Ricochet

Chapter 15

“ELISE?”

She spun around, knowing she looked guilty. Knowing she was. “Cato,” she said, laughing breathlessly. He was standing in the open doorway, carrying a shopping bag. “You scared me. When did you get home?”

“Just now. What are you doing?” As he came into the study, his expression was curious, a shade suspicious.

“This room still makes me jumpy.”

“Then why come in here?”

“I was checking the repair.”

She indicated the wall that had been patched after the bullet from Trotter’s pistol was removed. Yesterday policemen had taken down the crime scene tape and told them they were free to use the room again. Cato had people standing by to restore his study to its pre-incident perfection.

The bloodstained rug had been rolled up and hauled out, with his instructions that it be destroyed. He didn’t want it back. Then the entire room had been cleaned and sanitized by professionals.

“I wasn’t satisfied with the workmanship and knew you wouldn’t be, either,” Elise said now. “I was looking in your desk for the plasterer’s business card. I wanted to call him first thing tomorrow.”

“Mrs. Berry has his business card.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll ask her to reschedule him.”

“I think you should. You want the job done right. I know how much you enjoy this room.”

“It’s sweet of you to care.” He smiled. “Join me for a drink before dinner?”

“I’d like that.” She came from around his desk and glanced down at the bag. “What’s that?”

“A present.”

“Hmm.” She reached into the pink tissue paper sticking out the top.

“It can wait.” He set the bag on the floor, slid his arms around her waist, and tried to kiss her, but she pulled away. “I intended to freshen up before you came home. I rested this afternoon as you suggested, and actually managed to nap. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

“I don’t mind.”

“But I do. I’ll go upstairs and make myself presentable. You mix the drinks.”

“Even better, I’ll mix the drinks and bring them upstairs.”

“That is better.” She disengaged herself and moved toward the door.

“Here, take the bag with you.” He picked it up and passed it to her.

“Can I peek?”

He laughed. “I think you will whether or not I give my permission, so go ahead.”

Matching his lightheartedness, she left the room, calling over her shoulder, “Vodka and tonic, please. Lots of lime, lots of ice.”

She jogged up the staircase and went straight into their bedroom. As soon as she closed the door, she leaned against it, breathing hard, her heart pounding. She was trembling. She’d come awfully close to getting caught.

Following his confession about hiring the private investigator, Cato had been tender and loving, frequently asking if she had forgiven him for his mistrust. She assured him that he had her forgiveness. Her responses to him were warm and affectionate. On the surface, nothing seemed amiss.

She brushed her teeth and quickly changed into the new outfit wrapped in tissue inside the shopping bag. She was spraying herself with fragrance when he entered the bedroom carrying two drinks. He looked at her and nodded approval.

“The difference was worth the wait.”

“Thank you.”

“Fit okay?”

“Perfect.” Holding the full skirt out at the sides, she did a pirouette.

“Nothing fancy,” he said, “but I saw it and liked it.”

“So do I. Very much. Thank you.”

He had removed his suit jacket and tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone. Giving her a meaningful look, he closed the bedroom door. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Mrs. Berry will be waiting to serve dinner.”

“I told her to keep it warm, so we can take our time.”

He crossed the room and handed her the drink. He clinked his glass of scotch against it. “To forgetting the shooting and its unpleasant aftermath.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They both took a sip of their drinks, then he pulled her toward the bed, sat down on the edge of it, and guided her to stand between his spread thighs. He set his drink on the nightstand and placed his hands at her waist. “I’m not sure I can wait till you finish your drink.”

She took several sips from the glass, then set it on the nightstand beside his.

He moved his hands lightly up and down her rib cage. “Are you still angry with me, Elise?”

“About the private investigator? No, Cato. I’ve told you time and again. What else could you think? All the signs pointed to an affair. It was silly of me not to explain Coleman’s situation to you.”

“Even if you had, I wouldn’t have approved your meeting him in hotel rooms.”

“I didn’t inflame his desire,” she said with a light laugh. “I tried to when we were in high school. It was a disaster. He didn’t want me that way.”

“Then he wasn’t only gay. He must have been dead, too.”

The telephone rang. He glanced at it, but saw that the light for the kitchen extension was on, indicating that Mrs. Berry had answered. He curved his hand around the back of her neck to draw her head down to his.

Through the intercom, Mrs. Berry said, “Judge Laird, I apologize for the intrusion. That Detective Hatcher insists on speaking to you.”

Cato held Elise’s gaze for several seconds, then removed his hands from her and picked up the receiver. He depressed the blinking red button on the telephone’s panel. “Detective Hatcher?”

Elise reached for her drink, noting that her hand was shaking, hoping that Cato didn’t notice.

“I see,” he said. The conversation lasted only a few more seconds. “I’ll adjust my schedule accordingly. We’ll be there.” Slowly he replaced the receiver and continued staring at the phone, saying nothing.

She was unable to contain her anxiety. “What did he want? You said we’ll be there. Where?”

“The police station. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Why?”

He looked up at her then. “We have a problem, Elise. Or rather, the police have a problem.”

“With what?”

“Your relationship with Coleman Greer. They don’t believe you.”

Duncan ’s car crawled along the street as he checked addresses until he found the one he sought. He pulled to the curb and stopped in front of the house. It was a dangerous, high-crime neighborhood that could accurately be called a slum. Every house on the street showed decades of disrepair and neglect, but this one was particularly ramshackle.

The darkness may have been playing tricks on his eyes, but the clapboard structure appeared to be listing several degrees. Nothing was growing in the yard except for a lone live oak that was hosting too much Spanish moss. The tree itself appeared to have been sucked dry.

He turned off the car’s engine and slid his service weapon from its holster. With the pistol secure in his right hand, he got out of the car and took a careful look around. The street appeared to be deserted. Or perhaps “abandoned” would be a more accurate word. A few houses on the block had lights on inside, but most were dark and seemingly vacant. The few streetlights that still had globes intact provided feeble light and served only to deepen the shadows.

The sidewalk was uneven. Weeds grew up through the wide cracks in it. Concrete crumpled into dust beneath Duncan ’s shoes as he walked to the edge of the yard and studied the house. It was entirely dark.

He questioned the advisability of being here. At the very least, he shouldn’t have come alone. He knew that, acknowledged it. It was reckless and stupid and, to some extent, self-serving.

“It’s about Savich. Come alone.”

That and this house address had been the sum total of the message left in his cell phone mailbox by a husky female voice. When he checked the call log, he saw that the call had come in at 10:37 P.M. Instead of a number, it had said “Private Caller.”

No shit.

He’d thought immediately of the woman Savich had set him up with last Saturday night. Was he using her again? Would Savich be that blatant? It didn’t sound like something Savich would do, but if you tried to predict Savich, you’d be wrong nine point nine out of ten times.

Cautiously he took the walkway up to the porch of the house. He looked over both shoulders, but saw no movement on the street, heard no sounds. Old boards groaned beneath his weight as he crossed the porch to the door.

He realized chances were excellent that he was walking into a trap that would spell his doom. He had figured that Savich would launch a surprise attack. Had he been wrong? Had Savich decided on a face-to-face showdown instead?

Or maybe, inside this house, Savich had another gory surprise waiting for him. The corpse of Lucille Jones, perhaps. The prostitute who’d been pleasuring Savich following the murder of Freddy Morris was still at large and, consequently, unable to be questioned by police. Possibly Savich had silenced her forever and left her body here for Duncan to find.

Gordie Ballew also crossed his mind. Had Savich heard that they’d tried to strike a deal with Gordie to turn snitch? Lucky for Gordie, he was safely behind bars in the county jail.

Whatever this old house held in store for him, the moment of truth had arrived. Duncan moved aside the rusty screen door that was hanging by one hinge, then took hold of the doorknob. It turned in his hand. He had to apply his shoulder to get the moisture-swollen door to open, then he stepped across the threshold into the house. The air inside was stifling hot, and had the musty smell of old, vacant houses. But not of decaying flesh, he noted with relief.

Listening intently for any sound, he took a moment to orient himself. It was a traditional Southern house, built before air-conditioning, when cross-ventilation was necessary for cooling during the brutal summers. At one time, maybe a century ago, it would have been a lovely house.

Ahead of him stretched a hallway with a staircase at one end and rooms opening off it on both sides. He crept forward and guardedly looked into the first one on his right. It was empty. Wainscoting and several generations of faded, tearing wallpaper. A hole in the ceiling where a chandelier had once hung. Probably designed to be a dining room.

He crossed the hallway to the opposite room, which was a parlor. Different wallpaper, but also torn. Ragged sheer curtains looking as fragile as spiderwebs hanging in the windows. The room was furnished, but sparsely.

Elise Laird was standing in the center of it.

His heart did something funny. But he raised his gun and pointed it at her.

“You’re here.” Her voice was barely a whisper. The same whispering voice that had left the message on his cell phone. He wondered why he hadn’t recognized it as her voice.

Or had he?

Had he known, despite the mention of Savich, precisely who would be waiting for him here in this dark and deserted house? Had he refused to acknowledge that it was her voice, because if he had, he couldn’t have come here with a clear conscience? Savich provided him justification for coming. She didn’t.

“What the hell?” he asked angrily.

“I used that criminal’s name to get you here.”

“How did you know it would?”

“Cato told me about your history with him.”

He studied her for long, ponderous moments, then lowered the nine-millimeter. But he left a bullet in the chamber and he didn’t return it to the holster. He moved so that his back would be to the wall and not to the open doorway.

Sensing his wariness, she said, “There’s no one else here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had to see you alone.”

“Whose place is this?”

It was the first time he’d seen her with her hair hanging loose rather than pulled back. It brushed her shoulders when she moved her head. “It belongs to a friend.”

“Your friend should consider refurbishing.”

“He’s been away for a long time. He gave me permission to use the house if I needed to, in exchange for airing it out occasionally.”

Duncan nodded as though that explained everything, when actually it explained nothing. It generated more questions, but those would have to wait. Already, there was enough to talk about.

“Okay, I took the bait and you got me here. What do you want?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want, Duncan. It’s what I need. Your help. I’m desperate.”

Hearing her say his name was like getting a punch in the gut. He tried to ignore the sensation, but couldn’t, and that made him angry. “I assume you sneaked out on your husband.”

“I didn’t have to. Your phone call upset him. He went to the country club.” Reading his surprise, she explained. “A lot of his colleagues, even the DA, are in a poker tournament. They were playing tonight. Cato knew word would circulate that I was being questioned by police again tomorrow. He wanted it to seem that he wasn’t worried. He didn’t tell me that. I just know how he thinks. Anyhow, he went. I waited for Mrs. Berry to go home, then called you.”

“And lured me here to Boo Radley’s house. Why?”

“Would you put the gun away?”

“No.”

“You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”

Only losing my job, he thought. My career. My integrity.

“I’m the one who should be afraid.” Saying that, she took several steps toward him.

He caught a whiff of perfume. It was light, floral. Intoxicating. She was dressed similarly to how she’d been when she showed up at his town house. Skirt, sandals, a tank top. Not nearly as skimpy or revealing as Esteban’s fiancée’s had been. But skimpy enough to make Duncan aware of the shape of her breasts. Uncomfortably aware.

“I know what these little games of yours are about, Mrs. Laird. They’re to keep me off track, to divert me from the investigation, to keep me from arresting you for the murder of Gary Ray Trotter.”

There. That sounded good. He was the investigator; she was the suspect. That’s the way it was, and that’s the way it had to be, even if he was aching to put his hands on her.

“Why don’t you believe I shot Trotter in self-defense? Why don’t you believe me about Cato? About Coleman?”

He paused for effect, then said, “I’m glad you brought him up. I went to Atlanta to see Tony Esteban today.”

Her reaction showed how surprised she was to hear that. “You talked to him?”

“Oh, yeah. We had a friendly chat.”

“What did he say?”

“You’re not his favorite person.”

“Nor he mine.”

“In fact he called you a psycho bitch and worse.”

“He doesn’t even know me. I only met him once at a party.”

“Where Coleman Greer passed out from too much drink, and you and his friend Tony got nekkid and held a private party.”

“What?”

“I’ll spare you the embarrassment of recounting the juicy details. Suffice to say, you were the initiator. You and Esteban had a real good time while your fool of a date, Coleman Greer, was incapacitated.

“But next morning, you turned into every man’s nightmare. Got possessive and clingy. Kept calling Tony on the phone. Wouldn’t go away, and when it became obvious that he wanted nothing more from you than those couple of hot-hot tumbles, you swore to get even with him someday, which turned out to be yesterday when you told Detective Bowen and me that he was Coleman Greer’s gay lover.”

She looked at him aghast. “You believe all that?”

“More than I believe your version.”

She groped behind her for the padded arm of the sofa, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, and slowly sat down on it. For several minutes she stared into space.

Eventually she looked across at him. “He’s lying,” she stated simply. “He’s lying. Yes, Coleman invited me to a Braves party. I told you that. And there, he introduced me to Tony Esteban. Coleman did get drunk that night. But he did so because Tony was flirting with me. Coleman was already infatuated with him, and Tony had led him to believe that his interest was reciprocated.”

Duncan remained silent and skeptical.

“Tony Esteban is a fraud and a liar,” she said with emphasis. “Even if he weren’t homosexual, or bi, or whatever he is, I would never be attracted to him. He’s obnoxious. An egomaniac. I had nothing to do with him that night or any other time.”

“Are you accusing him of the same thing he accused you of? Are you saying he told me all this stuff just to get back at you for rejecting his advances?”

“I don’t give a damn what his motives are. I care even less what he thinks of me,” she said. “But he’s lying about his relationship with Coleman. Tony broke my friend’s heart. He was afraid they were going to be found out, so he refused to see Coleman alone anymore.

“Coleman anguished over the breakup for months. That’s when he and I were meeting often. He was in pain and needed someone he could talk to openly about the love affair, someone he trusted implicitly. He was devastated by Tony Esteban’s rejection and eventually killed himself over it. That is the truth. I swear it.”

Duncan took off his jacket and used his shirt sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead. He was hot and agitated, and dangerously close to believing her, so he argued vehemently against it. “Esteban has got a redheaded bombshell for a fiancée. She performs for him like a trained seal. He bought her a boob job and a diamond ring, and it’s a tie which is bigger. They’re getting married this fall.”

“Of course he has a girl like her. He always does. That was a point of contention between him and Coleman. Whenever Tony boasted of his sexual conquests to their teammates, or squired around his latest squeeze, it wounded Coleman.

“But all Tony’s machismo swagger is for show, Duncan. The marriage will be a sham. Don’t you see that he’s putting on this act as a cover? The redhead is a smoke screen. Within a year she’ll probably be having a child. He’ll make certain of it.”

Duncan had thought along a similar track, but he wasn’t yet ready to concede it.

“Tony treated Coleman horribly,” she said. “He would lavish him with affection one day, ignore him the next. He ran hot and cold and made Coleman miserable.”

“Then why was Coleman so blindly in love with him?”

She didn’t speak for a moment, then said quietly, “I don’t believe we get to choose who we fall in love with. Do you?”

Suddenly it seemed the room became darker, smaller, airless. Duncan ’s skin was clammy; his body was humming like a tuning fork. He looked away from her.

He said, “I don’t know who’s gay, who’s straight, or who was screwing who, and frankly it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Meyer Napoli had something on you. The judge paid him off, but Napoli is an enterprising man and saw a way to make another buck.

“He came to you and threatened to make public whatever your dirty little secret was unless you paid him off. You agreed, and told him to meet you in your husband’s study late one night. Napoli said okay, whatever, but he’s no fool. To protect his own ass, he subcontracted dumb, hapless Gary Ray Trotter to be his drop man just in case you weren’t playing straight with him.

“By the way, what did Trotter bring with him that night? Photos, tape recordings, X-rated videos? Maybe you truly weren’t screwing Coleman Greer. Maybe you were actually protecting your best friend’s privacy and public image.

“That doesn’t matter, either. Whatever Napoli had on you, it was damaging not only to you, but to your friend, and-most importantly-to your husband. And above all else, you wanted to safeguard your position as Mrs. Cato Laird.

“You go into the study, as prearranged, expecting Napoli. But there’s Trotter. He said something to you. I know goddamn well he did, although you’ve denied it. After you shot him, you secured the goods, then made it look like you caught a burglar. You may have even planted that tire iron, you may have broken the window yourself.

“Enter Cato. Weak at the thought of how close he came to losing his beloved. You’ve got him coddling you like he’s never coddled you before. He swallows the self-defense story whole, and Trotter ain’t talking.” His eyes narrowed on her. “What must really be haunting you now is, where’s Meyer Napoli? Except for him, you’re clear. He’s the only person who can ruin this for you.”

Her shoulders slumped forward and she bowed her head.

Duncan strode over to her, placed his hand beneath her chin, and yanked her head up. “Isn’t that the way it went down?”

“Yes.” Surprising him, she surged to her feet and thrust her hands toward him, the insides of her wrists pressed together. “Handcuff me. Arrest me. Put me in jail. At least there I’ll be safe.”

“From your husband?”

“Yes!”

“Because he’s going to kill you?”

“Yes! No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not him. He wouldn’t do it himself. He’s not that foolish. He had his chance the other night in the swimming pool. I thought he might drown me and be done with it. But he didn’t kill me then, and he won’t. He’ll just make certain that I die.”

“Why?” Duncan fired at her.

“He…”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you why.”

“Because there is no why.”

She shook her head violently. “Just please trust me.”

“Trust you?” He laughed. “Not on a bet.”

“What do I have to do for you to believe me? Turn up dead?”

“That would be a start.”

She drew in a shocked breath and fell back a step.

“In the meantime,” he continued in the same cold voice, “I’ll see you at the Barracks. Tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”

He turned away from her and headed for the center hall. She came after him, caught his arm, and brought him around. “I don’t have anyone else who can or will help me. I’m afraid. Cato knows…”

“What?”

“He knows, or at least suspects, that I know what he’s trying to do. That’s why he told you about Napoli. So he would look like the cuckolded husband, win your sympathy against the unfaithful wife. He let you draw the connection between Napoli and Trotter and ultimately to Coleman to make me look guilty. It’s all a part of his grand scheme.”

“All right,” Duncan said. “If that’s the way it is, make that your official statement. Go on the record with it tomorrow during the interrogation.”

“I can’t. How could I? I would be as good as dead for sure.” Her grip on his arm tightened. “Please, Duncan.”

“What is it exactly you’re asking me to do?”

“Stop investigating me. Start investigating Cato, and why Trotter came to our house that night.”

“Which was to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“How would a bungler like Trotter know that you wander around the house in the middle of the night?”

“Cato would have told him. He would have told Trotter to wait in the study until I came downstairs, which was inevitable.”

“Cato kept you in bed so the alarm wouldn’t be set and Trotter could get in.”

“Doesn’t that sound plausible?”

It did, yes. He saw the hopefulness in her expression, and it tempted him to believe her. “Tell me why your husband wants you dead.”

“I can’t,” she said in an anguished whisper. “Not until I know, without doubt, that you believe me. Completely.”

“Then you’re shit out of luck.”

Before he could turn away, she placed her hands on his shoulders and moved in close. “You want to believe me.”

He reached up to remove her hands. “Don’t,” he said, but her hands stayed on his shoulders and his hands stayed on hers.

“I know you do.” She came up on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his, breathing against them. “Believe me, Duncan. Please.”

Groaning with anger and frustrated desire, he dropped his jacket and pistol to the floor and grabbed a handful of her hair. He yanked her head back. He might have released her and walked out if only she had returned his glare, if her eyes had held even a trace of triumph or defiance. Instead, they closed.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “Damn me.”

His mouth came down hard on hers. He pushed his tongue inside as his arm curved around her waist and drew her up flush against him. The feel of her body along his, her scent, the taste of her mouth all combined to snuff out the last flicker of conscience. Desire such as he’d never experienced pulsed through him.

She folded her arms around his neck and drove her fingers up through his hair. Her mouth was responsive, closing seductively around his tongue and making him crazy with wanting more of it, more of her, all of her.

He walked her backward until she was against the wall, then raised the hem of her tank top. There was nothing beneath it but Elise. He continued pulling up the tank until her arms were raised above her head, the shirt gathered on her forearms. He took both her wrists in one hand and held them pressed against the wall high above her head.

Later, he would regret that he hadn’t paused then to study her stretched torso, taken time to gaze at what he’d fantasized about since the first time he’d seen her at the awards dinner. He would regret that he didn’t treat his fingertips to the feel of her skin, that he didn’t touch her breasts or caress them with his mouth.

But at that moment, he was driven by a primal hunger to have her. He reached under her skirt and palmed her ass, encountering nothing but skin. Growling profanities, or maybe desperate prayers, he lifted her against him and carried her to the sofa.

As she stretched out along it, she pulled off her tank top and tossed it aside. Impatiently he shrugged off his shoulder holster and dropped it on the floor. He planted one knee on the sofa and raised her skirt as far as her waist. He dragged the thong panties down her legs and focused on the patch of soft hair between her thighs. His breathing was a harsh thrashing sound in the otherwise silent room as he grappled with belt buckle and zipper, then he pushed apart her thighs and thrust himself into her.

Sheathed by her, he sank his fingers into her hair and buried his face in the hollow of her neck. He took a precious few seconds to celebrate how damn good that alone felt, just to be inside her, surrounded by her, possessing her.

Then he started moving. His hard, deep strokes were born of frustration almost as much as passion. They drew from her small choppy sounds. Even if she was faking them, he didn’t care. He liked them. They urged him on.

Sliding his hands beneath her hips, he angled her up and held her in place as he thrust into her with escalating force, the tempo increasing, the friction growing hotter, until he shattered with pleasure. His climax was long and intense and left him replete.

He settled on her heavily, his breath sighing loudly, humid against her throat. He could have lain there forever, with her beneath him, in that state of blissful lethargy. But even before he had regained his breath, he levered himself up and tried to pull away.

“No.” She clutched at him. “No.”

Her body was taut. A shallow frown had formed between her brows. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was rapid. She wet her lips then rolled them inward.

Sliding her hands under his wet shirt, she dug her fingers into the sweat-slick flesh of his back. She mashed her pelvis against his in a gentle grind. The increased pressure caused her breath to catch. He forgot about leaving her, and instead bracketed her hips between his hands and nudged his body against hers. She murmured a low, wanting sound.

He rubbed himself against her while holding her hips even tighter against him. He felt the bite of her nails into his flesh. He made the slightest of rocking motions, but it was sufficient. More than enough. With a soft cry, her back arched off the sofa and her thighs squeezed his hips tightly. He felt her orgasm from the tip of his cock, buried deep inside her, to the back of his throat.

When it receded, she lay panting beneath him. A streetlight shone through the window, casting a shadow upon her breasts in the lace pattern of the tattered curtain. A tear rolled from the corner of her eye into the damp hair at her temple, where a vein pulsed. Her hair was a riot of pale silk behind her head. Her lips looked swollen and bruised.

He wanted very badly to lie with her. He wanted to kiss her, wetly but softly and gently. But that would send him to hell for sure. He’d lost his head and responded to a carnal impulse he could later blame on biology. But he would have no excuse for lingering tenderness. He was in full command of his faculties now, and the enormity of his folly crashed down on him.

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. Murmuring his name, she lifted her hand toward his cheek. Before she could touch him, he pulled away from her and stood up. Keeping his back to her, he readjusted his trousers and haphazardly buckled his belt. He left his shirttail out. He picked up his holster, but didn’t put it on.

He’d gone up against some of the most brutish criminals in Savannah ’s history, but the most courageous thing he’d ever had to do was turn around and look at this woman.

To his relief, she had sat up. Her skirt was back in place. She hadn’t put on her tank top yet, but she was modestly holding it against her chest. That classically feminine, protective pose was seared into his brain for later recall, when remembering how vulnerable she had looked at that moment would cause his heart to ache.

But that was later.

Now, he walked as far as the hallway, where he bent to retrieve his sport jacket and service weapon from the floor. Over his shoulder he said, “Ten o’clock. Have your lawyer with you, and don’t be late.”