Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“It’s in black and white.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Who’s that?”

She frowned at his ignorance. “Natalie Wood, of course.”

“Huh.” He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. “What’s it about?”

“She and Steve McQueen had a one-night stand, which he barely remembered, but she got pregnant. She tracks him down and asks him to help her get an abortion-the movie was made when abortions were done illegally in back rooms.

“Steve McQueen has to come up with the money to pay for it, which isn’t easy, but he finally does and makes the arrangements. Except when they get to the appointed place-this creepy, cold, empty building-they can’t go through with it.

“She becomes hysterical and starts screaming. He-he’d been waiting out in the hall-barges through the door and yells at the abortionist, ‘If you touch her, I’ll kill you.’ Then he holds her while she’s crying. That’s my favorite scene. That, and the one right after when they’re riding in the backseat of a taxi and he puts his arm around her, and she falls asleep on his chest.”

Duncan stared. “Amazing.”

“It’s a good movie.”

“No, I mean you. How did you remember all that? How many times have you seen it?”

“A dozen or more.” Surprising him, she reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

“Don’t you want to see the ending?”

“It’s a fairy tale. It ends happily.”

“Don’t you believe in happy endings?”

Turning toward him she said, “Do you?”

“I USED TO,” HE SAID. “I’M NOT SURE I DO ANYMORE.”

Despondently she leaned her head against the sofa’s back cushion. “I’m not sure I do anymore, either. I think I was terribly naive, perhaps foolish.” She smiled but it was with self-deprecation. “Maybe I’d watched too many movies. My plan was to marry Cato, so I could find evidence against him, which I could hand over to the authorities. He would be convicted and sent to prison.

“I would have my vengeance for Chet, and Cato’s criminal career would be over. He would no longer be duping the trusting public who vote him into office.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Then I would be able to begin again. Clean slate. Make a fresh start on another life.”

She gave a rueful laugh. “But I didn’t plan on this. I didn’t make a contingency for his catching on before I could expose his crimes.” Looking over at Duncan, she said, “How is this going to end?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ve got no evidence. Nothing except your say-so, and that’s not good enough.”

“I realize that. Besides, I’m officially dead.”

“You will be for sure if either Savich or Laird learns you’re alive. I can’t hide and protect you forever.”

“Chet’s letter?”

He frowned. “Still iffy. Too much room for a good defense attorney to maneuver.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“First I’ve got to know the court cases that Laird threw out for Savich. Case numbers, who the offender was, what he was charged with. That will take some research. Delicate research, because we can’t tip our hand while we’re doing it.

“We also need to locate more sacrificial lambs, like Chet. If we find some who’ve been languishing in prison long enough, growing more bitter by the day, they may be willing to deal with us for a reduced sentence, maybe even for time served. But we’ve tried that tack before.”

“And they die.”

“And they die.” He stood up and began to pace. “You said there was no paperwork, phone records, receipts, canceled checks, bank books.”

She was shaking her head. “There’s a safe in the study, but Cato never gave me the combination to it.”

“We’ll get into the safe if we ever get a search warrant. But we must show probable cause to obtain a warrant. What about his office at the courthouse?”

“He wouldn’t dare keep a record of transactions like that in his office, would he?”

“Doubtful. And again, we’d need a search warrant.” He socked his fist against his open palm. “How does Savich pay him?”

“I would guess Cato has a bank account somewhere out of the country. The Cayman Islands, maybe. We went there on a trip once.”

“You’re probably right, but digging into those records involves the Feds, all kinds of red tape and legal-” He stopped midsentence.

“What?”

“Legal procedures,” he said absently. “I need to think about that some more.”

“Okay, I’ll make dinner. You think.”

He tried, but it was hard for him to concentrate while she moved about the kitchen. He was seated at the table, a tablet in front of him, pen primed to take notes. But he was easily distracted.

Elise reaching for something on the top shelf, lifting her T-shirt and exposing a band of skin.

Elise bending down to get a colander from a lower cabinet.

Elise’s breasts at his eye level as she walked past.

His frustration increased in proportion to his distraction, and it made him angry. Eventually he gave up the pretense of working and set the table. She served dinner. She must have sensed the dark mood that had settled over him because she didn’t initiate conversation. They ate in virtual silence.

Finally she said, “Good shrimp.”

“Fresh off the boat.”

“Would you like more French bread?”

“No, thanks.”

“Salad?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He tossed an empty shrimp shell on the plate in the center of the table now heaped with them, and popped the meat into his mouth. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You’re being awfully quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh.” She ripped a paper towel from the roll he’d brought to the table and cleaned her hands. “I was thinking earlier today.”

“About what?”

“I was thinking that if I’d gone to the police with Chet’s letter as soon as I received it, you and I might have met then.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” He ripped off a paper towel and wiped his mouth. “Instead you got chummy with Savich and made your bed with Cato.”

She looked as though he’d slapped her. But once she’d recovered from her initial hurt, she got angry. “That’s right.”

“Yeah, yeah, you did what you had to do. Used what you had. And we all know what that is. You used it first with Cato Laird, then with me. Probably Savich, too, even though you’ve denied it. That’s a real lucky charm for you. It works every time, doesn’t it?”

She scraped back her chair. “You can be a real bastard.”

He stood up just as quickly. “But at least I’m not a-” He caught himself before he said it, but the unspoken word hung there, trapped in the tension between them.

“Don’t back down now, Duncan. Say it. At least you’re not a whore.”

She picked up her place setting and carried it to the counter, slinging disposables into the trash can, clattering the rest in the sink. He did likewise. They were careful not to touch or even to look at each other.

By the time they finished cleaning up, he was regretting what he’d said. He carefully folded the dish towel, then for ponderous seconds studied the faded stripes woven into the muslin, silently cursing himself for being a son of a bitch and a hypocrite.

Turning to her, he said, “I’m tired. I’m worried. The strain got to me. I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

“Oh yes, you did.”

“Elise.”

She backed away from the hand he extended toward her. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m sick of it. All of it.”

Her expression was the cool, closed mask she’d showed him at the awards dinner. Without animation or excitement for a sentimental, romantic movie. Without hope for a happy ending.