Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“Yeah. Oh.”

“Because I worked topless, I’m automatically a liar, is that it?”

“Not at all. But it doesn’t particularly lend credence to your story, does it. I mean, the judge can look his fill, touch his fill, screw his fill, and he doesn’t have to tip. You’re every man’s wet dream.”

She continued to stare at him for several beats, her hurt and bafflement rapidly turning to anger. “You’re cruel, Detective.”

“I get that a lot. Especially from people who I know are lying to me.”

She turned her back to him and marched toward the door. He crossed the room in three long strides and caught her as she was fumbling with the latch. He grabbed her by the shoulders and brought her around.

“Why’d you come here?”

“I told you!”

“The judge hired Trotter to kill you.”

“Yes!”

“Bullshit! I’ve seen him with you. He can’t keep his hands off you.”

She tried to wrestle herself free of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let her.

“You’re his prized possession, Mrs. Laird. That six-carat marquise diamond on your left hand took you off the market and bought him whirlpool baths and second helpings in bed. And it’s all legal, tied up neat and proper with a marriage license. Now, why would he want you dead?”

She remained silent, glaring up at him.

“Why? If I’m to believe this sob story, I’ve got to hear a motive. Give me one.”

“I can’t!”

“Because there isn’t one.”

“There is, but I can’t risk telling you. Not…not now.”

“Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I might.”

“You haven’t believed anything else.”

“That’s right. I haven’t. Cato Laird has no motive whatsoever to kill you. You, on the other hand, have an excellent motive for coming here and trying to win me to your side.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t want me to learn the truth of what went down that night.”

“I-”

“Who was Trotter to you?”

“No one. I’d never seen him before.”

“Oh, I think you had. I think you knew who was waiting for you in the study, and that’s why instead of calling 911, you armed yourself with a loaded pistol, which, by the way, you knew how to fire with deadly accuracy.”

He lowered his face close to hers and said in a stage whisper, “I’m this close to booking you for murder.” That wasn’t true, but he wanted to see what kind of reaction he would get.

It was drastic. She went very still, very pale, and looked very afraid.

“Well, I see that got your attention,” he said. “Do you want to change your story now?”

She redoubled her efforts to break his hold. “Coming here was a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it was.”

“I was wrong about you. I thought you would believe me.”

“No, what you thought was that if you showed up at my place looking as inviting as an unmade bed, I’d forget all about poor old Gary Ray Trotter. And if one thing led to another and we wound up in the sack, I might drop the investigation of that shooting altogether.”

Furious now, she pushed hard against his chest. “Let go of me.”

He shook her slightly, demanding, “Isn’t that the reason for this secret meeting?”

“No!”

“Then tell me what possible motive Cato Laird could have for wanting to kill you.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I already did!”

She practically flung the words into his face and met his hot gaze with one equally fierce. Neither of them was moving now, except for the rise and fall of her chest against his. He was dangerously aware of that, damnably aware of every point at which they were touching.

“The only reason I came here was in the hope of convincing you that my husband is going to kill me.” Her voice was gruff with emotion, vibrating through her body into his. “And because you don’t believe me, he’ll do it. What’s more, he’ll get away with it.”

“HIS SECOND TEE TIME WAS AT ELEVEN TEN,” DEEDEE SAID AS she tossed several Goldfish into her mouth.

She and Duncan were in the bar of the Silver Tide Country Club. It was crowded on this Saturday afternoon. Ralph Lauren’s summer line was well represented. Duncan felt conspicuous in his sport jacket, but his shoulder holster and nine-millimeter would have made him even more so.

Among the drinkers were local political figures, private-practice physicians, real estate developers who made a killing off snowbirds who migrated by the thousands to the South’s golf course communities each winter, and Stan Adams, the defense attorney who represented a coterie of career criminals, the most notable being Robert Savich. Adams did a double take when DeeDee and Duncan strolled in, then studiously pretended they didn’t exist.

Which was just as well, Duncan thought. In his present mood, he wouldn’t trust his temper if the lawyer had goaded him about his famous client. Although Savich had kept a low profile since the mistrial, not for a moment did Duncan think he was on hiatus from his criminal activity. He was just smart enough to exercise extreme caution till things cooled down.

Duncan also figured that he was plotting the best time and most effective way to strike at him. He knew Savich would. He’d practically promised it that day in the courtroom. It was only a matter of time before he did. Unfortunately, as a law officer, Duncan couldn’t go after Savich without provocation. He had to sit and wait and wonder. That probably tickled Savich no end.

After seeing their badges, the Silver Tide’s bartender had served him and DeeDee their drinks gratis. The bar had a nice ambience-dark wood, potted jungle plants, brass lamps, peppy but unobtrusive music. The lemonade Duncan had ordered was hand squeezed. The air conditioner was sufficient to keep the heat and humidity on the other side of the oversized, tinted windows. The view of the emerald golf course was spectacular. It wasn’t a bad place in which to spend a sweltering afternoon.

Duncan would rather be anywhere else.

DeeDee dusted Goldfish crumbs off her fingers, remarking, “That must be Mrs. Laird’s replacement.”

She nodded toward the attractive young woman who was delivering a tray of drinks to a foursome of middle-aged men. They stopped discussing their golf game long enough to ogle and flirt.

“She and the judge have been married nearly three years,” Duncan said. “Isn’t that what you told me? The club’s probably gone through a dozen or so waitresses since Mrs. Laird worked here.”

DeeDee turned toward the doorway as another group of men wandered in. Cato Laird wasn’t among them. “He played two rounds back to back, starting before seven this morning. If you can believe anybody would voluntarily do that.”

“You’d have to hold a gun to my head.”

“You don’t like golf?”

“Too slow. Too passive. Not enough action.”

“Playing piano isn’t exactly an action sport.”

“I don’t play piano.”

“Right.” She consulted her wristwatch. “The guy at the desk said he should be finishing soon.”

At least Elise hadn’t been lying about her husband’s tee time. She’d said he had an early one.

She’d said a lot of things.

The last thing she’d said was that her husband was going to kill her, and that when he did he would get away with it, and that it would be Duncan ’s fault because he hadn’t believed her.

Then she had squirmed out of his grasp, and with a slam of the front door she was outta there. Her squirming had left him with a doomed erection and respiration more labored than it had been during his five-mile run through the syrupy dawn air. He’d been so angry and frustrated-at her for roping him into her little drama, at himself for allowing her to-he’d actually banged his fist against his front door.