Ricochet

Chapter 5

UPON SEEING ROBERT SAVICH FOR THE FIRST TIME, PEOPLE were initially struck by his unusual coloring.

His skin tone was that of café au lait, a legacy from his maternal grandmother, a Jamaican who’d come to the United States seeking a better life. At age thirty-four she had given up the quest by slashing her wrists in a bathtub in the brothel where she lived and worked. Her leached body was discovered by another of the whores, her fifteen-year-old daughter, baby Robert’s mother.

His blue eyes had been passed down through generations of Saviches, a disreputable lineage no more promising than his maternal one.

Superficially, he was accepted for what he was. But he knew that neither pure blacks nor pure whites would ever wholly accept his mingled blood and embrace him as one of their own. Prejudice found fertile ground in every race. It recognized no borders. It permeated every society on earth, no matter how vociferously it was denounced.

So from the time he could reason, Savich had understood that he must create a dominion that was solely his. A man didn’t achieve an egotistic goal of that caliber by being a nice guy, but rather by being tougher, smarter, meaner than his peers. A man could do it only by evoking fear in anyone he met.

Young Robert had taken the dire experiences of his childhood and youth and turned them to his advantage. Each year of poverty, abuse, and alienation was like an additional application of varnish, which became harder and more protective, until now, he was impenetrable. This was particularly true of his soul.

He had directed his intelligence and entrepreneurial instincts toward commerce-of a sort. He was dealing crack cocaine by the time he was twelve. At age twenty-five, in a coup that included slit-ting the throat of his mentor in front of awed competitors, he established himself as the lord of a criminal fiefdom. Those who hadn’t known his name up to that point soon did. Rivals began showing up dead by gruesome means. His well-earned reputation for ruthlessness rapidly spread, effectively quelling any dreamed-of mutinies.

His reign of terror had continued for a decade. It had made him wealthy beyond even his expectations. Minor rebellions staged by those reckless or stupid enough to cross him were immediately snuffed. Betrayal spelled death to the betrayer.

Ask Freddy Morris. Not that he could answer you.

As Savich wheeled into the parking lot of the warehouse from which he ran his legitimate machine shop, he chuckled yet again, imagining Duncan Hatcher’s reaction upon finding the little gift that had been left in his refrigerator.

Duncan Hatcher had started as a pebble in his shoe, nothing more than a nuisance. Initially his crusade to destroy Savich’s empire had been somewhat amusing. But Hatcher’s determination hadn’t waned. Each defeat seemed only to strengthen his resolve. Savich was no longer amused. The detective had become an increasingly dangerous threat who must be dealt with. Soon.

The gradual introduction of methamphetamine into the Southeastern states had opened up a new and vigorous market. It was an ever-expanding profit center for Savich’s business. But it was a demanding taskmaster, requiring constant vigilance. He had his hands full controlling those who manufactured and marketed meth for him. He was equally busy keeping independents from poaching on his territory.

Any idiot with a box of cold remedy and a can of fuel thought he could go into business for himself. Fortunately, most of the amateurs blew themselves and their makeshift labs to smithereens without any help from him. But as relatively easy as it was to produce, meth was even easier to market. Because of its various forms of ingestion-snorting, smoking, injecting, and simply swallowing-there was something to suit every user.

It was a lucrative trade, and Savich didn’t want Duncan Hatcher to bugger it up.

The machine shop on the ground floor of the warehouse was noisy, nasty, and hot, in contrast to the cool oasis of his office suite upstairs. The two areas were separated by a short ride in a clanking service elevator, but aesthetically they were worlds apart.

He’d spared no expense to surround himself with luxury. His leather desk chair was as soft as butter. The finish on his desk was satin smooth and glossy. The carpet was woven of silk threads, the finest money could buy.

His secretary was a homosexual named Kenny, whose family had deep roots in Savannah society and, unfortunately for Kenny, longevity genes. Kenny was waiting impatiently for his elderly parents to die and leave him, their only son and heir, his much-anticipated paper mill fortune.

In the meantime he worked for Savich, who was dark and mysterious and exciting, who was anathema to his stodgy parents for every reason thinkable, and who had won Kenny’s undying loyalty by slowly choking to death a violent homophobe who had waylaid Kenny outside a gay bar and beaten him to within an inch of his life.

Their working relationship was mutually beneficial. Savich preferred Kenny to a female secretary. Invariably women got around to wanting a sexual relationship with him, the depth of which depended on the woman. His policy had always been to keep romance and business separate.

Besides, women were too easily swayed by flattery, or even kindness. Cops and federal agents often used this feminine weakness as a means of getting information. They’d once tried that tactic in the hope of incriminating him. It failed when his secretary mysteriously disappeared. She’d never been found. He’d replaced her with Kenny.

Kenny shot to his feet the instant Savich crossed the threshold of the office suite. Although his well-coiffed hair remained well-coiffed as he nodded toward the closed door to Savich’s private office, it was apparent that he was in a state of excitability.

“You have a visitor who wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he said in an exaggerated stage whisper.

Instantly alert to the danger of an ambush-his first thought was Hatcher-Savich reached for the pistol at the small of his back.

His secretary’s plucked eyebrows arched fearfully. “It’s not like that. I would have called you if it was like that. I believe you’ll want to see this visitor.”

Savich, now more curious than wary, moved to the door of his private chamber and opened it. His guest was standing with her back to the room, staring out the window. Hearing him, she turned and removed the dark sunglasses that concealed half her face.

“Elise! What an unexpected and delightful surprise. You’re always a sight for sore eyes.”

She didn’t return either his wide smile or his flattery. “I’m glad to hear that because I need a favor.”

Duncan’s rank as detective sergeant afforded few benefits above those of his colleagues, but one of them was a private office at the back of the narrow room that was home to the Violent Crimes Unit.

Duncan nodded at DeeDee as he walked past her desk. He had a doughnut stuck in his mouth, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, his sport jacket hooked on a finger of the other, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He stepped into his office, but before he even had a chance to sit down, DeeDee, who’d followed him into the closet-sized office, laid a folder on his desk with a decisive slap.

“His name was Gary Ray Trotter.”

Duncan wasn’t a morning person. Hated them, in fact. It took a while for him to warm up to the idea of daylight and get all his pistons firing. DeeDee, on the other hand, could go from zero to sixty within a few seconds.

Despite their late night at the Lairds’ house, she would have been up and at ’em for hours. Other detectives had straggled into the VCU this morning, looking already sapped by the cloying humidity outside. DeeDee, not surprisingly, was by far the most chipper of the lot and was practically bristling with energy.

Duncan raised his arm and let the newspaper slide onto his desk. He draped his jacket over the back of his chair, set down the coffee, which had grown hot in his hand despite the cardboard sleeve around the cup, and took a bite from the doughnut before removing it from his mouth.

“No ‘good morning’?” he asked grumpily.

“Dothan got to work early, too,” she told him as he plopped into his desk chair. “He fingerprinted the Lairds’ corpse. Gary Ray Trotter was a repeat offender, so I had the ID in a matter of minutes. Lots of stuff on this guy.” She indicated the folder lying still untouched on his desk.

“Originally from Baltimore, over the last dozen years he’s gradually worked his way down the East Coast, spending time in various jails for petty stuff until a couple of years ago he got brave and expanded into armed robbery in Myrtle Beach. He was released on parole three months ago. His parole officer hadn’t heard from him in two.”

“My, you’ve been busy,” Duncan said.

“I thought one of us should get a running start, and I knew you wouldn’t.”

“See, that’s why we work so well together. I recognize your strengths.”

“Or rather, I recognize your weaknesses.”

Smiling over the barb, he flipped open the file folder and scanned the top sheet. “I thought his clothes looked new. Like a con recently out.”

By the time he’d finished reading Gary Ray Trotter’s rap sheet he had eaten the doughnut. He licked the glaze off his fingers. “He didn’t have a very distinguished criminal career,” he remarked as he removed the plastic top from the coffee cup.

“Right. So I don’t get it.”

“ ‘It’?”

DeeDee pulled a chair closer to Duncan’s desk and sat down. “Burglarizing the Lairds’ house seems a trifle ambitious for Gary Ray.”

Duncan shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to go out with a bang.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I couldn’t resist.”

“He’d never been charged with burglary before,” DeeDee said.

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t commit one.”

“No, but from reading his record, he doesn’t come across as the sharpest knife in the drawer. In fact, his first offense at age sixteen was theft of a bulldozer.”

“I thought that was a typo. It really was a bulldozer?”

“He drove it from the road construction site where he was employed as a flagman. You know, orange vest? Waves cars around roadwork?”

“Got it.”

“Okay, so Gary Ray steals a bulldozer and drives it to his folks’ farmhouse, leaves it parked outside. Next morning, the road crew shows up for work, discovers the bulldozer missing, calls the police, who-”

“Followed the tracks straight to it.”

“Duh!” DeeDee exclaimed. “How dumb can you be?”

Duncan laughed. “Where was he going to fence a bulldozer?”

“See what I mean? Our Gary Ray wasn’t too astute. It’s quite a leap from bulldozer theft to breaking into a house with a sophisticated alarm system. It wasn’t set, but Gary Ray didn’t know that when he went at that window with a tire iron.”

Playing devil’s advocate, Duncan said, “He’d had years to perfect his craft.”

“Wouldn’t that include coming prepared? Bringing along the tools of his trade? Let’s say Gary Ray had become a crackerjack burglar. Doubtful, but let’s say. One who knew how to disarm sophisticated alarm systems, cut glass so he could reach in and unlock windows, stuff like that.”

“Your basic Hollywood-heist type with his fancy techno toys.”

“I guess,” she said. “So, anyway, where was Gary Ray’s gear? All he brought with him was that tire iron.”

“And a Ruger nine-millimeter.”

“Well, that. But nothing to pick locks or crack safes. Nothing he could use to break into a desk drawer.”

“Those locks would be simple, the kind you open with a tiny key. Give me a few seconds and I could pick them with a safety pin,” Duncan said.

“Gary Ray didn’t have even that. And another thing, even if you were the dumbest burglar in history, wouldn’t you at least wear gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints?”

None of the points she’d raised were revelations to Duncan. When he’d returned home in the wee hours, he’d made an earnest effort to sleep. But his mind was busy with jumbled thoughts about Elise Laird’s account of the events that had left a man dead, and about the judge’s urgency for them to accept her account without question.

Every discrepancy that DeeDee had cited, he’d already considered. Even before he knew that Gary Ray was an inept criminal, the break-in seemed ill planned and poorly executed. Failure was practically guaranteed.

Nevertheless, he continued to argue the points. “You’re assuming that Gary Ray planned this burglary.” He tapped the folder. “According to this, he was a drug user. He started life stupid and then cooked his few good brain cells with controlled substances.

“Supposing he’s in bad need of a fix, has no money, sees a house that’s bound to have good stuff in it, stuff he can grab quick and fence within a half hour. He could get at least one good toot out of a crystal paperweight or silver candlestick.”

DeeDee thought it over for several moments, then shook her head. “Maybe I’d buy that scenario if he’d been in a commercial area. He pulls a crash-and-snatch on an electronics store or something. Even if the alarm is blaring, he could be in and out in a matter of seconds with a goodie in his pocket.

“But not out there in the burbs,” she went on. “Especially on foot. No one’s found a car attached to him. I checked as soon as I got here this morning. What was he doing in that neighborhood without a getaway car?”

“I wondered about that last night,” Duncan admitted. “It’s been nagging me ever since. How’d he get there and how did he plan to get out?”

“If he didn’t have a car, where’d the tire iron come from?” she asked. “Which, when you think about it, is a pretty clumsy apparatus for a burglar.”

The high humidity had upped the frizz factor of her hair. It swept the air like a stiff broom when she shook her head again. “No, Duncan, something’s out of joint.”

“So what do you think?”

She propped her forearms on the edge of his desk and leaned forward. “I don’t think we’re getting the straight story from the angel-faced Mrs. Laird.”

Dammit, that’s what he thought, too.

He didn’t want to think it. He’d spent the early morning hours trying to convince himself that Elise Laird was as true blue as a nun, had never told a lie in her life, had never even fudged the truth.

But his detective’s gut instinct was telling him otherwise. His master’s degree was telling him otherwise. Fifteen years of police work was telling him that something didn’t gibe, that the judge’s hot tub buddy had intentionally left something out or, worse, made it all up.

Obviously his partner questioned Elise’s veracity, and DeeDee didn’t even know about the private exchange that he’d had with Elise.

He told himself not to read anything into that, that it was irrelevant, and to forget it. However, in addition to sorting through the elements of the shooting incident that didn’t add up, his mind frequently wandered back to that moment when a simple, two-word question had become foreplay.

“Wasn’t it?”

Each time he thought about it-the husky pitch of her voice, the expression in her eyes-he had a profound physical reaction. Like now.

For a cop, it was a bad and dangerous reaction to have to a woman who’d fatally shot a man. For a cop who’d criticized fellow officers for having similar lapses in judgment and morality, it was hypocritical.

It was also damned inconvenient, when DeeDee was sitting across the desk, watching him, waiting for his assessment of Elise Laird’s story.

“What do you know about her?” he asked in a reasonably normal voice. “Her history, I mean.”

“How would I know her history? She and I hardly run in the same circles.”

“You recognized her the night of the awards dinner.”

“From her pictures in the newspaper. If you read something besides the sports page and the crossword puzzle, you would have recognized her, too.”

“She’s featured frequently?”

“Always looking sensational, wearing haute couture, attached at the hip to the judge. She’s definitely a trophy for His Honor.”

“Do some digging. See what you can find on her. I’ll go over to the morgue, goose Dothan into giving priority to Gary Ray Trotter’s autopsy. We’ll compare notes when I get back.” He drained his coffee cup. Then, trying not to appear self-conscious, he stood up and reached for his sport jacket.

“Duncan?”

“Yeah?”

“I just realized something.”

He was afraid DeeDee would say something like, I just realized that you’re sporting a boner for the judge’s wife.

But what she said was, “I just realized that we’re not treating this shooting like it was self-defense. We’re investigating it as something else, aren’t we?”

He almost wished she’d said the other thing.

He called the ME from his car and prevailed upon him to put Gary Ray Trotter at the head of the line. Dr. Dothan Brooks had already opened up the cadaver by the time Duncan arrived.

“So far, all his organs are normal size and weight,” Dothan said over his shoulder as he placed a hunk of tissue on the scale.

Duncan took up a position against the wall, listening and watching as the ME methodically went about his work. He glanced at the cadaver only occasionally. He wasn’t particularly squeamish. In fact, he was fascinated by the information a cadaver could impart.

But his fascination made him feel guilty. He felt like he was no better than people who rushed to the scene of a tragedy in the perverse hope of glimpsing strewn body parts and blood.

The ME finished and turned the human shell over to his assistant to close. After he had washed up, Dothan joined Duncan, who was waiting for him in his office.

“Cause of death was obvious,” he said as he huffed in. “His heart was pulp. Exit wound bigger than a salad plate.”

“Before I got here, did you see any other wounds, bruises, scratches?”

“Was he in a fight, you mean? Struggle of some sort?” He shook his head. “Nothing under his fingernails except your common dirt, and there was gunpowder residue on his right hand. He had a broken toe on his left foot, long time ago. No surgical scars. He hadn’t been circumcised.”

“From how far away would you say he was shot?” Duncan asked.

“Fifteen feet, give or take.”

“About the distance between the door of the study and the desk.” He remembered that DeeDee had measured it at sixteen feet. “So Mrs. Laird was telling the truth.”

“About that.” Dothan unwrapped the corned beef sandwich that had been waiting for him on his desk. “Early lunch. Want half?”

“No, thanks. Do you think Mrs. Laird was lying about something else?”

Brooks took a huge bite, but blotted mustard from the corners of his lips with surprising daintiness. He chewed, swallowed, belched, then said, “Possibly. Maybe not. There’s the question of who fired first.”

“You said Trotter died instantly. Meaning he would have had to shoot first.”

“Then you’ve got to believe he was blind-he wasn’t-or the worst marksman in the history of crime.”

“Maybe he deliberately aimed high. He was only trying to frighten her with a warning shot.”

“Could be,” Dothan said, nodding in time to his chewing. “Or maybe she startled him when she appeared in the doorway. Trotter had a knee-jerk reaction, fired a wild shot.”

“She didn’t startle him. She said she told him to leave. He just stood there, looking at her, then jerked his arm up-that’s the word she used-and fired.”

“Hmm.” The ME talked around a big bite of sandwich. “Then I suppose he was extremely nervous, which would account for his aim being nowhere near her. Another possibility”-he paused to slurp Dr Pepper from a paper cup the size of a small wastebasket-“is that he was in the act of firing when her bullet struck him. His finger reflexively contracted and completed the action that pulled the trigger as he was falling backward.” He swallowed. “Now that I think on it, the angle would be right for where the bullet struck the wall.”

He acted it out, pretending to fall backward, his index finger serving as the barrel of a pretend pistol. As he went back, his aim moved to a spot high on the wall, far above Duncan’s head.

“Could that happen?” Duncan asked. “A reflex like that at the moment your heart is blown to hell?”

Brooks crammed the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth. “I’ve seen fatal bullet wounds with even more bizarre explanations. You wouldn’t believe how far-fetched.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that anything can happen, Detective. But lucky for me, it’s your job to find out what actually did.”

“I’ve put them in the sunroom, Mrs. Laird.”

“That’s fine.”

Mrs. Berry had come upstairs to inform her that the same detectives who’d been at the house the night before were downstairs and had asked to see her. “Could you please bring in some refreshments? Diet Coke and iced tea.”

The formidable housekeeper nodded. “Shall I tell them you’ll be right down?”

“Please.”

Elise shut the bedroom door, then stood there, wondering what questions the detectives would be asking today.

Hadn’t they believed her last night?

If they had, they wouldn’t be back today, would they?

Loose ends, Detective Hatcher had said. The term could cover any number of inconsequential nagging details. Or it could be an understatement for discrepancies of major importance.

She feared the latter.

That’s what had prompted her to go see Savich this morning. It had been risky, but she’d wanted to contact him as soon as possible, and using the telephone could have been even chancier than driving to his place of business. She didn’t trust that the home telephone would not be tapped, and cell phone calls could be traced.

Cato had got up at his normal time and quietly dressed for work. She’d pretended to be asleep until he left the bedroom. Then, as soon as his car had cleared the driveway, she had dressed quickly and left the house, hoping to complete the errand and return home before Mrs. Berry arrived for the day.

Keeping a watchful eye in the rearview mirror, she’d been confident that no one had followed her. Despite her haste, she had heeded the speed limits, not wanting to be stopped for a traffic ticket that she would have to explain to Cato.

She had returned home only minutes ahead of the housekeeper and had remained in her bedroom ever since, pacing, playing over in her mind the events of the previous night, trying to decide what her next course of action should be.

Detective Bowen and Duncan Hatcher were waiting for her downstairs. She dreaded the interview, but further delay would look suspicious. She went to her dressing table, gathered her hair into a ponytail, considered changing clothes, then decided not to take the time. She picked up a tube of lip gloss, but changed her mind about that, too. Detective Bowen would find fault with her vanity, and Duncan Hatcher…

What did he think of her? she wondered. Really think of her.

She deliberated that for several precious moments, then, before she could talk herself out of it, did one thing more before leaving the bedroom.

The sunroom was a glass-enclosed portion of the terrace, floored in Pennsylvania bluestone, furnished with wicker pieces that had floral print cushions. Mrs. Berry was better with plants than with people. Ferns and palms and other potted tropicals flourished under her care.

When Elise entered the room, DeeDee Bowen was seated in one of the chairs facing the door. Duncan was standing at the wall of windows looking out over the terrace and swimming pool, seemingly captivated by the fountain at the center of it.

Detective Bowen stood up. “Hello, Mrs. Laird. We apologize for showing up unannounced. Is this an inconvenient time?”

“Not at all.”

Upon hearing her name, Duncan turned away from the window. Elise glanced at him, then came into the room and joined Detective Bowen in the sitting area.

“Mrs. Berry will be here shortly with something to drink,” she said, motioning Detective Bowen back into her chair, then sat down in one facing it.

“That’ll be nice. It’s so hot out.”

“Yes.”

Having exhausted the topic of the weather, they lapsed into an awkward silence. Elise was aware of Duncan, still standing near the window, watching her. She resisted looking in his direction.

Finally Bowen said, “We have a few more questions.”

“Before leaving last night you implied that you would.”

“Just a few things we’d like to clear up.”

“I understand.”

“Overnight, did you think of anything you left out? Something that may have slipped your mind?”

“No.”

“That can happen in stressful situations.” The woman smiled at her. “I’ve had people call me in the middle of the night, suddenly remembering a detail they’d forgotten.”

“I told you what I remembered exactly as I remembered it.”

The soft rattle of glassware announced the arrival of a serving cart, pushed into the room by Mrs. Berry. “Shall I serve, Mrs. Laird?” Her voice was as chilly as the condensation on the ice bucket. Elise wasn’t sure if she was disdainful of their guests, or her. Probably both.

“No, thank you.” Welcoming a chance to move and get out from under the scrutiny of the detectives, she left her chair and approached the cart. “I believe you prefer Diet Coke, Detective Bowen?”

“Sounds great.”

Elise poured the cola over a glass of ice and carried it to her. She accepted it with an easy smile, which Elise instantly mistrusted. Then she turned and looked up at Duncan Hatcher. His eyes were still on her. Unblinking. Intent. “Something for you?”

He glanced at the cart. “Is that tea?”

“It’s sweetened. Mrs. Berry thinks that’s the only way to make it.”

“That’s the only way my mom makes it, too. Sweetened is fine.” His smile was as easy as DeeDee Bowen’s, but Elise trusted it even less. It never reached his eyes.

She wondered if the decision she’d made before coming downstairs was a foolhardy one.

Of course, it would have been more foolhardy not to do anything.

She poured Duncan Hatcher a glass of iced tea and was passing it to him when Cato strode into the room. “Apparently I didn’t receive the memo.”