Ricochet (15 page)

She continued to stare at him for several beats, her hurt and bafflement rapidly turning to anger. “You’re cruel, Detective.”

“I get that a lot. Especially from people who I know are lying to me.”

She turned her back to him and marched toward the door. He crossed the room in three long strides and caught her as she was fumbling with the latch. He grabbed her by the shoulders and brought her around.

“Why’d you come here?”

“I told you!”

“The judge hired Trotter to kill you.”

“Yes!”

“Bullshit! I’ve seen him with you. He can’t keep his hands off you.”

She tried to wrestle herself free of his grasp, but he wouldn’t let her.

“You’re his prized possession, Mrs. Laird. That six-carat marquise diamond on your left hand took you off the market and bought him whirlpool baths and second helpings in bed. And it’s all legal, tied up neat and proper with a marriage license. Now, why would he want you dead?”

She remained silent, glaring up at him.

“
Why
? If I’m to believe this sob story, I’ve got to hear a motive. Give me one.”

“I can’t!”

“Because there isn’t one.”

“There is, but I can’t risk telling you. Not… not now.”

“Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I might.”

“You haven’t believed anything else.”

“That’s right. I haven’t. Cato Laird has no motive whatsoever to kill you. You, on the other hand, have an excellent motive for coming here and trying to win me to your side.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t want me to learn the truth of what went down that night.”

“I—”

“Who was Trotter to you?”

“No one. I’d never seen him before.”

“Oh, I think you had. I think you knew who was waiting for you in the study, and that’s why instead of calling 911, you armed yourself with a loaded pistol, which, by the way, you knew how to fire with deadly accuracy.”

He lowered his face close to hers and said in a stage whisper, “I’m this close to booking you for murder.” That wasn’t true, but he wanted to see what kind of reaction he would get.

It was drastic. She went very still, very pale, and looked very afraid.

“Well, I see that got your attention,” he said. “Do you want to change your story now?”

She redoubled her efforts to break his hold. “Coming here was a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it was.”

“I was wrong about you. I thought you would believe me.”

“No, what you thought was that if you showed up at my place looking as inviting as an unmade bed, I’d forget all about poor old Gary Ray Trotter. And if one thing led to another and we wound up in the sack, I might drop the investigation of that shooting altogether.”

Furious now, she pushed hard against his chest. “Let go of me.”

He shook her slightly, demanding, “Isn’t that the reason for this secret meeting?”

“No!”

“Then tell me what possible motive Cato Laird could have for wanting to kill you.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I already did!”

She practically flung the words into his face and met his hot gaze with one equally fierce. Neither of them was moving now, except for the rise and fall of her chest against his. He was dangerously aware of that, damnably aware of every point at which they were touching.

“The only reason I came here was in the hope of convincing you that my husband is going to kill me.” Her voice was gruff with emotion, vibrating through her body into his. “And because you don’t believe me, he’ll do it. What’s more, he’ll get away with it.”

“H
IS SECOND TEE TIME WAS AT ELEVEN TEN,”
D
EE
D
EE SAID AS
she tossed several Goldfish into her mouth.

She and Duncan were in the bar of the Silver Tide Country Club. It was crowded on this Saturday afternoon. Ralph Lauren’s summer line was well represented. Duncan felt conspicuous in his sport jacket, but his shoulder holster and nine-millimeter would have made him even more so.

Among the drinkers were local political figures, private-practice physicians, real estate developers who made a killing off snowbirds who migrated by the thousands to the South’s golf course communities each winter, and Stan Adams, the defense attorney who represented a coterie of career criminals, the most notable being Robert Savich. Adams did a double take when DeeDee and Duncan strolled in, then studiously pretended they didn’t exist.

Which was just as well, Duncan thought. In his present mood, he wouldn’t trust his temper if the lawyer had goaded him about his famous client. Although Savich had kept a low profile since the mistrial, not for a moment did Duncan think he was on hiatus from his criminal activity. He was just smart enough to exercise extreme caution till things cooled down.

Duncan also figured that he was plotting the best time and most effective way to strike at him. He knew Savich would. He’d practically promised it that day in the courtroom. It was only a matter of time before he did. Unfortunately, as a law officer, Duncan couldn’t go after Savich without provocation. He had to sit and wait and wonder. That probably tickled Savich no end.

After seeing their badges, the Silver Tide’s bartender had served him and DeeDee their drinks gratis. The bar had a nice ambience — dark wood, potted jungle plants, brass lamps, peppy but unobtrusive music. The lemonade Duncan had ordered was hand squeezed. The air conditioner was sufficient to keep the heat and humidity on the other side of the oversized, tinted windows. The view of the emerald golf course was spectacular. It wasn’t a bad place in which to spend a sweltering afternoon.

Duncan would rather be anywhere else.

DeeDee dusted Goldfish crumbs off her fingers, remarking, “That must be Mrs. Laird’s replacement.”

She nodded toward the attractive young woman who was delivering a tray of drinks to a foursome of middle-aged men. They stopped discussing their golf game long enough to ogle and flirt.

“She and the judge have been married nearly three years,” Duncan said. “Isn’t that what you told me? The club’s probably gone through a dozen or so waitresses since Mrs. Laird worked here.”

DeeDee turned toward the doorway as another group of men wandered in. Cato Laird wasn’t among them. “He played two rounds back to back, starting before seven this morning. If you can believe anybody would voluntarily do that.”

“You’d have to hold a gun to my head.”

“You don’t like golf?”

“Too slow. Too passive. Not enough action.”

“Playing piano isn’t exactly an action sport.”

“I don’t play piano.”

“Right.” She consulted her wristwatch. “The guy at the desk said he should be finishing soon.”

At least Elise hadn’t been lying about her husband’s tee time. She’d said he had an early one.

She’d said a lot of things.

The last thing she’d said was that her husband was going to kill her, and that when he did he would get away with it, and that it would be Duncan’s fault because he hadn’t believed her.

Then she had squirmed out of his grasp, and with a slam of the front door she was outta there. Her squirming had left him with a doomed erection and respiration more labored than it had been during his five-mile run through the syrupy dawn air. He’d been so angry and frustrated — at her for roping him into her little drama, at himself for allowing her to — he’d actually banged his fist against his front door.

It still hurt. He flexed and contracted his fingers now in an attempt to ease the throbbing ache.

After that burst of temper, he’d gulped a two-liter bottle of water while standing in a cold shower, which had reduced his sweating and deflated his hopeful but disappointed dick. Then he’d called DeeDee as promised.

She had arrived at his town house at the appointed time, bringing with her a selection of breakfast muffins and two cups of carry-out coffee, because, as she said, “Yours sucks.”

She had a plan mapped out for the day. Grouchily, he had reminded her that he was the senior member of the team, the men
tor
. “You’re the men
tee
.”

“You want to pull rank, fine. What do you think we should do?”

“I think we should confront the judge with what we learned last night. I’m anxious to see his reaction.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“That’s why I agreed to let you be my partner. You’re smart.” Rummaging in the carry-out sack, he frowned. “Didn’t you get any blueberry?”

He kept up the familiar, squabbling repartee on purpose, because all the while they were in the town house, he’d been afraid that DeeDee would sense that Elise had been there. The moment he’d admitted his partner through the front door, he’d expected her to stop in her tracks and say, “Has Elise Laird been here?” Because to him, the essence of her was that powerful and pervasive. He could feel it, smell it, taste it.

Halfway through his second muffin, he suggested that DeeDee call the Silver Tide Country Club.

“How come?”

“It’s Saturday. I have a hunch the judge is playing golf.”

DeeDee’s call to the club confirmed what Elise had told him. DeeDee was informed that the judge was playing his second round. Their plan was to be waiting for him when he finished, catch him relaxed and unaware, spring on him what they’d learned last night, and gauge his reaction.

They’d been waiting now for more than half an hour. Duncan was about to order another lemonade for lack of anything better to do when the bartender approached them. “The front desk just called, said to tell y’all Judge Laird is having lunch on the terrace.”

He pointed them through a pair of French doors at one end of the bar that opened onto a loggia. At least that’s what the bartender called the open-air walkway enshrouded by leafy wisteria vine. “It’ll lead you straight to the dining terrace.”

“I hope it’s shaded,” Duncan muttered.

The tables set up on the terrace were indeed shaded by white umbrellas as large as parachutes, trimmed in braided cotton fringe. Each table had a pot of vibrant pink geraniums in its center. The judge was seated at one, a cloth napkin folded over his linen trousers, a glass of what looked like scotch at his place setting.

He stood up as they approached. They’d been notified that he was on the terrace, but he’d also been notified that the detectives had been waiting on him in the bar. He wasn’t surprised to see them, but he didn’t appear to be particularly perturbed either.

Of course, he had an audience. Duncan was aware of curious glances cast at them by other diners as the judge shook hands with him and DeeDee in turn and offered them seats at the table.

“I’m about to have lunch. I hope you’ll join me.”

“No, thank you,” DeeDee said. “We had a late breakfast.”

“A drink at least.” He signaled a waiter, who hastened over. DeeDee ordered a Diet Coke. Duncan switched to iced tea.

“How was your game? Games?” DeeDee amended herself, giving the judge her best smile. The women around her were in sun-dresses and halter tops, showing off well-tended tans and pedicured toenails. If she was self-conscious of her dark, tailored suit and sensible walking shoes, she gave no outward sign of it. Duncan admired her for that.

The judge modestly admitted to an eighty on the first round, an eighty-four on the second. While she was commending him, he noticed Duncan whisking a bead of sweat off his forehead.

“I realize it’s warm out here, Detective Hatcher.” He smiled apologetically. “I defer to my wife, who sometimes gets cold in air-conditioning. She prefers the terrace to the sixty-degree thermostat inside.”

Duncan was about to point out the obvious — that his wife wasn’t there — when he experienced a sinking sensation in his gut that coincided with the judge’s brightening smile. “There she is now.”

He stood up, tossed his napkin onto the table, and went to meet Elise as she followed a hostess toward the table. Cato Laird embraced her. She removed her sunglasses to return his hug, and over her husband’s shoulder she spotted Duncan, standing beside his chair at the table, not even realizing that he’d stood up.

Her eyes widened fractionally, but they shifted away from him so quickly that he thought he might have imagined it. As soon as the judge released her, she replaced her dark glasses.

She was dressed in dazzling white, as though to color-coordinate herself with the umbrellas. It was a simple, sleeveless blouse and a loose skirt. The outfit was tasteful. Correct. Unrevealing.

So why did his mind immediately venture to what was underneath?

He felt like he’d just sustained a kick in the balls. For the second time that morning, the unexpected appearance of Elise Laird had left him feeling untethered, which was an alien emotion for him.

Up till now, his involvements with women were dependent on his mood, his level of interest, and time available. The women’s interest was usually guaranteed. He never took undue advantage of his appeal, and had even managed to remain friendly with most of his former girlfriends. On the rare occasion that his interest wasn’t reciprocated, he took it in stride and didn’t look back. No woman had ever broken his heart.

He’d proposed marriage only once: to a childhood friend with whom he remained very close. The catalyst had been the celebration of his thirty-fifth birthday. He pointed out to his friend that they weren’t getting any younger, that both of them had remained single for a reason, and that maybe the reason was that they should be married to each other. He took her “Are you
nuts
?” as a no, and came to realize what she already knew. They loved each other dearly, but they weren’t in love.

He’d had more women than some men. Much fewer than others. But
never
a principal in an investigation. And
never
a married woman. Elise Laird was both. Which made this uncommonly strong attraction to her not only unfortunate but absolutely forbidden.

Tell that to his tingling sensors.

The judge escorted her to the table and held her chair. He sat down and replaced his napkin in his lap, then secured his wife’s hand, holding it clasped between both of his. “I called Elise and asked if she would like to join me for lunch. I thought it would be good for her to get out.” He smiled at her affectionately.