Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“We’ve never investigated a case involving a woman that you’re attracted to. And you were attracted to Elise Laird the instant you saw her at the awards dinner. You can’t deny that.”

“She was a pretty face in the crowd.”

“Who you compared to a lightning strike.”

“That was before I knew her name. It was for sure as hell before she shot and killed a man.”

“So your attraction to her died along with Trotter? No lingering groin tugs in that direction?”

He used his thumb to whisk beads of sweat off his forehead. “The lady is poison, DeeDee. Don’t you think I know that?”

Her frown told him that wasn’t exactly a direct answer to her question and that she still needed convincing.

“First of all,” he said, “she’s married.”

“To a man you despise.”

“Irrelevant.”

“I wonder.”

“Irrelevant,” he repeated with emphasis. DeeDee didn’t come back with further argument, but she still looked doubtful. He said, “I’ve had my share of girlfriends and short-term bed partners.”

“An understatement.”

“Name one who was married.”

She stayed silent.

“Exactly,” he said. “I’ve massaged the issue of sexual morality to fit my lifestyle and to satisfy the urge of the moment, but I draw the line at adultery, DeeDee.”

She nodded. “Okay, I believe you. But if she wasn’t married-”

“She’s still a principal in an active investigation.”

DeeDee’s face brightened. “Active. Does that mean we’re not closing the book on it just yet?”

“No,” he said heavily. “Not yet. Like you, I sense there’s something out of joint.”

“It’s her. She’s…what was your fifty-cent word? Disingenuous?”

“The background check you ran on her didn’t produce much, did it?”

She ticked off on her fingers the facts she’d learned about Elise Laird. “She has no arrest record, no outstanding debts, and there was nothing printed about her in the local newspaper before she married Laird. She came out of nowhere.”

“Nobody comes out of nowhere.”

DeeDee thought about it for a moment. “I’ve got a friend with ties to the society set. Often the best source of information is good old-fashioned gossip.”

“Keep the inquiry discreet.”

“I won’t even have to ask for info. Once I mention Elise Laird’s name, I bet I get an earful. This friend thrives on gossip.”

They got out, but as they approached the steps of the entrance, Duncan continued down the sidewalk. DeeDee asked where he was going.

“I’m days overdue calling my folks. I can talk to them easier out here than in the office with all the commotion.”

She went inside. Duncan followed the sidewalk around to the front of the building that faced Oglethorpe Avenue, walked past the black-and-white 1953 squad car that was parked out front like a mascot, and continued on until he reached the middle of the block, where there was a gated entrance to the Colonial Park Cemetery.

A few stalwart tourists braving the afternoon heat were taking pictures, reading the historical plaques, and trying to decipher the inscriptions carved into the grave markers. He made his way to one of the shaded wood benches and sat down, but he didn’t reach for his cell phone to call his parents. Instead he sat there and stared at the leaning headstones and crumbling brick vaults.

He could imagine the ghosts of fallen Revolutionary War heroes staring back at him expectantly, waiting to see what he would do. Would he do what he knew to be right? Or, for the first time in his career, would he violate the dictates of his conscience?

Above the nearby rooftops were the twin spires of St. John the Baptist cathedral, serving as another reminder that to transgress was a matter of choice.

Despite these silent warnings, he reached into his trousers pocket and withdrew the note he’d put there after having it surreptitiously slipped to him by Elise Laird when they shook hands.

He’d felt it immediately, sandwiched between their palms. She’d clasped his hand tightly so the note couldn’t fall to the floor and give her away. Her eyes had begged him not to.

Despite her pleading gaze, he should have acknowledged the note right then. If not immediately, then surely as soon as he and DeeDee were alone. He should have told his partner about it, opened it, read it for the first time along with her.

But he hadn’t.

Now, it seemed as hot as a cinder lying in his palm. He turned it over several times, examining it. The single white sheet had been folded over twice to form a small square. It weighed practically nothing. It looked innocuous enough, but he knew better. No matter what it said, it meant trouble for him.

If it contained information on last night’s shooting, it amounted to evidence, which he was already guilty of withholding.

If it was personal, well, that would be even more compromising.

The first instance would be a legal matter. The second, a moral one.

It wasn’t too late to show it to DeeDee now. He could invent an excuse for not having shown it to her sooner, which she probably wouldn’t believe but would readily accept because she would be so curious to read the contents of the note. They would open it, read it, and together analyze its meaning.

Short of that, and almost as honorable an action, he could destroy it and go to his grave wondering what it had said.

Instead, with damp hands, shortness of breath, and a rapidly beating heart, with the spirits of the nation’s founders watching with stern disapproval, and the church spires pointing heavenward as though bringing his error to God’s attention, he slowly unfolded the note. The words had been written in a neat script.

I must see you alone. Please.

Elise was watching a movie on DVD. It was the film version of a Jane Austen novel. She’d seen it at least a dozen times and could practically quote the dialogue. The costumes and sets were lavish. The cinematography was gorgeous. The tribulations suffered by the heroine were superficial and easily solved. The outcome was happy.

Unlike real life. Which is why she liked the story so well.

“I was right,” Cato announced as he entered the den, where there was a wide-screen TV and her sizable library of DVDs.

She reached for the remote and muted the audio. “About what?”

He sat down beside her on the sofa. “Gary Ray Trotter was never in my courtroom. As soon as the detectives left, I called my office and ordered that the records be searched. Thoroughly. I never presided over the trial of a Gary Ray Trotter.”

“Would you know if he was ever called as a witness in another trial?”

“Determining that would take more man-hours than I’m willing to invest. Besides, I’m almost certain that what I told the detectives is correct. I’d never seen the man before. You said you didn’t recognize him either.”

“I said it because it’s true.”

After a beat, he said, “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, Elise.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so short.”

“You have reason to be.” He kissed her gently. When they pulled apart, she asked if he would like a drink. “I’d love one, thank you.”

She went to the small wet bar, picked up a heavy crystal decanter of scotch, and tilted the spout against a highball glass.

“Do you know Robert Savich?”

Elise nearly dropped the decanter. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Savich. Ever hear of him?”

She redirected her attention to pouring scotch. “Hmm, the name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“It should. He’s in the news now and again. He’s a drug kingpin. Among other things.”

Keeping her expression impassive, she plunked two cubes of ice into his drink, carried it with her back to the sofa, and passed it to him. “I hope it’s to your liking.”