Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“What were you looking for?”

“Any scrap of evidence. But months of marriage to him turned into years. I was beginning to despair that there wasn’t any evidence to be found. I wanted so badly for it to be over, I guess I got careless in my haste. Cato was becoming suspicious. He tried to hide it, but for months, I’d had the feeling that he was on to me, that somehow he knew what I was doing.

“The thought of it terrified me. He and Savich would be ruthless against anyone who exposed them. I didn’t want to die. More importantly, I didn’t want to fail. But I sensed that I was running out of time. When Trotter appeared, I knew that Cato had struck preemptively.”

“What did Trotter say to you?”

“You knew I lied about that, didn’t you?”

“I knew.”

“Trotter looked at me, startled, and said, ‘They didn’t tell me you were beautiful.’ ” She paused. The statement resonated in the close confines of the car. “When he said that, I knew he was no burglar. ‘They’ had sent him to kill me.”

“Poor Gary Ray. You would’ve looked like a vision to him. Blond and beautiful in your nightie. I’m sure he was asking himself why your husband wanted to kill you.”

“Just as you did,” she reminded him gently.

“Just as I did.”

“You were right to doubt me, Duncan. On the surface my life looked perfect. I was living the Cinderella story. But inside that house, when I was alone with him, I could scarcely breathe. I had to endure his touch, and I hated it. Hated him.”

Duncan couldn’t endure the thought of Cato touching her either, so he redirected his thoughts. “Afraid of what you knew, or suspected, Cato hired Napoli to kill you. But Napoli subcontracted the job to Trotter, who bungled it.”

“Cato expected me to die that night in the study, leaving him to continue his lucrative partnership with Savich, worry-free.”

Duncan thoughtfully tugged on his lower lip. “One thing doesn’t gel with me. Savich. What did he think when you married his partner in crime? Didn’t he suspect something fishy?”

“He would have, but I made my own preemptive strike. When I started seeing Cato, I went to Savich and asked him, as a favor, to do a background check.”

“What?” he asked on a laugh. “On Cato?”

She laughed, too. “I asked Savich to learn what he could about the judge’s history. Were there ex-wives, children, legitimate or otherwise? Health records, financial statements, tax returns, things like that.”

“Making it appear you knew nothing about the man.”

“Exactly. By doing that, Savich didn’t suspect that I knew about their arrangement. And to assure he wouldn’t become suspicious, from time to time I’d ask him for a favor.”

“Such as?”

“I would ask him to check out a woman that Cato had been particularly friendly toward. Was he seeing someone behind my back? I’d ask him to investigate a company that Cato was investing in. Was it reputable? Was the investment legal? Stuff like that.”

She paused, then said, “I made my last request of him the morning after Trotter was shot. I went to his office and asked him to nose around, see if there was any talk in the criminal community of the judge having hired someone to kill me. I wanted to see what his reaction would be. He didn’t blink.”

Duncan was thinking that either she was very brave, or her relationship with Savich was friendlier than she wanted him to believe. He remarked on her courage.

“I wasn’t brave, Duncan. I was desperate. I knew Savich would call Cato the moment I left his office. I hoped that by learning of my suspicion, Cato would be disinclined to try again soon to have me killed.”

“You’ve seen Savich since that meeting, Elise,” he said, carefully gauging her expression. “At the White Tie and Tails.”

“That’s right. The day we were all at the country club. You refused to believe me. I thought…I was afraid that you were betraying me to Cato.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know that now. I didn’t then. I went back to Savich to ask if he’d heard anything. Were my fears justified? He placated me, assured me that he’d heard nothing on the street except that my husband adored me and would rather die himself than to have one hair on my head harmed.”

“Dismissing you.”

“More or less, because he knew Napoli would take care of me soon.” She asked, “How did you know about my meeting with Savich?”

He told her about Gordie Ballew. “I found out about his so-called jail suicide right after the judge produced the incriminating photos of you and Savich.”

She shook her head with misapprehension. “You mentioned photos last night. What photos?”

He explained them, but she still appeared perplexed. “I suppose when Napoli was following me for Cato, trying to catch me with Coleman, he stumbled upon me with Savich.”

“Bet he peed his pants. Pictures of you with Savich would be more valuable to your husband than any shots of you and the baseball player. Those photos of you and Savich were Napoli ’s trump card.”

“By the time he played it, he was dead.”

“True. They didn’t serve him too well, but they served Cato’s purpose. He used them to convince us, the police, that you were a lying, conniving female, possibly in bed with a noted criminal, killer of two men, and that when you realized the jig was up, you jumped off the bridge. He had us believing it.”

“You included?”

“Me especially.”

She gave him a long look, then said huskily, “Is that why you were crying last night? Because you thought I was dead?”

He didn’t want to go there. Not right now. “Do you still have the letter your brother wrote you from prison?”

“In a safe deposit box in a bank in our hometown. I placed it there before I moved to Savannah. I’m the only signatory.”

“Good to know.” He reached across her, opened the glove box, and took out a pair of sunglasses. “One of the stems is bent, but put them on.”

“Nobody’s looking for Elise Laird anymore.”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

When they got inside the store, he gave her some cash. “I realize it’s not as much as you’re used to spending.”

She frowned at him as she accepted the cash. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back. What are you going to do while I’m shopping?”

“Sit over there in the snack bar, have a strawberry pop, and start planning how we’re going to nail these bastards.”

She got a cart and left him to do her shopping. He claimed one of the booths in the snack bar and sat there sipping a fizzy strawberry drink, while entertaining fantasies of Savich and Cato Laird being led away in chains on their way to the rack. Whatever the hell a rack was.

But he also took out his cell phone and called DeeDee.

“Hey!” DeeDee exclaimed, obviously glad to hear from him. “I didn’t expect you to call today.”

“How’re things?”

“My hair’s frizzy. Worley’s a cretin. You know, the usual.”

“The other things.”

“Did you happen to catch Judge Laird’s press conference this morning?”

“Must’ve slept through it,” he lied.

“The man’s a wreck.”

The son of a bitch had fooled even DeeDee, the most perceptive individual Duncan knew.

“We’re tidying up all that. Dothan made a positive ID with Mrs. Laird’s dental records, then performed the autopsy. She drowned. And get this, she did drugs.”

“No way.”

“Yep. If she was moonlighting for Savich, she also sampled the goods. Dothan found traces of several controlled substances, but they didn’t kill her, so he’s released the body for burial, no word on when or where yet.”

“Anything new on Savich?”