Sandra Brown: Ricochet

When they were spotted by the police chief, Taylor excused himself from the group he was speaking with and approached them to extend his congratulations to DeeDee for the commendation she was to receive later that evening. While she was thanking him, someone addressed Duncan from behind.

Turning, he came face-to-face with Cato Laird, whose countenance was as guileless as that of the lead soprano in his dad’s church choir. Reflexively Duncan’s jaw clenched, but he replied with a civil, “Judge Laird.”

“Detective. I hope there are no hard feelings.” He extended his right hand.

Duncan clasped it. “For the jail time? I have only myself to blame for that.”

“What about the mistrial?”

Duncan glanced beyond the judge’s shoulder. Although DeeDee was being introduced to the mayor, who was enthusiastically pumping her hand, she was keeping a nervous eye on him and Laird. Duncan felt like telling the judge in the most explicit terms what he thought of his ruling and where he could shove his gavel.

But this was DeeDee’s night. He would hold his temper. He would even refrain from telling the judge about the unpleasant surprise he’d had waiting in his home upon his return.

His eyes reconnected with the judge’s dark gaze. “You know as well as I do that Savich is guilty of the Morris hit, so I’m certain you share my misgivings about releasing him.” He paused to let that soak in. “But I’m equally certain that, under the circumstances, you ruled according to the law and your own conscience.”

Judge Laird gave a slight nod. “I’m glad you appreciate the complexities involved.”

“Well, I had forty-eight hours to contemplate them.” He grinned, but if the judge had any perception at all, he would have realized that it wasn’t a friendly expression. “Please excuse me. My partner is signaling for me to rejoin her.”

“Of course. Enjoy the evening.”

The judge stepped aside and Duncan brushed past him.

“What did he say?” DeeDee asked out the side of her mouth as Duncan took her arm and guided her toward the bar.

“He told me to enjoy the evening. Which I think includes having a drink.”

He elbowed them through the crowd to the bar, ordered a bourbon and water for himself and a Diet Coke for her. Another detective in their division sidled up to them, awkwardly holding a drink in one hand and balancing a plate piled with hors d’oeuvres in the other.

“Hey, Dunk,” he said around a mouthful of crab dip, “introduce me to your new squeeze.”

“Eat shit and die, Worley,” she said.

“What do you know? She sounds just like Detective Bowen!”

Worley was a good detective but one of the “yahoos” that DeeDee had referred to earlier. Never without a toothpick in his mouth, he held one there now, even as he ate from his plate of canapés. He and DeeDee had an ongoing contest to see who could better insult the other. The score was usually tied.

“Lay off, Worley,” Duncan said. “DeeDee is an honoree tonight. Behave.”

DeeDee was always in cop mode. Having worked with her for two years, Duncan thought that was possibly the only mode she operated in. Even tonight, despite the skirt and the lip gloss she’d smeared on for the occasion, she was thinking like a cop. “Tell Worley what we found in your house.”

Duncan described the severed tongue. He indicated a chunk of meat on Worley’s plate. “Looked sorta like that.”

“Jeez.” Worley shuddered. “How do you know Morris was the rightful owner?”

“Just a guess, but a pretty good one, don’t you think? I’ll take it to the lab tomorrow.”

“Savich is pricking with you.”

“He’s a regular comedian, all right.”

“But coming at you where you live…” Worley rearranged his toothpick and popped the questionable chunk of meat into his mouth. “That’s ballsy. So, Dunk, you spooked?”

“He’d be stupid not to be a little spooked,” DeeDee said, answering for him. “Right, Duncan?”

“I guess,” he replied absently. He was wondering if, when the final showdown came, he would be able to kill Savich without compunction. He supposed he could, because he knew with certainty that Savich wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

In an effort to lighten the mood, Worley said, “Honest, DeeDee, you look sorta hot tonight.”

“Little good it’ll do you.”

“If I get drunk enough, you might even start to look like a woman.”

DeeDee didn’t miss a beat. “Sadly, I could never get drunk enough for you to start looking like a man.”

This was familiar office banter. The men in the Violent Crimes Unit gave DeeDee hell, but they all respected her skill, dedication, and ambition, all of which she had in surplus. When the situation called for it, the teasing stopped, and her opinions were respected equally with those of her male counterparts, sometimes more. “Women’s intuition” was no longer just a catchphrase. Because of DeeDee’s perception, they’d come to believe in it.

Knowing she could fend for herself without his help, Duncan turned away and let his gaze rove over the crowd.

Later, he remembered it was her hair that had first called her to his attention.

She was standing directly beneath one of the directional lights recessed into the ceiling thirty feet above her. It acted like a spotlight, making her hair look almost white, marking her as though she were the only blonde in the crowd.

It was in a simple style that bordered on severity-pulled back into a small knot at the nape of her neck-but it defined the perfect shape of her head and showed off the graceful length of her neck. He was admiring that pale nape when a nondescript woman who’d been blocking his view of the rest of her moved away. He saw her back. All of it. Tantalizing square inches of bare skin from her neck to her waist, even slightly below.

He didn’t know jewelry could be worn on that part of the body, but there it was, a clasp made of what looked like diamonds winking at him from the small of her back. He imagined the stones would be warm from her skin.

Just from looking at her, his skin had turned warm.

Someone moved up behind her, said something. She turned, and Duncan got his first look at her face. Later, he thought that maybe his jaw had actually dropped.

“Dunk?” Worley nudged his arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I asked you how jail was.”

“Oh, just peachy.”

The other detective leaned toward him and leered. “You have to fight off any cell mates looking for romance?”

“No, they were all pining for you, Worley.”

DeeDee laughed so suddenly, she snorted. “Good one, Duncan.”

He turned away again, but the blonde had moved from the spot where he’d seen her. Impatiently his gaze scanned the crowd, until he located her again. She was talking to a distinguished-looking older couple and sipping a glass of white wine with seeming uninterest in both it and the conversation. She was smiling politely, but her eyes had a distant quality, like she wasn’t quite connected to what was going on around her.

“You’re drooling.” DeeDee had moved up beside him and followed his stare to the woman. “Honestly, Duncan,” she said with exasperation. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Can’t help it. I’ve fallen into instant lust.”

“Rein it in.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Don’t want to, you mean.”

“Right, don’t want to. I didn’t know that getting struck by lightning could feel so good.”

“Lightning?”

“Oh yeah. And then some.”

DeeDee critically looked the woman over and shrugged. “She’s okay, I guess. If you’re into tall, thin, perfect hair, and flawless skin.”

“To say nothing of her face.”