Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“Crazy that he was shot here on the bridge,” Duncan said. “It’s brighter than a shopping mall on this damn thing. Anybody passing would have witnessed the shooting.”

“Struck me as strange, too,” Worley said. “I guess it was a crime of passion. Unplanned. The act of a moment. This time of morning, traffic’s light. Whoever plugged him got lucky. Shot him then boogied outta here before the next car came along.

“Of course, anybody driving past could have thought he was just broken down or something. He’s sitting up. No blood visible. It was actually a highway patrolman who found him. He stopped to tell him to get his car moving.” Signs were posted at regular intervals prohibiting standing, stopping, or parking on the bridge.

“You questioned the patrolman?”

Worley nodded. “He said, ‘What you see is what you get.’ ”

“Was the car door closed?”

“It was. Patrolman did a cursory check of the area after calling it in. No one else was around or near the car, he said. He didn’t see anything, and he didn’t touch anything except to open the door and he used a hankie to protect prints.”

Duncan looked at the corpse and noted something else. “Have you ever seen Napoli with a hair out of place?”

“Yeah, looks like there might have been a tussle,” Worley said. “He used that goo, you know, that kept every hair on his head plastered down.”

Napoli ’s hair was still greasy, but it looked like it had been hit by a hurricane-force wind. His necktie was askew. And yet he was sitting perfectly straight behind the wheel, both feet near the pedals.

Worley, never known for his sensitivity, said around a chuckle, “He’d hate having his picture taken looking like this, wouldn’t he?”

“Any other signs of a struggle?” Duncan asked.

“Heel marks over there by the railing. Might or might not be his. We won’t know until we can get his shoes off and compare, but Baker and his crew have roped off the scuff marks to check later, just in case.”

Duncan wasn’t fond of heights. He didn’t get nauseous and dizzy like someone with severe acrophobia, but he kept to the inside lane when driving over high bridges and overpasses, and he never went out of his way to hang suspended or to peer into deep gorges.

But he walked toward the wall of the bridge now, where forensics had placed orange traffic cones and yellow crime scene tape to form a perimeter around an area about fifteen feet square. Avoiding that, he stepped to the wall and looked down at the Savannah River two hundred feet below.

The tide was out, so the river was flowing toward the ocean. At high tide, it flowed in the opposite direction, something that puzzled tourists and newcomers until the phenomenon was explained to them. At the tidal mouth of the river, fresh water mixed with sea-water to form an estuary. The direction of the river current was dependent upon the tide. Because of all the crosscurrents, this stretch of the river, which was used as the shipping channel, was treacherous.

Duncan walked back to the others. “Attempted carjacking?” There had been a rash of them in the city. Often either the victim or the thief wound up dead.

“Here on the bridge where a pedestrian would be immediately suspect?”

“DeeDee’s right, Dunk,” Worley said, “this is something else. This isn’t even Napoli ’s car.” He grinned and shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “That’s why I called y’all. This car is registered to Cato Laird.”

DUNCAN FELT AS IF THE BRIDGE HAD GIVEN WAY BENEATH him and he was falling through thin air. He stared at Worley.

“Did I hear you right?”

“You heard him right,” DeeDee said, grinning. “You owe me a hot fudge sundae.” Then she asked Worley if he’d been in contact with the judge yet.

“No one answered their house phone, but Captain Gerard had the judge’s cell number on account of the Trotter thing. Found him at Silver Tide Country Club, where he was playing poker with some of his legal eagle buddies.”

Duncan had thought it preposterous when Elise had told him about it earlier. Apparently DeeDee thought so, too. “He’s out playing poker the night before his wife is interrogated about a fatal shooting?”

Worley shrugged. “He must be confident of her innocence. Or cocksure of his influence. He was playing ante-up with the DA. Anyhow, he confirmed the car is his, said it’s the one his wife drives.”

Duncan ’s heart had been ranging from a dead stop to full-out ramming speed. He continued to experience the sensation that he was falling.

“Mrs. Laird’s purse was in the passenger seat,” Worley told them. “We’ve bagged it as evidence.”

“Of what?” DeeDee asked.

“Of whatever.”

Duncan needed to sit down. He needed to vomit. But he had to keep it together, had to appear personally detached, interested only insofar as he was a homicide detective and Elise Laird was a key player in a fatal shooting.

Now two.

He managed the language sufficiently to ask Worley if anybody had seen or heard anything of Mrs. Laird.

“Negativo. Last time the judge saw her was between nine thirty and ten. He said she was gonna take a sleeping pill and go to bed.”

But she hadn’t taken a pill and gone to bed. She’d met Duncan. He’d seen her since her husband had, tear tracks on her cheeks, holding her tank top against her breasts, looking ravished.

“Soon as Gerard notified the judge of this,” Worley was saying, gesturing toward the body, “he tried to reach her at home. When he didn’t get an answer, he called the maid, asked her to go to their house, see if the missus was all right. He, the maid, Gerard-who told me all this by phone-converged at the judge’s house. The lady of the manor wasn’t there, and her bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“Cell phone?” DeeDee asked.

“It was still in her purse,” Worley said. “So either she got separated from it before she was called, or she didn’t answer when it was called.” Looking beyond DeeDee and Duncan, he said, “Here’s Dothan.”

As the medical examiner approached, he was breathing heavily from the exertion of walking up the gradual incline from where he’d left his car. Sweat was rolling in wide streams down his fat face. “ Napoli ’s turned up, huh?”

They moved aside and gave him room to inspect the body, although he could barely wedge his bulk into the open car door. “Bullet’s well placed. Probably bled out.”

“Told you,” Worley said, casting DeeDee a smug glance.

“I never said he didn’t.”

“Hard to tell until we move him, but I don’t think there’s an exit wound,” Worley reported. “No blood leaking around the seat behind him.”

“Bullet must’ve ricocheted off a rib in the rear,” the ME observed. “Got the stomach for sure. Could have also hit the liver, spleen, and an artery or two. No telling what all was nicked or busted.”

“His pistol is missing from his ankle holster and there’s no shell casing,” Duncan said.

Brooks took a flashlight from his pocket and directed it toward Napoli ’s bloody hands, then bent down and sniffed both of them.

“Looks like you’re giving him a blow job,” Worley remarked.

“You’re a pimple on a pig’s ass, Worley,” DeeDee said.

The ME ignored them. “Don’t smell gunpowder, so he didn’t shoot himself. Was he in a fight?”

“A struggle of some sort, we think.”

“I’ll bag his hands. He could have tissue underneath his fingernails.”

“That would be a break,” Worley said, “if we could nail Elise Laird with a DNA test.”

“Hey, y’all?”

The shout came from Baker of forensics. He was standing near the wall of the bridge, quite a distance from the car. He motioned toward something on the pavement. Duncan was the first to reach him, but when he saw the object, he stopped suddenly, forcing Worley and DeeDee to eddy around him.