Sandra Brown - Ricochet

The judge looked toward one of the many TV cameras focused on him, realizing that Savich was out there, watching him. “Hello, from TV land,” Savich said, enjoying himself immensely.

“Thank you for the call,” the judge said for the camera, then turned his back to it.

“I assume the cadaver met with your approval?”

“Yes. She was perfect in every regard.”

Savich laughed. “With a fortuitously placed birthmark.”

“That certainly helped at this critical time.”

“Glad to be of service, Judge. You’ll find her dental records in your mailbox at home, labeled with your wife’s name, of course. How fortunate for us that we have such a harmonious quid pro quo relationship. You needed a body.”

“Yes. Detective Hatcher is an extremely thorough investigator.”

“And Elise was proving to be a nuisance even in death. She wouldn’t surface. Luckily I had a stand-in waiting in the wings, a woman who needed killing as much as Elise.”

“I’ve always relied on your willingness to help, as well as your seemingly endless supply of resources.”

Savich chuckled. “Happy to oblige.” He saw Laird glance uneasily toward Chief Taylor, who discreetly tapped his wristwatch.

The judge said, “I so appreciate your call, but they’re ready to get under way here. I really must run.”

“Do not hang up on me, Cato.” Savich saw the judge’s shoulders tense at his imperious tone.

“I wouldn’t think of it, except that I’m pressed for time,” he said tightly.

“ Napoli had only seconds to call me from the backseat of Elise’s car when she returned to it. But everything went according to plan. I was to pick him up on the Talmadge Bridge. Until I arrived, he would pretend to be a stranded motorist with a broken-down car.” He chuckled. “When I arrived, he looked a sight. He told me your dearly departed put up an admirable struggle before he sent her over the wall.”

“I didn’t realize that you’d spoken with him.”

“Briefly. Very briefly. Before I killed him, I wanted assurance that the problem of your wife had been taken care of once and for all.”

“Thank you again for that attention to detail. I’ll be certain to return the favor.”

“I’ll be certain that you do. However, I didn’t kill Napoli strictly as a favor to you, Cato.” He paused, subtly alerting the judge that the tenor of the conversation was about to shift. Finally he said, “Your hired gun Napoli mailed me a set of those interesting photographs.”

There followed a telling silence broken only by Laird’s rapid breathing. “I can explain those.”

“No explanation necessary, Cato. It’s clear that those pictures of Elise and me were to be used if ever you felt like double-crossing me.”

“Not at all, not at all,” he said hastily and in an undertone. “Please have no worry about that.”

“I’m not worried,” Savich said smoothly. “Our partnership remains as solid as ever. You and I don’t have a problem. As long as Napoli was telling the truth, that is.”

“The truth about-?”

“Elise’s death. It wouldn’t have been out of character for Meyer Napoli to go to his maker with a lie on his lips. She may not be dead at all.”

“Not possible.”

“Don’t be a fool, Cato. Anything’s possible.”

DUNCAN CREPT OUT OF THE HOUSE, LEAVING HER ASLEEP. HE was taking a chance that she would skip out while he was gone, but he didn’t believe she would, and if she did, she couldn’t get far.

When he returned, she was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, wrapped in a quilt he remembered from his childhood, watching the small TV that had belonged to his grandmother.

Arms loaded with sacks of groceries, he pushed his way through the door and nudged it closed with his elbow. Elise glanced up at him and nodded toward the TV. “Cato.”

He delivered the groceries to the kitchen then joined her to watch the televised press conference. He wondered how Judge Laird had pulled off the gaunt, ravaged visage of a mourner. Had he been fasting for several days so his neck would look scrawny poking out of his collar? The dark circles around his eyes could either be cosmetics, or he simply hadn’t allowed himself to sleep much since her disappearance.

Whatever he’d done to prepare for the part, he’d done it well. If you went strictly on appearance, you’d say this guy was shattered over his wife’s death, that his bereavement was so extreme, it was unlikely he would ever recover.

The script was spot-on, too. No doubt well rehearsed. As Laird completed one thought and segued into another, he raised his head and squinted into the television lights-a first. Always before he’d been very comfortable in their glare.

“Despite my personal tragedy…” He paused to cover his mouth with his fist and clear his throat. “Despite my personal tragedy, I’ve been overwhelmed by the support of friends, colleagues, and, indeed, strangers. I wish to acknowledge the tireless efforts of the Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department, the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office, the U.S. Coast Guard, the many men and-”

With an angry motion, Elise turned off the TV and tossed the remote aside, then bounded off the sofa and began to pace. “You missed the best part,” she said. “About how my life was cut tragically short. Often misunderstood, I was another candle in the wind.”

“He said that?”

“Quoted the lyrics.” She retrieved the quilt from the floor where it had fallen when she stood up and pulled it around her. “He’ll play the sorrowful widower to the hilt, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. He’s-”

“Are you hungry?”

She broke off the tirade, looked at Duncan, and nodded.

“Because I’m starved. All that,” he said, motioning toward the TV, “can wait till after we’re fed.”

He was anxious to hear everything she had to tell him. On the other hand, he dreaded it, because it would mean dredging up everything they’d left behind in Savannah last night. “Can you cook?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I can’t. I’ll make the coffee, but don’t expect it to pass any taste tests.” He went into the kitchen and began removing the grocery items from the bags.

“I’ll be right back.”

She scurried into the bedroom and closed the door, presumably to dress. Duncan would just as soon have her stay in his boxers and T-shirt. From the glimpse he’d had, she looked good in them. Great, in fact. And he fancied the thought of cloth that had been worn against his skin now rubbing against hers.

He was scooping coffee into the paper filter when she returned wearing the shapeless jeans and shirt she’d had on last night. “How much water did you use?” she asked.

“Eight cups’ worth.”

“Then that’s enough coffee.” She surveyed the staples he’d bought and nodded with approval. “This will work. Mixing bowls? Pots and pans?”

In fifteen minutes they were seated across from each other at his grandmother’s table, eating scrambled eggs that he declared were the best he’d ever had.

She laughed. “You’re just hungry.” When she realized that he was holding his fork poised above his plate and staring at her, she said, “What? Have I got food on my face?”

“No. It’s just…that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh.”

Her smile relaxed. “I haven’t had much to laugh about.”

He nodded, but let the subject drop there, and dug back into his breakfast. “No kidding, this is good. My grits always look and taste like wet cement.”

“You can’t cook at all?”

“Nope.”

“Who normally cooks your breakfast?”