Sandra Brown - Ricochet

Cato didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned by the direction she took. He would have expected them to go toward either his home or the police station. Rather, they were going toward the river.

Within blocks of the courthouse, the trendy eateries and shops of the Market Square area gave way to run-down project housing, warehouses, and failed industries, most of them vacated and derelict. Boulevards narrowed into rutted streets lined on both sides with chain link fences topped by concertina wire. The car jounced over railroad tracks.

On their left the Talmadge Bridge loomed large. Beyond it was the Georgia Port Authority’s sprawling complex. Cato knew there were armed guards at those gates, but little good they could do him at this distance.

No one spoke until Hatcher said, “Here.”

Detective Bowen pulled the car to the side of the street and stopped, but left the engine idling.

The judge looked at their surroundings, then turned toward Hatcher beside him. “Very effective.”

“You think so?”

“Deserted. Laden with menace and implied threat.”

He wasn’t so much afraid as irritated. For all his bullying, Hatcher wasn’t going to harm him. But how dare he think he could get away with subjecting Judge Cato Laird to such roughhousing. The detective wasn’t only brash, he was also a fool.

In any case, it was time to turn the tables. He gave Hatcher a knowing smile. “Tell me. Assuage my curiosity. Did you fuck my wife? Or did you just want to?”

It was amusing to watch the detective’s features tighten and nearly solidify. Cato laughed softly. “Don’t castigate yourself too harshly, Detective Hatcher. Elise had that effect on most every man she met. Even a decorated officer of the law like yourself wasn’t immune to her charms. You’re not at all unique. And you’re not nearly as tough as you pretend to be.”

He didn’t see it coming. Hatcher moved with such speed that he didn’t realize what had happened until the blinding pain shot up from his groin and he heard himself scream.

“Is that tough enough for you?” Hatcher asked as he cruelly twisted the fist that was tightly squeezing the judge’s testicles.

In spite of himself, the agony brought tears to his eyes and he actually whimpered.

“Let me tell you what makes me both tough and unique, Judge,” Hatcher whispered, so close the judge could feel his hot, angry breath on his face. “I’m the guy that’s gonna rip off your balls right now if you don’t cooperate with us.”

From a distance, drifting toward him through a red fog of agony, he heard Detective Bowen say, “Duncan, don’t-”

“Shut up, DeeDee!” he barked. “I told you I was going to do this my way.”

“But you can’t-”

“I can. I am.” His grip tightened, gave another twist.

“What do you want?” Cato didn’t recognize the thin voice as his own.

Gradually Hatcher’s fist relaxed and then he let go. “Now that I have your undivided attention, you’ll do well to listen.”

Cato, trying to catch his breath and will away the pain, glanced toward the front seat. Detective Bowen was watching them with obvious anxiety. She didn’t agree with her partner’s tactics, but she wasn’t going to cross him by interfering.

“We think you’re dirty, Judge.”

“What?” He looked back at Hatcher, too quickly, he guessed by the smile that appeared on the detective’s face.

“We know you’re a crook, we just don’t yet know the extent of your criminal activity. And you know what? I don’t even care.”

Cato’s breathing had almost returned to normal, but, all the same, he thought it best to keep quiet.

“I’ve got nothing on you,” Hatcher said. “But I’ve finally got something on Savich, and it’s him I really want.”

The judge looked from him to DeeDee, then back to Hatcher. “We all want Savich.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. Because tomorrow he’ll be arraigned for doing Napoli.”

“Meyer Napoli?” Even if the judge said so himself, his exclamation of surprise sounded genuine.

“Oh, right. I forgot to mention that,” Hatcher said. “We’ve had an eyewitness come forward who saw Savich pop Napoli on the Talmadge Bridge.”

“You’re serious?” He addressed the question to Hatcher, then looked at his partner for confirmation.

She said, “Very serious, Judge. The witness also saw Napoli push Mrs. Laird over the wall into the river.”

“So Elise didn’t…didn’t jump? She didn’t end her own life?”

“It appears not,” DeeDee replied.

He ducked his head and dropped his voice to an emotional huskiness that also sounded authentic. “That’s good…good to know.”

“Savich came along just after Napoli did his dirty work for him,” DeeDee continued. “Apparently Napoli was blackmailing Savich with those photos of him and Mrs. Laird, same as he was blackmailing her and planned to blackmail you. Savich killed him.”

“And when the son of a bitch is brought into your courtroom tomorrow for his bond hearing,” Hatcher said, “you’d damn well better be in a hanging mood. That hearing should set the tone for his murder trial. Or we’re going to start looking for a reason why not.”

“I don’t understand why you felt it necessary to stage this…” He motioned out the window at the daunting surroundings. “Whatever this is.”

“Because I wanted to make it clear to you that I’m tired of being jerked around by the justice system-i.e., by you,” Hatcher said. “The last time we had Savich in your court, you let him walk.”

“I was compelled by-”

“Save it, Your Honor. But remember the conviction in your voice just now. That’s good. Very…judicial-sounding. Tomorrow, you deny Savich bond. He goes to jail and he stays in jail until his trial. You arrange it to preside over his trial, and you don’t give him or his lawyer Stan Adams a single break. Not on jury selection, not on any motions they may file, not on bathroom breaks. Nothing goes their way. Do we understand each other?”

“You’ve got no problem,” Cato returned smoothly.

“Actually we do,” DeeDee said, shooting a worried glance toward Hatcher. “Our eyewitness isn’t the most credible-”

“Credible enough.” Hatcher’s terseness effectively silenced her. “We have an eyewitness. We can nail Savich if for once you favor us instead of that murdering bastard. I don’t want a mistrial, not even if the jurors are reading the newspaper and watching a live broadcast of the trial on their cell phones while sitting in the jury box.

“I’m not going to be satisfied with anything other than a conviction and a sentence that will put him away for the rest of his life. I’ll leave whether or not he gets the death penalty to the jurors.”

The judge divided a look between them, ending on Hatcher. Although he despised the man, he felt like kissing him. The blustering idiot didn’t realize he was solving Cato’s problem: how to end his partnership with Savich without fearing retribution.

He’d recently come to the conclusion that their arrangement had run its course. He’d made a fortune off it, more money than he could ever spend, although he would have a happy retirement trying.

Not that money was the reason he’d entered into the agreement. The initial allure had been the thrill of the secrecy, the danger of getting caught. He’d loved having an ongoing flirtation with disaster.

But it had become almost too easy. The excitement had waned. Their partnership was a vulnerability no longer worth the risks. But to end it would have placed his life in peril. Savich ended partnerships, his partners didn’t.

Savich would be imprisoned for life, if not executed. If he called foul and began telling tales about crooked judges, who would listen? All men on death row had a gripe and a grudge, and nobody paid any attention to them, especially when the gripes were aimed at the judges who’d sentenced them.