turn back now.

      She sucked in a deep breath and said a silent prayer, while hoping it would be answered kindly once she reached the next world.

      Without glancing back or responding to the voice of someone who seemed to sense her intentions, she went over the railing and was suddenly moving down like a bird without wings.

      She wondered if there would be any pain. Even so, she doubted it could match that which she already felt in bringing her to this decision to end her life.

      And just like that, there was nothing...

      CHAPTER ONE

      It was literally the last place I wanted to be on a Saturday afternoon in early May and yet it was perhaps the only place I needed to be at this point of my life. Doctor Austin Winchester had come highly recommended from my boss, Edward Kendall. The seventy-five-year-old head of the esteemed Miami law firm of Kendall, Francois, and Larosa had been very public about his lifelong battle with depression and his ability to control it with help. He had been like a father to me, minus the sometimes overbearing but good intentioned nature of many real fathers. At least that was what I imagined, since I lost my father to cancer before I ever really got to know him. My mother wasn't around much longer than him, having drunk herself to death a year and a half later while still grieving his loss and losing her own will to live.

      Both tragedies had put my faith in God to the test, which I had passed through strength and conviction. I hadn't been prepared for an even worse event to shake my very foundation, but it happened anyway. Three years ago, I was the victim of a violent sexual assault. And three years later, I was still dealing with the nightmare as though it were yesterday.

      Even with that reality, I could hardly blame it on a higher power, though that was my first instinct. In the end, I knew the blame lay squarely with the attacker, along with the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

      Now if only I could get past the nightmares and feeling sorry for myself, then maybe I could feel right again and focus on my law career and any future romance that might be out there, assuming it was what God had planned for me.

      My eyes scanned the room. By psychiatrist standards—this being the third one I had visited since being victimized—the living room like setting was spacious with interesting angles, beige walls adorned with abstract framed paintings, and soft lighting. It was impressively outfitted with European style sleek furnishings with glossy silhouettes. I sat on a comfortable linen arm chair and honed in on Dr. Winchester, having barely heard what he was saying. He was sitting directly across from me in a matching chair with no desk or table between us, as if he'd wanted to remove any obstacles that could block the free flow of communication.

      At first glance, I wouldn't have pictured him as a psychiatrist. Perhaps a journalist. Lawyer. Lobbyist. Or even a stockbroker. But none of those applied in this case. He was a handsome, trim man in his late thirties, with neatly clipped wavy black hair. His solid gray eyes never seemed to take their gaze off me. Though that made me slightly uncomfortable, I figured it meant he took his job seriously. His attire of a light blue short-sleeved shirt, tie, khaki pants, and loafers suited him, even though I was sure he wasn't trying to appeal to my sense of style.

      Of course, the same was true in reverse. The outfit I had chosen to wear for this visit—a gray skirt suit and matching low heeled pumps—was not unlike what I wore in my capacity as a criminal defense attorney. Nothing too flashy or revealing. I wanted to feel as relaxed as possible in a setting where I was the patient and not entirely in control of the situation. That included applying just a touch of makeup and wearing my shoulder length dark blonde hair in a loose ponytail.

      We had already gotten some of the basic formalities of my life and times out of the way. Grace Gaynor, successful attorney, age thirty-two and counting. I had spent the last decade of my life living in Miami. Even after the incident, I had no desire to seek safety elsewhere, knowing the threat had been squashed and, by and large, the city was still a great place to live and work.

      Why don't we start from the beginning... he said in a deep but even voice. His tone grew softer when adding, Feel free to stop if it ever gets too painful for you.

      I nodded, while wondering if it could ever not be too painful when recounting the story of being violated by someone. But I had to try, fearing this could be my last chance to get it right in overcoming the torment I had been left with like a hideous disease.

      I had just gotten off work after a long day of litigation, I recalled ill at ease. He was waiting for me that night when I got home. I don't know how he got in... I always kept the doors locked and the security system on, I added, as though defending myself in court against making it too easy to become a victim. I kicked off my shoes and entered the bedroom... I never saw him until...he attacked me—

      Dr. Winchester met my eyes without blinking and said calmly: Go on...

      I fidgeted. I'm not sure I can... No matter how many times I related my dark tale—whether to the police, medical doctors, nurses, associates, or a psychiatrist—it never came naturally. Surely he could understand that.

      It's essential that you talk about what happened to you, he insisted with a catch to his voice, as if accepting what a difficult position I was in, but believing in tough love psychiatry as the answer. There's nothing to be afraid of, Grace. He can't hurt you—not anymore—unless you let him.

      I don't want to, I uttered, resisting the urge to cry in thinking about that terrible day.

      Then don't. I need you to work with me. It's the only way to come to terms with your trauma. Now take a deep breath and tell me what happened next—

      Surprisingly, there was an undeniable pacifying quality to his voice, whether intentional through practice or not. I supposed it didn't matter one way or the other if it worked in getting me to loosen up, which seemed to be the case.

      Following his advice, I sucked in a deep breath and said levelly: When he was done, I crawled off the bed while he was basking in his triumph and pulled open my nightstand drawer where I kept a loaded Glock. I managed to get to my feet, but once he realized what I had done, he got up himself and charged at me like an angry bull, daring me to shoot. I did—four times—hitting him with each shot till he stopped and fell to the floor. I sighed, lowering my eyes somberly. He died from his injuries en route to the hospital.

      Dr. Winchester leaned back in the chair as if contemplating this. How did that make you feel?

      I tried to recall my exact feelings at the time. Honestly, I felt empty. I was just glad that I was able to stop him from hurting me or anyone else again.

      What I didn't say was that I never wanted to be put in that unenviable position of life and death again. But, at the time, I was truly fearful that my unmasked attacker was just getting started and may well have finished his assault by taking my life had I not taken his first in self-defense.

      Do you blame yourself for what happened? the doctor asked, peering at me as though trying his best to read my mind.

      I stared at the question thoughtfully before responding: No, I know it wasn't my fault. But that doesn't mean I haven't asked myself a million times what I could have done differently to avoid the attack. Maybe if I'd been more on guard and observant of my surroundings, recognizing anything that may have been out of place in my apartment... Or maybe I should have taken more seriously the fact that someone had been raping women in that part of the city—one of whom killed herself from the pain, shame, frustration with the system of justice, or whatever—and taken more precautions to that effect.

      Don't beat yourself up about something that was totally out of your control, he said soothingly. Should have or could have doesn't really work in real life situations that don't offer us the luxury of 20/20 hindsight. You were placed in a terrible position, like the other victims, and in the end you did what you had to do to survive. No one would ever blame you for that.

      I smiled, feeling somewhat relieved to hear him say that. Thank you, doctor.

      He nodded. It's my job to be forthright and to help you keep a proper perspective and not think for even one moment that you did anything wrong. Anyway, this is probably a good place to stop for today. We'll pick up where we left off at the next session...

      He rose to his full height of around six-two, some six inches taller than me.

      It prompted me to do the same while considering his words. I never said I was coming back for more therapy, if that's what this is. In fact, I had considered this a one-time thing, not having the time or desire to commit to anything long term. Or was that just a cop out?

      Dr. Winchester colored, as though wishing he hadn't jumped the gun. Perhaps I was a bit presumptuous. Will you at least consider coming back next week or even next month so I can help you try to deal with this?

      He gave me a pleading look, making me feel he was sincere in wanting to use his skills as a therapist to aid my cause. I also knew that he had done right by Edward, giving him that much more credibility in his qualifications. And yet I was still hesitant for some reason, as if fearful of being vulnerable in exposing my dark past even to an obviously capable psychiatrist.

      I'll let you know. That was all I was willing to commit to at this point.

      If it put him off, he didn't show it, offering a slight nod and a half-grin. Fair enough. You have my number. If you need me, I'll be here.

      Thanks, I responded, happy to see there was no pressure, which was the last thing anyone needed when going to see a shrink. Maybe I would come back and see if this treatment went anywhere. A lot of it would depend on my schedule and whether or not the nightmares continued. Something told me they weren't going away anytime soon. Goodbye, doctor.

      Have a nice day, Ms. Gaynor.

      * * *

      I waved at the young, dark-haired office assistant, who was chatting with another patient—a gentleman in his twenties. I wondered what his deal was, deciding it could be one of many problems. Some of those problems I dealt with as an attorney, such as irrational or impulsive behavior and being misunderstood or self-destructive, to name a few. Other problems were beyond my scope of expertise or understanding—which was where psychiatry came in, I supposed.

      Leaving the second floor office, I took the stairs down to the lobby of the building on Brickell Avenue.

      When I stepped outside, I was greeted by the humidity and bright sunshine. Miami's sunny weather and great beaches are largely what attracts so many people to South Florida. Not to mention it's also a leader in commerce, culture, entertainment, finance, and international trade. As if that isn't enough, it also happens to be one of the country's cleanest cities, reflected in the air quality, streets, and recycling programs.

      Unfortunately, all is not perfect in the city. The crime rate is too high, with violent crimes exceeding the overall Florida and national average. Having experienced this firsthand made me want to do my part to make things better—be that through prayer, community outreach, or helping my clients see to it that justice did not go awry, as it was prone to do at times.

      I drove a silver Audi A3 sedan, having purchased the car last year as a gift to myself after winning a big case for the firm and getting a bonus for my efforts.

      It took me about twenty minutes to get home. I lived in Midtown Miami in a condominium on Northeast 23rd Street. I bought the twelfth floor unit three months after I was attacked, getting a good price from a former client who wanted to unload it after being transferred to Sweden for his job as an investment banker.

      In addition to the security guard for entering the building, I was attracted to the security features within the condo, including allowing me to monitor and control who entered and who did not. Apart from that, the spacious two bedroom place had Brazilian mahogany hardwood flooring throughout, ceiling fans, window walls in the living room, and a gourmet kitchen that I didn't use nearly enough for cooking. There was also a secure state-of-the-art fitness center, where I worked out and swam. I used to jog daily outside, but since the attack, I had cut this down to once or twice a week and only then in the company of another runner I trusted.

      As had become a habit, upon entering the condo, I put my handbag on the antique gray console table, grabbed a bat from the foyer closet, and went from room to room in search of any potential assailant, ready for battle and to protect myself. I felt anxious in looking around every corner and every angle, fearful of what or whom I might come up against. But, as always since moving to the building, there was no one present but myself.

      I sucked in a deep breath, wishing I could have faith in the layers of security in and out of the condo. Maybe I would reach that point in time with God's help. For now, my victimization was too recent to let down my guard, even if I admittedly may have been going overboard in wanting to protect myself.

      After putting away the bat, I kicked off my shoes and went into the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of wine and stepped out onto the balcony. It had a great view of the downtown skyline and Biscayne Bay.

      I thought about my life and what I had accomplished in getting my law degree from the University of Miami School of Law and quickly finding work with a top notch law firm; as well as what I'd had to endure before and after being the victim of a sexual assault.

      Lord, you've been with me every step of the way—even those difficult steps—and I'm eternally grateful to you for that.

      I needed to remind myself of that each day as I lived my life while trying not to allow the ghosts of the past to forever cast a shadow over me. Perhaps Dr. Winchester was the right person to help in getting over the hump that always seemed present, as if to keep me from ever getting too complacent in life.

      CHAPTER TWO

      On Monday at ten a.m., I stood in the courtroom wearing my customary conservative attire of a navy skirt suit and black pumps, and my hair was in a bun. Standing alongside me for his first appearance was my client, Jessy Ibanez. He was thirty, but looked older, with jet black hair that was receding and brown eyes. A black suit seemed ill-fitted for his wiry frame.

      On the other side of the courtroom was forty-year-old Perry MacAlister, the Miami-Dade prosecutor. Formerly a hotshot lawyer at the firm where I work, he stunned everyone six months ago when he turned his back on a successful career in international criminal law and criminal appeals to work for the other side. He claimed it was his calling and had made this stand up in winning most of the cases he took on.

      Perry was six-four with dark hair that grayed at the temples, muscular, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit and black Oxfords. Divorced and the father of two children, we actually dated briefly, but wisely realized we weren't a good fit. Coming six months after the attack, I wasn't really ready to date anyone and he was still hung up on his ex, Linda, fresh off the divorce. To say nothing of the fact that dating a colleague was never a very good idea, even if it seemed to be at the time.

      We acknowledged each other respectfully before turning our attention to Judge Barbara Breckenridge, who was in her fifties with short strawberry blonde hair. She had built a reputation as a no-nonsense judge from the bench.

      Don't keep me waiting, Mr. MacAlister, she spoke tersely, eyeing Perry. On with it.

      He took a step forward, as if pulled to attention, and said in an even tone: Very well, Your Honor. Jessy Ibanez is a clear and present danger to the citizens of Miami. He's been trafficking drugs to every street dealer in the city, turning otherwise law-abiding citizens into junkies and worse. Under those circumstances, it is our belief that bail should be denied.

      Am I going to jail? Jessy whispered in my ear nervously.

      Not if I can help it, I responded calmly, while hoping I could make that stand up.

      Let's hear your side of the story on why Mr. Ibanez should be granted bail, Counselor, the judge said.

      I was prepared for this moment just as I knew Perry had been, as we were both consummate professionals in spite of our history on and off the job. Your Honor, in spite of the prosecution's mischaracterization of my client, he is not responsible for the drug problem we have in Miami. Actually, it's just the opposite. Mr. Ibanez has gone out of his way to try to rid his neighborhood of drugs. As a family man and the successful business owner of a landscaping company, he is totally innocent of the charges and looks forward to his day in court.

      Judge Breckenridge cocked a brow. So I take it you think bail is in order?

      "Your Honor, given the fact that my client has strong ties to the community and is certainly no flight

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