Ricochet (4 page)

“He told me to enjoy the evening. Which I think includes having a drink.”

He elbowed them through the crowd to the bar, ordered a bourbon and water for himself and a Diet Coke for her. Another detective in their division sidled up to them, awkwardly holding a drink in one hand and balancing a plate piled with hors d’oeuvres in the other.

“Hey, Dunk,” he said around a mouthful of crab dip, “introduce me to your new squeeze.”

“Eat shit and die, Worley,” she said.

“What do you know? She sounds just like Detective Bowen!”

Worley was a good detective but one of the “yahoos” that DeeDee had referred to earlier. Never without a toothpick in his mouth, he held one there now, even as he ate from his plate of canapés. He and DeeDee had an ongoing contest to see who could better insult the other. The score was usually tied.

“Lay off, Worley,” Duncan said. “DeeDee is an honoree tonight. Behave.”

DeeDee was always in cop mode. Having worked with her for two years, Duncan thought that was possibly the only mode she operated in. Even tonight, despite the skirt and the lip gloss she’d smeared on for the occasion, she was thinking like a cop. “Tell Worley what we found in your house.”

Duncan described the severed tongue. He indicated a chunk of meat on Worley’s plate. “Looked sorta like that.”

“Jeez.” Worley shuddered. “How do you know Morris was the rightful owner?”

“Just a guess, but a pretty good one, don’t you think? I’ll take it to the lab tomorrow.”

“Savich is pricking with you.”

“He’s a regular comedian, all right.”

“But coming at you where you live…” Worley rearranged his toothpick and popped the questionable chunk of meat into his mouth. “That’s ballsy. So, Dunk, you spooked?”

“He’d be stupid not to be a little spooked,” DeeDee said, answering for him. “Right, Duncan?”

“I guess,” he replied absently. He was wondering if, when the final showdown came, he would be able to kill Savich without compunction. He supposed he could, because he knew with certainty that Savich wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

In an effort to lighten the mood, Worley said, “Honest, DeeDee, you look sorta hot tonight.”

“Little good it’ll do you.”

“If I get drunk enough, you might even start to look like a woman.”

DeeDee didn’t miss a beat. “Sadly, I could never get drunk enough for you to start looking like a man.”

This was familiar office banter. The men in the Violent Crimes Unit gave DeeDee hell, but they all respected her skill, dedication, and ambition, all of which she had in surplus. When the situation called for it, the teasing stopped, and her opinions were respected equally with those of her male counterparts, sometimes more. “Women’s intuition” was no longer just a catchphrase. Because of DeeDee’s perception, they’d come to believe in it.

Knowing she could fend for herself without his help, Duncan turned away and let his gaze rove over the crowd.

Later, he remembered it was her hair that had first called her to his attention.

She was standing directly beneath one of the directional lights recessed into the ceiling thirty feet above her. It acted like a spotlight, making her hair look almost white, marking her as though she were the only blonde in the crowd.

It was in a simple style that bordered on severity — pulled back into a small knot at the nape of her neck — but it defined the perfect shape of her head and showed off the graceful length of her neck. He was admiring that pale nape when a nondescript woman who’d been blocking his view of the rest of her moved away. He saw her back. All of it. Tantalizing square inches of bare skin from her neck to her waist, even slightly below.

He didn’t know jewelry could be worn on that part of the body, but there it was, a clasp made of what looked like diamonds winking at him from the small of her back. He imagined the stones would be warm from her skin.

Just from looking at her, his skin had turned warm.

Someone moved up behind her, said something. She turned, and Duncan got his first look at her face. Later, he thought that maybe his jaw had actually dropped.

“Dunk?” Worley nudged his arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I asked you how jail was.”

“Oh, just peachy.”

The other detective leaned toward him and leered. “You have to fight off any cell mates looking for romance?”

“No, they were all pining for you, Worley.”

DeeDee laughed so suddenly, she snorted. “Good one, Duncan.”

He turned away again, but the blonde had moved from the spot where he’d seen her. Impatiently his gaze scanned the crowd, until he located her again. She was talking to a distinguished-looking older couple and sipping a glass of white wine with seeming uninterest in both it and the conversation. She was smiling politely, but her eyes had a distant quality, like she wasn’t quite connected to what was going on around her.

“You’re drooling.” DeeDee had moved up beside him and followed his stare to the woman. “Honestly, Duncan,” she said with exasperation. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Can’t help it. I’ve fallen into instant lust.”

“Rein it in.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Don’t want to, you mean.”

“Right, don’t want to. I didn’t know that getting struck by lightning could feel so good.”

“Lightning?”

“Oh yeah. And then some.”

DeeDee critically looked the woman over and shrugged. “She’s okay, I guess. If you’re into tall, thin, perfect hair, and flawless skin.”

“To say nothing of her face.”

She took a noisy sip of her Diet Coke. “Yeah, there’s that. I gotta give credit where credit’s due. As usual, your sexual radar homed in on the dishiest babe in the room.”

He shot her his wicked smile. “It’s this gift I have.”

The couple moved away from the woman, leaving her standing by herself in the midst of the crowd. “The lady looks lost and lonely,” Duncan said. “Like maybe she needs a big strong cop to come to her rescue. Hold my drink.” He thrust his glass toward DeeDee.

“Have you lost your mind?” She stepped in front of him to block his path. “That would be the height of stupidity. I will not stand by and watch as you self-destruct.”

“What are you talking about?”

DeeDee looked at him with sudden understanding. “Oh. You don’t know.”

“What?”

“She’s married, Duncan.”

“Shit. Are you sure?”

“To Judge Cato Laird.”

“What did he say to you?”

Elise Laird set her jeweled handbag on the dressing table and stepped out of her sandals. Cato had come upstairs to their bedroom ahead of her. He was already undressed and in his robe, sitting on the side of their bed.

“Who?” she asked.

“Duncan Hatcher.”

She pulled a pin from her hair. “Who?”

“The man you were talking to in the porte cochere. When I went to pay for the valet parking. Surely you remember. Tall, rugged, in dire need of a haircut, built like a wide receiver. Which he was. At Georgia, I believe.”

“Oh, right.” She dropped the hairpins next to her handbag and uncoiled the chignon, then combed her fingers through her hair. Facing the mirror, she smiled at her husband’s reflection. “He asked if I had change. He needed to tip the parking valet and didn’t have any bills smaller than a ten.”

“He only asked for change?”

“Hmm.” Reaching behind her she tried to undo the clasp of the diamond brooch at the small of her back. “Could you help me here, please?”

Cato left the bed and moved up behind her. He unfastened the clasp, pulled the pin from the black silk with care, then handed her the brooch and placed his hands on her shoulders, massaging gently. “Did Hatcher address you by name?”

“I honestly don’t remember. Why? Who is he?”

“He’s a homicide detective.”

“Savannah police?”

“A decorated hero with a master’s degree in criminology. He has brains and brawn.”

“Impressive.”

“Up till now he’s been an exemplary officer.”

“Till now?”

“He testified in my court this week. Murder trial. When circumstances forced me to declare a mistrial, he lost his temper. Became vituperative. I found him in contempt and sentenced him to two days in jail. He was released just this afternoon.”

She laughed softly. “Then I’m sure he didn’t know who I was. If he had, he would have avoided speaking to me.” She took off her earrings. “Was the woman with him his wife?”

“Police partner. I don’t believe he’s married.” He slipped the dress off Elise’s shoulders, sliding the fabric down her arms, baring her to the waist. He studied her in the mirror. “I guess I can’t blame the man for trying.”

“He didn’t
try
anything, Cato. He asked me for change.”

“There were other people he could have asked, but he asked you.” Reaching around her, he took the weight of her breasts in his palms. “I thought he might have recognized you, that you might have met before.”

Meeting his dark eyes in the mirror, she said, “I suppose it’s possible, but if so, I don’t remember it. I wouldn’t have remembered speaking to him tonight if you hadn’t brought it up.”

“Untrimmed dirty-blond hair isn’t attractive to you? That shaggy, scruffy look doesn’t appeal?”

“I much prefer graying temples and smoother shaves.”

The zipper at the back of her dress was short. He smiled into the mirror as he pulled it down, following the cleft between her buttocks, then pushed the dress to the floor, leaving her in only a black lace thong. He turned her to face him. “This is the best part of these dull evenings out. Coming home with you.” He looked at her, waiting. “No comment?”

“I have to say it? You know I feel the same.”

Taking her hand, he folded it around his erection. “I lied, Elise,” he whispered as he guided her motions. “This is the best part.”

A half hour later, she eased herself from the bed, padded to the closet for a robe, and pulled it on. She paused briefly at her dressing table, then went to the door. It creaked when she pulled it open. She looked back toward the bed. Cato didn’t stir.

She slipped from the room and tiptoed downstairs. Her insomnia concerned him. Sometimes he would come downstairs and find her on the sofa in the den, watching a DVD of one of her favorite movies. Sometimes she was reading in the living room, sometimes sitting in the sunroom, staring out at the lighted swimming pool.

He sympathized with her sleeplessness and urged her to get medication to help remedy it. He chided her for leaving their bed without waking him when he might have helped soothe her into sleep.

Recently she had begun to wonder if his concern was over the insomnia, or her nocturnal prowls through the house.

A night-light was left on in the kitchen, but the route was so familiar she could have found her way without it. Whatever else she did when she came downstairs, she always poured herself a glass of milk, which she claimed helped, and left the empty glass in the sink to ensure never being caught in a lie.

Standing at the sink, sipping the unwanted milk, she hoped that Cato would never catch her in the lie she’d told him tonight.

The detective
had
known who she was; he had called her by name.

“Mrs. Laird?”

When she turned, she was struck first by his height. Cato was tall, but Duncan Hatcher topped him by several inches. She had to tilt her head back to look into his face. When she did, she realized that he was standing inappropriately close, but not so close as to call attention to it. His eyes had the sheen of inebriation, but his speech wasn’t slurred.

“My name is Duncan Hatcher.”

He didn’t extend his hand, but he looked down at hers as though expecting her to shake hands with him. She didn’t. “
How do you do, Mr. Hatcher
?”

He had a disarming smile, and she suspected he knew that. He also had enough audacity to say, “
Great dress
.”

“Thank you.”

“I like the diamond clip at the small of your back.”

She coolly nodded an acknowledgment.

“Is that all that’s keeping it on?”

That was an improper remark. And so was the insinuation in his eyes. Eyes that were light gray and darkly dangerous.

“Good-bye, Mr. Hatcher.”

She was about to turn away when he moved a step closer, and for a moment she thought he would touch her. He said, “
When are we going to see each other again
?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When are we going to see each other again?”

“I seriously doubt we are.”

“Oh, we are. See, every judge who finds me in contempt and sends me to jail? I make it a point to fuck his wife.”

He made it sound like a promise. Shock rendered her speechless and motionless. So for several seconds they simply stood there and looked at each other.

Then two things happened simultaneously that broke the stare. The woman she now knew was his partner seized Duncan Hatcher by the arm and dragged him toward the car that a parking valet had just delivered. And Cato appeared in her peripheral vision. As he approached her, she turned toward him and managed to smile, although the muscles of her face felt stiff and unnatural.

Her husband looked suspiciously after Hatcher as the woman hustled him into the passenger seat of the car. Elise had feared Cato would confront her then about the brief exchange, but he hadn’t. Not until they were home, and by then she’d had time to fabricate a lie.

But she wondered now why she had lied to her husband about it.

She poured the remainder of the unwanted milk down the drain and left the glass in the sink, where it would be conspicuous. Leaving the kitchen, she returned to the foot of the curving staircase in the foyer. There she paused to listen. The house was silent. She detected no movement upstairs.

Quickly she went down the center hallway and into Cato’s study. She crossed the room in darkness, but once behind the desk, switched on the lamp. It cast dark shadows around the room, particularly onto the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that formed the wall behind the desk.