Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“Coleman was not my lover.”

“You never saw him alone, without your husband?”

She faltered. “I didn’t say that.”

“So you did see him alone.”

“Sometimes.”

“Often?”

“Coleman’s schedule was-”

“Often?”

Relenting to his pressure, she nodded. “Whenever our schedules allowed it.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Usually here in Savannah.”

“Where, here in Savannah?”

“Different places.”

“Restaurants? Bars?”

“Coleman tried to avoid public places. Fans wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“So you met in places that afforded you privacy?”

“Yes.”

“Like hotel rooms?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“What did your husband think of these rendezvous in hotel rooms?”

She didn’t respond.

“He didn’t know about them, did he?” Duncan continued. “You didn’t inform him when you were going to meet a popular, good-looking superstar like Coleman Greer in a hotel room, did you? Because he wouldn’t have liked it one bit.”

She shot up from her chair. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

Duncan placed a hand on her shoulder. “You can listen to it here and now, alone, or you can listen to it later with a lawyer and your husband present.”

He could feel her body heat radiating into his hand. Her breathing was rapid and light, agitated. “Coleman and I were friends. Only friends.”

“Who had secret meetings in hotel rooms.”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because nothing you’ve told me is credible.” His eyes speared into hers. “Nothing.”

“I’ve told you the truth.”

“About you and Coleman Greer?”

“About everything.”

“How long did these cozy get-togethers last? One hour? Two? Longer?”

“It varied.”

“Ballpark. No pun intended.”

“An hour or two. Usually no longer.”

“Depending on how long you could sneak away.”

She released a slow breath. “You’re correct about that. Cato didn’t know about these visits with Coleman.”

“Ah.”

“But it wasn’t what you’re thinking. It wasn’t an affair.”

“Hotel rooms are used for two things. One of them is sleeping. I don’t think you met with Coleman Greer to sleep.”

“We talked.”

“Talked.”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“With all your clothes on?”

“Yes!”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe-”

“It’s the truth!”

“-that you were in a hotel room with a man-”

“A friend.”

“-and didn’t get fucked?”

She inhaled a quick breath. She seemed about to speak, then thought better of it. Her lips compressed.

Duncan smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Until she shrugged off his hand, he didn’t realize that it had been clamping her shoulder all this time. “Are you arresting me, Detective Hatcher?”

“Not yet.”

She retrieved her handbag and stormed out.

Her sudden departure left a vacuum in the small room. Duncan, staring at the empty doorway through which she had passed, raked his fingers through his hair and mumbled a stream of swear words. Long moments later, he realized DeeDee was still there, watching him, parallel frown lines between her eyebrows.

He raised his shoulders. “What?”

“What was that all about?”

“What?”

“The…” She sawed her hand back and forth, as though forming a connection between her chest and an invisible point in space. “That thing between the two of you.”

“What thing?”

“Tension. Something. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it was crackling.”

“You’re imagining things. Talking about Coleman Greer naked got your sap running.”

“If you let this woman cloud your judgment, you’re the sap.”

He pounced on that. “Tell me how I exercised poor judgment.”

“By letting her sail out of here.”

“We don’t have anything to justify holding her, DeeDee,” he said, rather too loudly. “Without any evidence, how could I? I wanted to detain her, God knows.”

Before walking out, she fired a parting shot. “Detain? Is that a new word for it?”

For the remainder of the afternoon, DeeDee stayed at her desk, cleaning up paperwork on another case. Duncan stayed at his desk, too, thinking about Elise and wondering if she was an accomplished liar or telling the truth, but ostensibly running his trotlines on Savich.

Going through the motions, he placed a call to his contact at the DEA. “He’s been quiet,” Duncan said. “Makes me nervous.”

He learned from the agent that after getting a tip from an informant, they’d raided one of Savich’s trucks. All they’d found was machinery and the proper shipping invoices that matched the cargo, right down to the correct serial numbers.

Duncan wasn’t surprised. Savich wouldn’t use his company trucks to ship drugs along Interstate 95. While the truck was being stripped down and searched, family vans and nondescript sedans loaded to the gills were headed for the lucrative markets along the eastern seaboard.

He consoled the agent over the failed mission. “I couldn’t get him for Freddy Morris, either.”

“You still dry?”

“As a bone,” Duncan admitted. “Lucille Jones has gone underground, and the DA won’t try the case again without something substantial, like the knife Savich used to cut out Freddy’s tongue. He’d prefer it to still be dripping blood.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“One can dream.”

Duncan ’s frustration matched that of the federal agent. He suspected that Savich was having information fed to him, probably by one of the department’s own paid informants. Although, maybe not. Savich had infallible sensors that had served him well over the course of his criminal career. He may only have sensed Freddy Morris’s betrayal and, taking no chances, acted with dispatch to eliminate him.

Ready to put an end to the unproductive Monday, Duncan left for home early. On his way out, he stopped at DeeDee’s desk. “What’s your gut feeling?”

She didn’t look up. “On?”

“Laird. Do we sign off on it? It was self-defense. Case closed.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“If we could talk to Napoli -”

“But we can’t.”

“And that’s like an itch I can’t scratch,” he said. “The whole Napoli-Trotter-Laird connection.”

“It would be useful to know what Napoli had on Mrs. Laird. How damaging was it?”

He stared out the window for a moment, then said decisively, “Let’s keep working it. Give it a few more days. Maybe Napoli will surface.”

She looked up at him then, her smile bright. “See you tomorrow.”

However, less than an hour later, she called him on his cell phone. “What are you doing?”

“Buying groceries,” he replied.

“Groceries? You don’t cook.”

“So far I’ve got toilet paper and beer.”

“Essentials, for sure.”

Relieved that they were friends again, he asked, “What’s up?”

“We’ve been summoned to appear at the Lairds’ house at eight o’clock.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.”

“What for?”

“I don’t think it’s for dinner.”

“Meet you there.”

At thirty seconds to eight, they met on the walkway leading up to the front door of the stately residence. “Any ideas?” he asked.

“He just said to be here at eight, and here we be.”

“Why’d he call you?”

“I was the one still in the office.” DeeDee punched the doorbell and they heard the chime inside the house. “We probably shouldn’t count on getting a full confession.”

“To what?”