Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“Duncan?”

“Yeah?”

“I just realized something.”

He was afraid DeeDee would say something like, I just realized that you’re sporting a boner for the judge’s wife.

But what she said was, “I just realized that we’re not treating this shooting like it was self-defense. We’re investigating it as something else, aren’t we?”

He almost wished she’d said the other thing.

He called the ME from his car and prevailed upon him to put Gary Ray Trotter at the head of the line. Dr. Dothan Brooks had already opened up the cadaver by the time Duncan arrived.

“So far, all his organs are normal size and weight,” Dothan said over his shoulder as he placed a hunk of tissue on the scale.

Duncan took up a position against the wall, listening and watching as the ME methodically went about his work. He glanced at the cadaver only occasionally. He wasn’t particularly squeamish. In fact, he was fascinated by the information a cadaver could impart.

But his fascination made him feel guilty. He felt like he was no better than people who rushed to the scene of a tragedy in the perverse hope of glimpsing strewn body parts and blood.

The ME finished and turned the human shell over to his assistant to close. After he had washed up, Dothan joined Duncan, who was waiting for him in his office.

“Cause of death was obvious,” he said as he huffed in. “His heart was pulp. Exit wound bigger than a salad plate.”

“Before I got here, did you see any other wounds, bruises, scratches?”

“Was he in a fight, you mean? Struggle of some sort?” He shook his head. “Nothing under his fingernails except your common dirt, and there was gunpowder residue on his right hand. He had a broken toe on his left foot, long time ago. No surgical scars. He hadn’t been circumcised.”

“From how far away would you say he was shot?” Duncan asked.

“Fifteen feet, give or take.”

“About the distance between the door of the study and the desk.” He remembered that DeeDee had measured it at sixteen feet. “So Mrs. Laird was telling the truth.”

“About that.” Dothan unwrapped the corned beef sandwich that had been waiting for him on his desk. “Early lunch. Want half?”

“No, thanks. Do you think Mrs. Laird was lying about something else?”

Brooks took a huge bite, but blotted mustard from the corners of his lips with surprising daintiness. He chewed, swallowed, belched, then said, “Possibly. Maybe not. There’s the question of who fired first.”

“You said Trotter died instantly. Meaning he would have had to shoot first.”

“Then you’ve got to believe he was blind-he wasn’t-or the worst marksman in the history of crime.”

“Maybe he deliberately aimed high. He was only trying to frighten her with a warning shot.”

“Could be,” Dothan said, nodding in time to his chewing. “Or maybe she startled him when she appeared in the doorway. Trotter had a knee-jerk reaction, fired a wild shot.”

“She didn’t startle him. She said she told him to leave. He just stood there, looking at her, then jerked his arm up-that’s the word she used-and fired.”

“Hmm.” The ME talked around a big bite of sandwich. “Then I suppose he was extremely nervous, which would account for his aim being nowhere near her. Another possibility”-he paused to slurp Dr Pepper from a paper cup the size of a small wastebasket-“is that he was in the act of firing when her bullet struck him. His finger reflexively contracted and completed the action that pulled the trigger as he was falling backward.” He swallowed. “Now that I think on it, the angle would be right for where the bullet struck the wall.”

He acted it out, pretending to fall backward, his index finger serving as the barrel of a pretend pistol. As he went back, his aim moved to a spot high on the wall, far above Duncan’s head.

“Could that happen?” Duncan asked. “A reflex like that at the moment your heart is blown to hell?”

Brooks crammed the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth. “I’ve seen fatal bullet wounds with even more bizarre explanations. You wouldn’t believe how far-fetched.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that anything can happen, Detective. But lucky for me, it’s your job to find out what actually did.”

“I’ve put them in the sunroom, Mrs. Laird.”

“That’s fine.”

Mrs. Berry had come upstairs to inform her that the same detectives who’d been at the house the night before were downstairs and had asked to see her. “Could you please bring in some refreshments? Diet Coke and iced tea.”

The formidable housekeeper nodded. “Shall I tell them you’ll be right down?”

“Please.”

Elise shut the bedroom door, then stood there, wondering what questions the detectives would be asking today.

Hadn’t they believed her last night?

If they had, they wouldn’t be back today, would they?

Loose ends, Detective Hatcher had said. The term could cover any number of inconsequential nagging details. Or it could be an understatement for discrepancies of major importance.

She feared the latter.

That’s what had prompted her to go see Savich this morning. It had been risky, but she’d wanted to contact him as soon as possible, and using the telephone could have been even chancier than driving to his place of business. She didn’t trust that the home telephone would not be tapped, and cell phone calls could be traced.

Cato had got up at his normal time and quietly dressed for work. She’d pretended to be asleep until he left the bedroom. Then, as soon as his car had cleared the driveway, she had dressed quickly and left the house, hoping to complete the errand and return home before Mrs. Berry arrived for the day.

Keeping a watchful eye in the rearview mirror, she’d been confident that no one had followed her. Despite her haste, she had heeded the speed limits, not wanting to be stopped for a traffic ticket that she would have to explain to Cato.

She had returned home only minutes ahead of the housekeeper and had remained in her bedroom ever since, pacing, playing over in her mind the events of the previous night, trying to decide what her next course of action should be.

Detective Bowen and Duncan Hatcher were waiting for her downstairs. She dreaded the interview, but further delay would look suspicious. She went to her dressing table, gathered her hair into a ponytail, considered changing clothes, then decided not to take the time. She picked up a tube of lip gloss, but changed her mind about that, too. Detective Bowen would find fault with her vanity, and Duncan Hatcher…

What did he think of her? she wondered. Really think of her.

She deliberated that for several precious moments, then, before she could talk herself out of it, did one thing more before leaving the bedroom.

The sunroom was a glass-enclosed portion of the terrace, floored in Pennsylvania bluestone, furnished with wicker pieces that had floral print cushions. Mrs. Berry was better with plants than with people. Ferns and palms and other potted tropicals flourished under her care.

When Elise entered the room, DeeDee Bowen was seated in one of the chairs facing the door. Duncan was standing at the wall of windows looking out over the terrace and swimming pool, seemingly captivated by the fountain at the center of it.

Detective Bowen stood up. “Hello, Mrs. Laird. We apologize for showing up unannounced. Is this an inconvenient time?”

“Not at all.”

Upon hearing her name, Duncan turned away from the window. Elise glanced at him, then came into the room and joined Detective Bowen in the sitting area.

“Mrs. Berry will be here shortly with something to drink,” she said, motioning Detective Bowen back into her chair, then sat down in one facing it.