Sandra Brown: Ricochet

Savannah, Georgia, not only has some of the best food and most beautiful scenery in the continental United States, its people are the nicest. Among them are Major Everett Regan of the Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department, who gave of his valuable time to answer myriad questions. Ellen Winters went out of her way to assist me when I was relying strictly on “the kindness of strangers.” Without the help of these professionals, getting the necessary details would have been much more difficult.

I’m also indebted to Cindy Moore, to whom Southern hospitality isn’t just a catchphrase. She exemplifies it, and then goes above and beyond. Thank you, friend, for opening doors.

And, for exploring with me every square, every street, toting camera gear and risking life and limb to take requested photographs, without complaining-too much-of the heat and humidity…thank you, Michael.

Sandra Brown

THE RECOVERY MISSION WAS CALLED OFF AT 6:56 P.M.

The grim announcement was made by Chief of Police Clarence Taylor during a locally televised press conference.

His somber expression was in keeping with his buzz haircut and military bearing. “The police department, along with all the other agencies involved, devoted countless hours to the search in hope of a rescue. Short of that, a recovery.

“However, since the exhaustive efforts of law enforcement officers, the Coast Guard, and civilian volunteers haven’t produced any encouraging evidence in several days, we’ve come to the sad conclusion that to continue an organized search would be futile.”

The lone drinker at the bar, watching the snowy TV screen mounted in the corner, tossed back the whiskey remaining in his glass and motioned the barkeep for a refill.

The barkeep held the open bottle poised above the highball glass. “You sure? You’re hitting it pretty hard, pal.”

“Just pour.”

“Have you got a ride home?”

The question was met with a menacing glare. The barkeep shrugged and poured. “Your funeral.”

No, not mine.

Off the beaten path in a low-rent area of downtown Savannah, Smitty’s attracted neither tourists nor respectable locals. It wasn’t the kind of watering hole one came to seeking fun and frivolity. It didn’t take part in the city’s infamous pub crawl on St. Patrick’s Day. Pastel drinks with cute names weren’t served.

The potables were ordered straight up. You might or might not get a lemon twist like the ones the barkeep was mindlessly peeling as he watched the television news bulletin that had preempted a Seinfeld rerun.

On the TV screen, Chief Taylor was commending the tireless efforts of the sheriff’s office, canine unit, marine patrol and dive team, on and on, blah, blah, blah.

“Mute that, will you?”

At the request of his customer, the barkeep reached for the remote control and silenced the TV. “He’s dancing around it ’cause he has to. But if you cut through all the B.S., what he’s saying is, the body’s fish food by now.”

The drinker propped both elbows on the bar, hunched his shoulders, and watched the amber liquor sloshing in his glass as he slid it back and forth between his hands across the polished wood surface.

“Ten days after going into the river?” The barkeep shook his head with pessimism. “No way a person could survive. Still, it’s a hell of a sad thing. Especially for the family. I mean, never knowing the fate of your loved one?” He reached for another lemon. “I’d hate to think of somebody I loved, dead or alive, being in the river or out there in the ocean, in this mess.”

He used his chin to motion toward the bar’s single window. It was wide, but only about eighteen inches deep, situated high on the wall, much closer to the ceiling than to the floor, providing a limited view of the outside if one cared to look. It allowed only a slash of semi-light to relieve the oppressive gloom in the bar, and gave only a slim promise of hope to the hopeless inside.

A ponderous rain had been soaking the Low Country of Georgia and South Carolina for the last forty-eight hours. Unrelenting rain. Torrents of water falling straight down out of opaque clouds.

At times the rainfall had been so heavy that you couldn’t see across the river to the opposite bank. Low-lying areas had become lakes. Roads had been closed due to flooding. Gutters roiled with currents as swift as white-water rapids.

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?”

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

Six Weeks Earlier

THE MURDER TRIAL OF ROBERT SAVICH WAS IN ITS FOURTH DAY.

Homicide detective Duncan Hatcher was wondering what the hell was going on.

As soon as court had reconvened after the lunch break, the defendant’s attorney, Stan Adams, had asked the judge for a private meeting. Judge Laird, as perplexed by the request as ADA Mike Nelson, had nonetheless granted it and the three had withdrawn to chambers. The jury had retired to the jury room, leaving only the spectators to question the significance of this unexpected conference.

They’d been out for half an hour. Duncan ’s anxiety grew with each passing minute. He’d wanted the trial to proceed without a blip, without any hitch that could result in an easy appeal or, God forbid, an overturned verdict. That’s why this behind-closed-doors powwow was making him so nervous.

His impatience eventually drove him out into the corridor, where he paced, but never out of earshot of the courtroom. From this fourth-floor vantage point, he watched a pair of tugs guide a merchant ship along the channel toward the ocean. Then, unable to stand the suspense, he returned to his seat in the courtroom.

“ Duncan, for heaven’s sake, sit still! You’re squirming like a two-year-old.” To pass the time, his partner detective, DeeDee Bowen, was working a crossword puzzle.

“What could they be talking about in there?”

“Plea bargain? Manslaughter, maybe?”

“Get real,” he said. “Savich wouldn’t admit to a parking violation, much less a hit.”

“What’s a seven-letter word for surrender?” DeeDee asked.

“Abdicate.”

She looked at him with annoyance. “How’d you come up with that so fast?”

“I’m a genius.”

She tried the word. “Not this time. ‘Abdicate’ doesn’t fit. Besides, that’s eight letters.”

“Then I don’t know.”

The defendant, Robert Savich, was seated at the defense table looking way too complacent for a man on trial for murder, and much too confident to allay Duncan ’s anxiety. As though feeling Duncan ’s stare on the back of his neck, Savich turned and smiled at him. His fingers continued to idly drum the arms of his chair as though keeping time to a catchy tune only he could hear. His legs were casually crossed. He was a portrait of composure.

To anyone who didn’t know him, Robert Savich looked like a respectable businessman with a slightly rebellious flair for fashion. For court today he was dressed in a suit of conservative gray, but the slim tailoring of it was distinctly European. His shirt was pale blue, his necktie lavender. His signature ponytail was sleek and glossy. A multicarat diamond glittered from his earlobe.