Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“Can I bend your ear for a minute?”

Duncan was eager to get back to examining that last niggling thought he’d written down, but he tossed the legal tablet onto his desk and motioned Kong in. “What’s the Little League team selling this week? Candy bars? Magazine subscriptions?”

Kong gave him a good-natured grin. “Citrus fruit from the valley.”

“What valley?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I’ll hit you up for that later. This is business.” Kong worked missing persons in the special victims unit, or SVU. Sometimes their cases overlapped. He pulled up a chair and straddled it backward, folding his hirsute arms over it. “Anything cooking on Savich since the mistrial?”

“Not even a simmer.”

“Bitch of a turn.”

“Tell me.”

“He never got nailed for those other two…uh…Bonnet, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, and a guy named Chet Rollins before him,” Duncan said tightly.

“Right. Wasn’t ever indicted for those, was he?”

Duncan shook his head.

“I thought you had him for sure this time. Is he gonna get away with doing Freddy Morris, too?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Limp-dick DA,” Kong muttered.

Duncan shrugged. “He says he’s hamstrung till we come up with something solid.”

“Yeah, but still…Feds have anything?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“They still steamed?”

“Oh, yeah. Breaks my heart. They never call, never write.”

Kong chuckled. “Well, anything that I can do to help you nail that son of a bitch Savich…”

“Thanks.” Duncan hitched his chin at the sheet of paper in Kong’s shaggy clutch. “What’s up?”

“Meyer Napoli.”

Duncan guffawed. “You must have been out overturning rocks today.”

Meyer Napoli was well known to the police department. He was a private investigator who specialized in fleecing his clients of huge sums of money by doing practically nothing except making guarantees that he rarely fulfilled.

It wasn’t unlike him to work both ends against the middle. If hired by a wife to get the goods on an unfaithful husband, Napoli was known to go to said husband and, for a fee, promise to return to the wife empty-handed. He also usually consoled the brokenhearted wife in a way that made her feel like a desirable woman again.

“Which rock did you find Napoli under?”

Kong tugged on his earlobe, from which a crop of black bristles sprouted. “Well, that’s the problem. I didn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Napoli’s secretary called us this morning, said Napoli failed to show up at his office for a meeting with a client. She called his house and his cell phone a dozen times apiece, but failed to raise him. That never happens. He stays in touch, she said. Always. No exceptions.

“So she went over to his place to see if he was dead or something. No trace of him. That’s when she called us. She’s been calling every hour since, insisting that something has happened to him. Said he wouldn’t miss a morning of appointments with clients, no matter what. According to her, he never takes a sick day or vacation, and even if he did, he wouldn’t without letting her know.

“She was bugging us so bad, hell, I gave in. I went over to his office and explained that unless there’s evidence of foul play, we don’t consider an adult officially missing unless it’s been twenty-four hours since he was last seen. She said there was nothing at his house to indicate foul play, but something bad must’ve happened to him or else he’d be at work.”

Duncan figured Kong had a good reason for telling him all this, and he wished he’d get to the point. His stomach had reminded him that it was past suppertime. It had been a very long day after a very short night. He was ready to take home some carry-out chicken, crack a beer, maybe play the piano to help him do some free associating about Trotter, specifically what he was doing in the Lairds’ house and why he hadn’t made a dash for it when he was caught.

He also needed to think about Elise Laird’s note, why she’d given it to him, and why he hadn’t shared it with his partner.

Kong was still talking. “I figured Napoli ’s private office would be sacrosanct. Locked down, you know? But his secretary was so flustered, she didn’t notice that I was scanning the paperwork on his desk while she was wringing her hands, wondering where her boss is at.”

At this point, Kong produced the sheet of paper he’d brought in with him. Duncan saw on it a typewritten list of names. “I memorized some of the names I saw on paperwork scattered across Napoli ’s desk,” Kong explained. “Typed up this list soon as I got back to the office so I wouldn’t forget them.

“Frankly, I figure Napoli dived underground to avoid somebody he’s pissed off, either an irate, dissatisfied client or some broad he was banging. But if the scumbag has met with foul play-the secretary’s convinced-I figured these names might come in handy. Gives us places to start looking for him.”

Duncan nodded, indicating that he followed Kong’s reasoning.

“Now, why I bring this up to you…” Kong pointed to a name about midway down the list. “Isn’t this your guy?”

Duncan read the name. Moving slowly, he lowered his feet from his desk, took the sheet from Kong, and read it again. Then in a dry, scratchy voice, he said, “Yeah, that’s my guy.”

“It was scandalous. From meeting to altar took less than three months.”

It was a short drive from the Barracks to Meyer Napoli’s downtown office. DeeDee took advantage of it to share what she’d pieced together about Elise Laird’s background.

“Short courtships aren’t that unusual or scandalous,” Duncan observed.

“Unless a distinguished superior court judge is marrying a cocktail waitress. Riiiiight,” she drawled in response to Duncan ’s sharp look. “Elise worked the bar at Judge Laird’s country club.”

“Which is?”

“Silver Tide, naturally. Anyway, after meeting her, the judge began playing golf every single day, sometimes two rounds, but spent most of his time at the nineteenth hole.”

Duncan parked at the curb in front of the squat, square office building and put a sign in his windshield identifying him as a cop to avoid getting a ticket from one of Savannah ’s infamous meter maids. He opened his car door and got out, hoping to catch a breeze. The air was motionless, suffocating. The sun had set, but heat still radiated up from the sidewalk, baking the soles of his shoes.

“Want to hear the skinny now or later?” DeeDee asked as they approached the door of the office building.

“Now.”

“The judge was a confirmed bachelor who enjoyed casual affairs with widows and divorcées with no intention of getting married. Why share the family wealth? But Elise dazzled him. He fell hard. The gossip is she screwed him silly, got him addicted to her, then refused to sleep with him again unless and until he married her.”

“What the hell’s taking this elevator so long?” While the air-conditioning inside the building was welcome, it did little to improve Duncan ’s crankiness, which he blamed on the sultry heat. He punched the up button on the elevator several times, but heard no grinding of gears indicating movement in the shaft. “Let’s take the stairs. It’s only two flights.”

DeeDee followed him up the aggregate steps. Depressions had been worn into them by decades of foot traffic. This wasn’t prize real estate. A smell of mildew clung to the old walls.

“The judge’s friends and associates were shocked by the engagement,” DeeDee said. “The rock he bought her-have you noticed it?”

“No.”

“A marquise, reputedly six carats. I’d say that’s a conservative estimate.”