Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“Detective Sergeant Duncan Hatcher, Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department.” The city and county departments had officially merged a year ago. Duncan rarely used the full name. For one thing, it sounded stupid. For another, it was too long. In the time it took you to identify yourself to a felon, you could get killed. He really only used it when he wanted to look like a big shot.

The concierge repeated what he’d said, listened, then asked the baseball player to hold on. “He wants to know in regards to what.”

“Elise Laird and an incident at her house last week.”

Again, he repeated Duncan ’s words into the telephone receiver. After a brief pause, he said, “Mr. Esteban says he doesn’t know an Elise Laird.”

“Coleman Greer’s friend.”

The concierge’s mouth formed a small, round O, then he passed along the message to Esteban. “Of course, Mr. Esteban.” He hung up. “Go right up. The elevator bank is behind this wall.”

“Thanks.”

The elevator was so fast, Duncan ’s ears popped on the express ascent. The doors opened into a sizable foyer. Tony Esteban was waiting for him outside his front door. He was several inches shorter than Duncan, solidly built, and, Duncan knew, had arms that could knock the stitches out of a baseball. He was wearing nothing except a pair of workout shorts and a chunk of gold suspended from a half-inch-wide chain around his neck.

“Hatcher?”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Esteban.”

“Call me Tony,” he said, extending his hand. “Come in.” He spoke with only a trace of a Spanish accent.

“The proverbial glass house,” Duncan remarked as he stepped into the penthouse and took a look around. Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded almost a 360-degree view of the city.

“You like it? Cost a fucking fortune.”

“You make a fucking fortune.”

He grinned the grin that had made him vastly popular with fans and the media. “You want something to drink?” He led Duncan across what seemed to be an acre of sparsely furnished living space to a wet bar. He pushed a concealed button that opened the mirrored doors behind the bar to reveal its stock. “Whatever you like. Scotch, bourbon, a milk shake? I got everything.”

“How about a glass of ice water?”

He looked disappointed, but said okay. Duncan expected him to step behind the bar, so he was surprised when he hollered, “Jenny!”

Within seconds Jenny appeared. All six feet of her, most of it sleek, tanned legs that looked like they’d been airbrushed to perfection. Her hair was the color of a sunset, her breasts were huge, and she was gorgeous. She was wearing a miniskirt, high-heeled sandals, and a tank top no bigger than a slingshot, which left absolutely nothing to the imagination. “Jenny, this is Mr. Hatcher.”

“Hi, Mr. Hatcher.”

Duncan found his voice. “How do you do, Jenny.”

“Fine. Are you in baseball?”

“Uh, no.”

“He’s a cop from Savannah and he’s thirsty. Fix him some ice water. Do me one of those protein shakes.”

“Berries and yogurt?”

“Yeah, all that health stuff.”

She went behind the bar to do his bidding. Esteban motioned Duncan toward one of the low white leather sofas in a grouping of similar pieces. The end tables were hammered metal and glass.

Once they were seated, Esteban asked, “You a baseball fan?”

“Yes.”

“Braves?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He beamed. “You ever play?”

“Some. Mostly football.”

“Pro?”

Duncan smiled and shook his head. “I maxed out in college.”

They filled the time it took Jenny to prepare their drinks talking about sports and the Braves’ season so far. “Show him your ring, honey,” Esteban said to her after she’d served their drinks. She extended her left hand toward Duncan, who praised the diamond, since it seemed that was expected.

“Almost ten carats,” Esteban told him, though he hadn’t asked.

“Wow.” He smiled up at Jenny. “Is it an engagement ring?”

“He proposed in a hot air balloon,” she simpered.

“In Napa,” Esteban added. “One of those wine country things.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“It was,” said Jenny.

“Have you set a date for the wedding?”

“Thanksgiving weekend. It can’t be during the season.”

“Right.”

“Wedding, wedding, wedding is all she talks about. Flowers. Dresses. Shrimp cocktails. All that shit. Go on now, honey.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hatcher. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Esteban affectionately smacked her heart-shaped butt as she strutted away, her heels tapping on the marble floor. As she disappeared through a set of double doors, he said, “She’s something, huh?”

“She’s amazing.”

“I’m crazy about her. Have you ever seen a body like that?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“She had some added to the top. I paid. She wanted them bigger, and I thought, what the hell? The bigger the better, right?”

“That’s always been my motto.” His wryness escaped the other man, who was too egotistical to hear anything except the sound of his own voice.

“She’s a sweet kid. Goes through money like it was water, but it keeps her happy. And she keeps me happy. I’m telling you-and this is no exaggeration.” He leaned in closer. “She could suck your eyeballs out through your dick.”

“Impressive.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He took a drink of his shake and glanced at his wristwatch. “I got practice in an hour. How can I help you?”

“I’m investigating a fatal shooting.”

“Fatal means somebody died, right?”

“Right. It took place last Thursday evening at the home of Judge Cato Laird and his wife, Elise.”

“Yeah, I remember Elise. Now that you reminded me who she is. She’s dead?”

“No.” Duncan filled him in on the facts. He tried to avoid using words with more than five letters. “It seems Elise fired the fatal shot in self-defense. I’m just clearing up a few points.”

“Like what?”

“I understand she had a close personal relationship with Coleman Greer.”

He grimaced with obvious regret. “King Cole, we called him. What a fucking thing to do. You know, they think he’d been dead for a couple days before someone went to his place and checked on him. I heard it was a mess.”

He’d blown the top of his head off. That could be messy, all right.

“What do you know about his relationship with Elise?”

“They went way back. Fuck buddies, you know? When there’s nobody else around to fuck?”

“I’m familiar with the phrase.”

“They were that kind of friends.”

Duncan took a drink of his ice water and tried to look and sound casual. “When did you meet her?”

“He brought her to a Braves party, not long after he signed with the team. Knocked us all for a loop, ’cause she was such a babe and Cole had never said nothing about her. But he was low-key like that. Not a wild party guy.”

“Are you a wild party guy?”

He laughed. “I do my share.”

“Will marriage cramp your style?”

Esteban bobbed his eyebrows. “What happens on the road stays on the road. Know what I mean?”

“Gotcha.”

Esteban held out his fist. Duncan bumped it with his, forming a male pact of silence. “So, King Cole brings Elise to a Braves party and she’s a babe.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” Esteban reached for his shake and took a slurp. “That’s it.”

“Really.”

“Never saw her again and, as I said, Cole didn’t talk about stuff like that. So, I guess that’s all I can tell you.”

Duncan leaned against the stiff leather back of the sofa and propped one ankle on the opposite knee. “Know what Elise told me? She told me that you and Coleman Greer were the fuck buddies, and that you were breaking it off, and that’s why he put the barrels of that shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”