Ricochet

Chapter 9

“HIS SECOND TEE TIME WAS AT ELEVEN TEN,” DEEDEE 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 mentor. “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.

“Obviously I thought so, too. Thank you for the invitation.” She returned his smile, then looked across the pot of geraniums at DeeDee. “Hello, Detective Bowen.”

“We hate to bust in on your lunch date, Mrs. Laird. But I suppose it’s just as well you’re here, too. We were about to tell the judge about the latest development.”

Elise turned quickly to Duncan. “What development?”

“Something that came up last night.” As he said the words, he realized he was assuring her that he hadn’t told DeeDee about her visit to his town house. Her evident relief didn’t make him feel any better about it.

The waiter arrived with his and DeeDee’s drinks, along with a lemonade for Elise. It was like the one he’d had at the bar, except that hers was served with a strawberry as big as an apple impaled on a clear plastic skewer.

The judge ordered another scotch. The waiter asked if they’d like to see menus, but the judge said he would let him know when they were ready. DeeDee requested a straw, and the waiter apologized profusely for not bringing one. These distractions allowed Duncan and Elise time to exchange a long look. At least she was looking toward him. He couldn’t see her eyes through the dark shades.

Trickles of sweat were rolling down his torso, and it wasn’t only because of the heat. The tension at the table was palpable. Even though they were all going through the motions of being relaxed in one another’s company, pretending that this was a casual gathering without agenda, they all knew better.

No one said anything until DeeDee’s straw had been delivered. She thanked the waiter with a nod, peeled away the wrapper, and stuck the straw in her glass. “Judge Laird, are you familiar with Meyer Napoli?”

He laughed. “Of course. He’s been in my courtroom too many times to count.”

“As a defendant?” DeeDee asked.

“Only as a witness,” the judge replied unflappably.

“For which side?”

“Depending on the case, he’s testified both for the prosecution and the defense.”

“Who is he?”

“Sorry, darling.” The judge turned to Elise. “Meyer Napoli is a private investigator.”

“Had you never heard of him, Mrs. Laird?”

Elise removed her sunglasses and gave DeeDee a level look. “If I had, I wouldn’t have asked.”

A crease had formed between the judge’s eyebrows. “You mentioned a development.”

The judge addressed the statement to Duncan, so he responded. “Meyer Napoli has gone missing. It became official this morning. It’s been over twenty-four hours since anyone has seen or heard from him. His secretary, who seems to be the person closest to him, is convinced that he’s met with foul play.”

The judge was hanging on every word. When Duncan stopped with that, he raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. “I hate to hear that. I hope the secretary is wrong, but how does this relate to us? What possible bearing could a private investigator’s disappearance have to do with what happened in our home night before last?”

Duncan locked gazes with Elise. “We found Gary Ray Trotter’s name among papers on Napoli ’s desk.”

Her lips parted slightly, but Duncan didn’t expect her to say anything and she didn’t. In fact, no one spoke for a noticeable length of time.

Finally DeeDee cleared her throat. “The detective investigating Napoli ’s disappearance noticed Trotter’s name on a memo. Actually a personalized Post-it. ‘From the desk of Meyer Napoli.’ The detective thought it coincidental, Trotter being recently…deceased. He knew that Detective Hatcher and I would find that interesting, and he was right. We talked to Napoli ’s secretary last night.”

“And?” the judge asked.

“And nothing,” DeeDee replied. “Trotter had never made an appointment with the secretary to see Napoli. She doesn’t remember anybody by that name coming to the office, but, of course, that doesn’t mean that Trotter and Napoli didn’t meet somewhere else. Obviously they did. Or had contact of some kind, because the secretary confirmed that the handwriting on the Post-it was Napoli ’s.” She looked back and forth between the judge and Elise.

The judge chuckled. “You’ve thrown out a lot of assumptions, Detective. Any one of which could be fact. Or none of them. Perhaps Napoli heard through the grapevine that Trotter had died during the commission of a crime. His name rang a bell and Napoli jotted it down to remind himself of it later. Who knows where their paths crossed? Maybe Trotter owed him money.” He gave her a gentle, somewhat patronizing smile. “Aren’t those as plausible as your assumptions?”

Duncan wouldn’t have been surprised if DeeDee had launched herself across the table and knocked him on his condescending ass. He wouldn’t have blamed her, either.

Instead she gave the judge an abashed grin. “Detective Hatcher chides me constantly for jumping to conclusions. It’s one of my character flaws. However, this time he agrees with me.”

The judge looked toward Duncan for elaboration. Duncan nodded him back toward DeeDee, indicating that she still had the floor.

She said, “Meyer Napoli has questionable ethics, but he’s reputed to have a mind like a steel trap. He wouldn’t need to jot himself a reminder note. He wrote down Gary Ray Trotter’s name for a reason.”

Elise had been following this exchange silently, but with undivided attention. “Are you implying that…” Then she shook her head in confusion and asked, “What are you implying?”

“I think I can answer that, darling,” the judge said. “They’re implying that there’s a connection between Napoli and Trotter, and by association, between Napoli and us. Is that it, Detective Bowen?”

In view of his testiness, she responded with remarkable calm. “We’re not implying anything, Judge Laird. But it struck us as coincidental that less than twenty-four hours after he was fatally shot in your home, Trotter’s name would show up on the desk of a private investigator who, also coincidentally, has been reported missing. It’s strange, to say the least.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t explain the strangeness of it.”

DeeDee continued with her typical doggedness. “Please try, Judge Laird. If there was a connection, no matter how long ago or how remote, it might explain how Trotter chose your house to break into. It seems far-fetched that he chose it at random. That’s a quirky element of this case we just can’t reconcile. Why did he choose you to burglarize?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Trotter is in no position to tell us, so I doubt we’ll ever know,” he said. “He could have heard of us through Napoli, I suppose, if they had a history, even in passing. Beyond that, I can’t venture a guess.”

“You’ve never had direct contact with Napoli?”

“Not outside my courtroom. My wife had never even heard of him until a few minutes ago.”

“Is that right, Mrs. Laird?”

“That’s right. I’d never heard of Napoli. Nor Trotter.”

DeeDee sucked the last of her Coke through the straw. “Then I guess we’ve wasted your time. Thanks for the Coke.” She reached for her handbag, and the judge took that as a signal that the interview was over.

“They make an excellent shrimp salad,” he said. “I’d be pleased to treat you.”

DeeDee thanked him for the offer but declined. The judge stood up and shook hands with each of them. DeeDee smiled down at Elise and told her good-bye.

Duncan was about to walk past Elise’s chair, when he hesitated, then extended his hand to her, almost as a dare to himself. First of all, it’s not easy to shake hands with a woman who’s given you a hard-on, and knows it. And second, he was thinking about what had happened the last time they shook hands. “Good-bye, Mrs. Laird.”

She hesitated, then took his hand. Or did she clutch it? “Good-bye.”

It was more difficult to pull his eyes away from hers than it was to withdraw his hand. He followed DeeDee inside the clubhouse and through the dining room. They waited to speak until they reached the lobby and she had given the parking valet her claim check. “What do you think?”

Before Duncan could answer, Stan Adams strolled up to them. “Well, Detective Sergeant Hatcher, I see that you and Judge Laird have kissed and made up since Savich’s trial.” He grinned at Duncan, then greeted DeeDee.

“Is this what you do in your spare time?” she asked. “You hang out in the country club until Savich commits another murder?”

The lawyer laughed, but became serious when he turned back to Duncan. “Are you investigating the fatal shooting at the judge’s house the other night? What was the guy’s name, Trotter?”

Duncan wasn’t surprised that Adams knew of the incident. As DeeDee’s society friend had said, the story had created a buzz. It also had been reported in the newspaper. Subtly. The judge, who usually basked in the glow of media attention, must have called in a favor with the managing editor.

The story had been buried on page ten and details were practically nonexistent. According to the brief story, Trotter was an intruder who had made an attempt on Mrs. Laird’s life, then later died. He could have died of a heart attack or cholera for all the reading public knew.

Stan Adams said, “I thought it was self-defense. How come y’all are on it?”

“Like you, we’re always trying to drum up business.” Duncan ’s grin was as affable as the attorney’s, but equally insincere.

Adams knew he would get no more information from them. “Well, if it turns out that Mrs. Laird needs a good defense lawyer, I hope you’ll recommend me.”

He walked away and had reached the double entrance doors, when DeeDee called out to him. “Oh, Mr. Adams, I just remembered. Your dentist called. It’s time you had them bleached again.” She tapped her front teeth.

The attorney fired a finger pistol at her and said, “Good one, Detective. Good one.”

Then he was gone. DeeDee muttered under her breath, “Asshole. Every time I think of that mistrial…” She made a snarling sound and clenched her fist.

Duncan was looking at her, but not really seeing her. His mind wasn’t on Savich or his oily attorney. It was on the judge. His cream-colored linen trousers, his cool and courteous manner.

“A drink at least… They make an excellent shrimp salad.”

He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Here’s the car,” DeeDee said and started for the door. Realizing he wasn’t following, she turned back. “ Duncan?”

But his mind was still on the judge. Tucking his wife’s hand into the crook of his elbow. Possessively.

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

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Making a split-second decision, Duncan told DeeDee to go on ahead. “I’m going to stick around here for a while.”