Pier Pressure by Dorothy Francis Page B

probably make the call for me, but that’d place Jude in an in-the-know position. No way.
    “Is the gun registered in your name?”
    “It is.”
    “What kind of a gun is it?”
    “It’s a .32 caliber pistol.”
    “When did you purchase this gun?”
    “About four years ago. I’m not sure of the exact date, but I have that information in my office on Duval.”
    “Where did you buy this gun?”
    “At a pawn shop in the Winn-Dixie Plaza on Big Pine Key.”
    “Why did you buy the gun?”
    “For protection.”
    “Did anyone help you with this transaction?”
    “Yes. Nikko Fotopoulos, a retired police officer. He taught me gun safety rules, and he also taught me to shoot on a practice range in Key West.”
    “Miss Moreno, the gun you have described for us, the gun you admit to owning, that gun is the weapon that we found in Margaux Ashford’s hand this morning.”
    Somehow I didn’t think they were lying to me now.

Nine
    DETECTIVE CURRY’S WORDS stunned me. I couldn’t get my breath. My lungs felt as if someone had tightened a steel band around them—a band that grew tighter by the second. This man who’d pretended to be my friend had led me into a trap with his questioning. No, that was wrong. He’d never said anything about friendship. That thinking had formed in my own mind because I’d allowed it to. He had merely signed up for a reflexology treatment. That made us business acquaintances, not friends. There’s a big difference.
    My face, which had burned only seconds ago, now felt like an icy mask. Never in my life had I ever fainted, but my head began to swim. Detective Winslow rushed to my side to hold me upright on the chair while Detective Curry brought me a Dixie cup of water. The room stabilized and I drank the water before I said anything.
    “My statement concerning the death weapon startled you?” Curry asked.
    I took a slow, deep breath that helped me regain some of my composure. “It startled me because it’s a lie. It can’t be true.”
    “How can you be so sure?” Curry asked.
    “Because my gun’s in the bottom of my desk drawer on Duval Street. You can check it out. It’s there, right where I said it is.”
    “Then you won’t object to coming along with us to your office and showing us the gun?”
    “Of course not.” This time I felt in charge of the situation and I stood, ready to accompany them to Duval Street. “You were very quick to verify my alleged ownership of that gun.”
    “It wasn’t a long process this time,” Detective Curry said. “Sometimes when the police find what they believe is a murder weapon they have to spend precious time determining who owned it. Your gun held an engraved number. It was purchased in the state of Florida. It took only a few minutes to make sure that you were the legal registered owner. Of course there’s the possibility that someone else had possession of the gun at the time of the murder. And we’ll have to determine for sure that the bullet that killed Margaux Ashford came from your gun. Before we place anyone under arrest, we’ll have to determine who fired the gun. Those things will take longer. I told you this was informal questioning. We’re merely trying to be sure that the gun found in Margaux Ashford’s right hand is your gun. We appreciate your cooperation.”
    Detective Curry’s words left me to consider how a gun registered to me, a gun I knew was in my desk drawer, could be connected with Margaux’s murder. Again I rode in front while Detective Winslow sat directly behind me. Did she carry a gun? I supposed that she did, that all detectives carried guns. I wondered if she hated that part of being a detective or if she reveled in it. Traffic moved more quickly now and when we reached my office, we found a parking place within the block. Gram had closed her shop, but I could sense her watching from an upstairs window. Not much happened on our end of Duval that escaped Gram’s ever-watchful eye.
    I unlocked the