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?“The detective?”
?“Yes, Ms. Homes and I both write novels that feature Holmes and Watson.”
?“So she’s your competitor?” Elvis growled from where he stood.
?I took a deep breath. “I don’t have a competitor. I don’t write anymore.” I felt my temper rise. “That part of my life is over.”
?DeStadler met my eyes. “Do you own a firearm, Mr. Watkins?”
?I wondered where this line of questioning was going.
?“Yes, I do,” I affirmed. “In fact, I possess a carry permit.”
?“Now, why does a writer have a carry permit?” Elvis challenged.
?I guessed that he was supposed to be the “bad cop.”
?“I didn’t always make a living off of writing,” I explained. “I needed a job that gave me time to write and offered a good salary. I became a security guard. I found I could make more if I was trained with a firearm. I got certified and still maintain my carry permit.”
?“So, it’s still active?” DeStadler coaxed as he thumbed through his notebook.
?“That permit was hard to get and expensive. I’ve kept paying the yearly fees, and I go to the range now and then to keep up my skills.”
?He looked at his notebook. “And do you still own a nine millimeter Beretta 92S semiautomatic?”
?“Yes, I do,” I affirmed.
?“What kind of condition is it in?”
?“Good,” I claimed. “I take it out, clean, and oil it every few months.”
?“Where is it now?”
?“In my condo, in my bedroom,” I said and rattled off my address.
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?He nodded and wrote it down. “Do you know, when you applied for your permit, that you were fingerprinted, and that your prints were put in a national database?”
?“I know I was fingerprinted.” I gave a shrug.
?DeStadler nodded again. Then, casually, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a plastic bag emblazoned with the words “EVIDENCE” on it. He placed the bag on the table and looked up at me.
?In the bag was a curved Calabash pipe.
?Just like the one I had last night!
?I believe I must have gone pale as my shock was profound.
?“You recognize this pipe, Mr. Watkins?” DeStadler queried.
?“We found that at the murder scene,” Elvis added with a smirk.
?“We were able to get fingerprints off it,” DeStadler hinted. “Do you know whose?”
?“I had a pipe like that. It was loaned to me.” I could feel sweat on my brow. “I used it at my speech last night.”
?“Well, this pipe has two sets of prints: Mr. Lawrence’s and yours.”
