Sandra Brown - Ricochet

Duncan ’s fist connected with Savich’s cheekbone with the impetus of a pile driver. He saw the skin split, saw blood, saw Savich’s grimace of pain. His satisfaction, however, was short-lived. The guards surged forward, joined now by two others. Together the four of them dragged him away from Savich, who had calmly taken a handkerchief from his pocket and was using it to stanch the bleeding cut on his cheekbone.

Duncan didn’t struggle with the guards. He let himself be hauled away. But his eyes speared into Savich’s. “Get ready for me. I’m coming for you.”

Only moments before, Savich had been amused. Now his eyes glittered with malice. He hissed, “I look forward to it.”

THE BARKEEP WIPED LEMON JUICE FROM HIS FINGERS AND cleaned the blade of his knife on a towel. “This rain, can’t say I blame ’em for calling off the search. They’ll probably never find the body now. But I guess that means it’ll forever remain a mystery. Was it murder or suicide?” He tossed aside his towel and leaned on the bar. “What do you think happened?”

Duncan looked up at him with bleary eyes and said hoarsely, “I know what happened.”

Smitty’s barkeep scoffed. “Sure you do, pal. Sure you do.”

Following his altercation with Savich, Duncan had come straight to the tavern. He’d been escorted out of the detention center by the guards, who advised him to go somewhere and cool off before coming back. He didn’t blame them. They’d only been doing their job. He supposed he should be glad that Savich hadn’t pressed charges for assault.

He’d left peacefully and didn’t return, having realized the futility of confronting the jail guards about Gordie Ballew’s suicide. He hadn’t been in the proper state of mind to conduct an inquiry that important. He’d also figured it would be a waste of time. No one working as a mole for Savich was going to give him up. Not with Gordie’s blood still fresh.

He’d sought solace in Smitty’s, where whiskey and heartache were undiluted. Against his will, his eyes gravitated once again to the silent TV set behind the bar. The press conference dragged on. In the words of the barkeep, the body was fish food by now. Why not just sum it up with that? Why not conclude the thing and return to Seinfeld?

The discovery of Elise’s missing sandal had ended all hope that she had survived her plunge from the bridge, whether voluntary or not. Now even the search for her remains had been canceled. End of case. Tomorrow everybody would pick up where they’d left off ten days ago.

Everybody but him.

Suddenly the door was hauled open, admitting a gust of rain and a customer. Standing on the threshold, she pulled the door closed, then turned around. Duncan groaned and reached for his drink.

DeeDee took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, then spotted Duncan at the bar and made her way to it. She shrugged out of her rain slicker and shook water off it. As she sat down on the bar stool next to his, she gave her head a hard shake that flung rainwater off her hair and onto him.

He frowned and made a show of brushing drops off his shirt sleeve. “They have these cool things now, called umbrellas.”

“I left mine in your car this morning.”

“Out for a stroll? You just happened to be passing by and got thirsty?”

“I ran out of options and finally deduced that you might be here.”

“How did you deduce that?”

“You came here only one other time that I know of. The time the murder we were investigating involved a mother and baby who’d been decapitated.”

He saluted her with his glass. “Thanks for the reminder. Just what I needed to cheer me up.”

“On that occasion you told me that this was a good place for getting drunk.” She looked around with distaste. “I guess.” To the barkeeper she said, “Diet Coke.” When he served it, she nodded down at Duncan ’s highball. “How many of those has he had?”

“Let’s just say I’m glad you’re here to drive him home.”

“That many?”

“Go away, DeeDee,” Duncan mumbled.

“Hey, I’m the one with a right to be pissed, not you,” she said angrily. “You haven’t been driving around in the rain for hours looking for you. I have. I went to your house, your gym, everywhere I could think of.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

“Why did you just split like that without telling anybody where you were going? Why didn’t you answer your cell phone?”

“Hint, hint: I didn’t want company tonight.”

“Too bad. You’ve got it.” She unwrapped a straw, stuck it in her Coke, drew hard on it.

“If you’re hoping to lift my spirits and make me feel better about things, you’re wasting your time,” he said. “No matter what, I’m not going to feel better.”

“Then why are you bothering to get tanked?”

“Because I fucking want to,” he snapped.

DeeDee maintained eye contact for several beats, then looked up at the television where Chief Taylor was still silently waxing poetic. He was flanked at the podium by Bill Gerard and Cato Laird.

“You heard that the recovery mission was officially canceled?”

He nodded.

“That was decided after the judge and Gerard talked to Chief Taylor. Those pictures of Mrs. Laird and Savich sort of changed the complexion of the situation.” She paused to allow Duncan to comment. He didn’t, only continued to stare morosely into his highball. “The judge won’t be saying anything or answering any questions tonight, but he insisted on being present at the press conference when the announcement was made.

“They, uh, they also agreed not to publicly address Mrs. Laird’s connection to Savich unless and until they’re forced. Which isn’t right, but it’s certainly…cleaner. For everyone.” DeeDee took another pull on her straw. Still Duncan said nothing. After a time, she asked, “Have you eaten today?”

He shook his head.

“You should eat something.”

“I should eat. I should get some sleep. I should refocus on other cases. I get it, DeeDee,” he said testily. “God knows you’ve harped on me enough the last several days. Stop mothering me. Get out of here. Go home. Leave me alone.”

She was hurt by his rejection of her help and concern. It also made her angry. “What is it with you these days? Where is this coming from? Tell me, Duncan. Is it about her?” She looked at him with consternation. “It is, isn’t it? She got to you, didn’t she? I mean really got to you. From the very start.”

He planted his elbows on the bar and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands, curling his fingers up into his disheveled hair. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “She got to me from the very start.”

She had sensed this coming from the night of Gary Ray Trotter’s fatal shooting. Or maybe Duncan had been doomed the first time he saw Elise Laird at the awards dinner. Gordie Ballew’s sad fate had been the proverbial last straw, but the judge’s deceitful wife was at the crux of her partner’s misery. Once his path had crossed Elise Laird’s, his slide into this pit seemed inevitable.

“I’ll have a refill,” he said, sliding his glass toward the bartender.

“ Duncan -”

“I asked you nicely to leave me alone.”

“What happened, happened, Duncan. There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“Wrong. I can get drunk.”

DeeDee threw up her hands. “Okay, fine.” She motioned the bartender to pour him another shot.

She noticed that the press conference had ended. An anchor-woman now appeared to be solemnly summarizing the story. Then the screen returned to Seinfeld. They watched the muted TV for several moments, then he said, “She begged for my help.”