Sandra Brown: Ricochet

She planted her hands on her hips. “You promised.”

He opened his fridge and, without even looking, reached inside and took out a can of beer, popping the top and sucking the foam off the back of his hand. “That was before my incarceration.”

“I’m receiving a commendation.”

“Well deserved. Congratulations. You cracked the widow who cracked her husband over the head with a crowbar. Great instinct, partner. I couldn’t be more proud.” He toasted her with his can of beer, then tipped it toward his mouth.

“You’re missing the point. I don’t want to go to a fancy dinner alone. You’re my escort.”

He laughed, sputtering beer. “It isn’t a cotillion. And since when do you care if you’ve got an escort? In fact, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you use that word.”

“If I don’t have an escort, the bubbas will give me hell. Worley and company will say I couldn’t get a date if my life depended on it. You’re my partner, Duncan. It’s your duty to back me up, and that includes helping me save face with the yahoos I’m forced to work with.”

“Call up that cop in the evidence room. What’s his name? He gets flustered every time he looks at you. He’d escort you.”

She frowned with distaste. “He’s got a moist handshake. I hate that.” Looking thoroughly put out, she said, “It’s a few hours of your time, Duncan.”

“Sorry.”

“You just don’t want to be seen with me.”

“What are you talking about? I’m seen with you all the time.”

“But never in a social setting. Some people there might not know I’m your coworker. Heaven forbid anyone mistake me for your date. Being with a woman who’s short, dumpy, and frizzy might damage your reputation as a stud muffin.”

He set his beer on the countertop, hard. “Now you’ve made me mad. First of all, I don’t have that reputation. Secondly, who says you’re short?”

“Worley called me vertically challenged.”

“Worley’s an asshole. Nor are you dumpy. You’re compactly built. Muscular, because you work out like a fiend. And your hair’s frizzy because you perm the hell out of it.”

“Makes it easy to take care of,” she said defensively. “Keeps it out of my eyes. How’d you know it was permed?”

“Because when you get a fresh one, I can smell it. My mom used to give herself perms at home. Stunk up the whole house for days. Dad begged her to go to the beauty parlor, but she said they charge too much.”

“Salon, Duncan. They’re not called beauty parlors anymore.”

“I know that. Mom doesn’t.”

“Do they know about your jail time?”

“Yeah,” he said with some regret. “I used my one phone call to talk to them because they get nervous if they don’t hear from me every few days. They’re proud of what I do, but they worry. You know how it is.”

“Well, not really,” she said, using the sour tone of voice she used whenever her parents were referenced, even tangentially. “Do your folks know about Savich?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I downplay it.”

“What did they think of their son being in jail?”

“They had to bail me out once when I was in high school. Underage drinking. I caught hell that time. This time, Dad commended me for standing up for what I thought was right. Of course I didn’t tell him that I’d used the f-word to get my point across.”

DeeDee smiled. “You’re lucky they’re so understanding.”

“I know.” In truth, Duncan did know how fortunate he was. DeeDee’s relationship with her parents was strained. Hoping to divert her from that unhappy topic, he said, “Did I tell you that Dad’s gone high-tech? Prepares his sermons on a computer. He has the whole Bible on software and can access any scripture with a keystroke. But not everybody is happy about it. One old-timer in his congregation is convinced that the Internet is the Antichrist.”

She laughed. “He may be right.”

“May be.” He picked up his beer and took another drink.

“Not that I was asked, but I’d love a Diet Coke, please.”

“Sorry.” He opened the fridge and reached inside. Then, with a yelp, yanked back his hand. “Whoa!”

“What?”

“I’ve gotta remember to set my alarm.”

DeeDee pushed him aside and looked into the refrigerator. She made a face, and, like Duncan, recoiled. “What is that?”

“If I were to guess, I’d say it’s Freddy Morris’s tongue.”

DUNCAN WOULD TAKE THE SEVERED TONGUE-NOW SEVERAL months old-to the ME in the morning. For the time being he placed it in an evidence bag and returned it to his refrigerator.

DeeDee was aghast. “You’re not going to leave it in there, are you? With your food?”

“I don’t want it smelling up my house.”

“Are you going to have the place dusted for prints?”

“It wouldn’t do any good and would only make a mess.”

Whoever had been inside his house, either Savich or one of his many errand boys-Duncan guessed the latter-would have been too smart to leave fingerprints. More disturbing than finding the offensive, shriveled piece of tissue was knowing that his house had been violated. In and of itself, the tongue was a prank. Savich’s equivalent to na-na-na-na-na. He was rubbing Duncan’s nose in his defeat.

But the message it sent was no laughing matter. Duncan had detected the underlying threat in Savich’s taunting good-bye, but this wasn’t the retribution that threat foretold. This was only a prelude, a hint of things to come. It broadcast loud and clear that Duncan was vulnerable and that Savich meant business. By coming into Duncan’s home, he’d taken their war to a new level. And only one of them would survive it.

Although he minimized his apprehension with DeeDee, he did not underestimate Savich and the degree of his brutality. When he launched his attack on Duncan, it would be merciless. What worried Duncan most was that he might not see it coming until it was too late.

He’d hoped the incident would relieve him of having to attend the awards dinner with DeeDee. Surely she wouldn’t require him to go now. But she persisted, and ultimately he gave in. He dressed in a dark suit and tie and went with her to one of the major hotels on the river where the event was being held.

Upon entering the ballroom, he took a cursory glance at the crowd and stopped dead in his tracks. “I cannot believe this!” he exclaimed.

Following the direction of his gaze, DeeDee groaned. “I didn’t know he was going to be here, Duncan. I swear.”

Judge Cato Laird, immaculately attired and looking as cool as the drink in his hand, was chatting with police chief Taylor.

“I formally release you from your obligation,” DeeDee said. “If you want to leave, you won’t get an argument from me.”

Duncan’s eyes stayed fixed on the judge. When Laird laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkled handsomely. He looked like a man confident of the rightness of every decision he’d ever made in his entire life, from the choice of his necktie tonight to declaring Savich’s murder trial a mistrial.

Duncan would be damned before he tucked tail and slunk out. “Hell no,” he said to DeeDee. “I wouldn’t pass up this chance to escort you when you’re this gussied up. You’re actually wearing a skirt. First time I’ve ever seen you in one.”

“I swore off them once I graduated from Catholic high school.”

He made a point of looking at her legs. “Better than decent. Fairly good, in fact.”

“You’re full of shit, but thanks.”

Together they wove their way through the crowd, stopping along the way to speak to other policemen and to be introduced to significant others they hadn’t met before. Several mentioned Duncan’s days in jail, the sentiments ranging from anger to sympathy. He responded by joking about it.