Ricochet

Chapter 6

“OR DID YOU JUST HAPPEN TO BE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD?” the judge added with less civility.

Yep, he’s angry, DeeDee thought. Just as Duncan had predicted he would be once he learned that they’d questioned his wife-or tried to-without his being present. They had the right to, of course, but had agreed to avoid ruffling the judge’s feathers if at all possible.

Mrs. What’s-her-name, the housekeeper, must have called him immediately upon their arrival, probably even before she went upstairs to tell Elise Laird they were here. It was clear that the domestic’s loyalty lay with the judge and that she seemed to have little regard for his missus.

Elise offered to pour her husband a glass of tea.

“No, thank you.” He kissed her on the lips, then pulled back and stroked her cheek. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine.”

“Still shaken?”

“I think I will be for a while.”

“Understandable.”

He guided her down onto the settee that was barely wide enough to accommodate both of them, pulled her hand onto his knee, and covered it with his. “What would you like to know?”

DeeDee saw Duncan ’s jaw tense. He said, “I’d like to know if you want to call a lawyer before we begin. We’ll be happy to wait until one arrives.”

The judge replied crisply, “That won’t be necessary. But to show up here unannounced was a cheap trick and, frankly, beneath you, Detective Hatcher.”

“My apologies to you and to Mrs. Laird.” Duncan sat down in one of the wicker armchairs facing the couple. “The name of the man who died in your study last night was Gary Ray Trotter.”

Like Duncan, DeeDee closely watched their faces for any giveaway sign of recognition. There wasn’t so much as a flicker, not in the judge’s implacable stare, not in Elise Laird’s limpid green eyes.

The judge glanced down at his wife. Reading his silent question, she shook her head. Looking back at them, he said, “We don’t know him. I thought we’d made that clear to you last night.”

“We hoped the name might jog your memory, remind you-”

“Obviously not, Detective Bowen,” the judge said, cutting her off.

“A lot of people have been shuttled through your courtroom,” Duncan said. “Trotter was a repeat offender. Perhaps he’d come before your bench.”

“I would remember.”

“You remember every party to every case you’ve ever tried?” DeeDee said. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

He fired another impatient glance at her, then addressed himself to Duncan. “He was a repeat offender? Then what more is there to discuss? This Trotter broke into my house, fired a handgun at my wife, forcing her to protect herself. Thank God her aim was better than his. He died, she didn’t. Don’t expect me to cry over him.”

“I don’t expect that at all.”

The judge took a slow, deep breath as though to calm himself. “Then I guess I don’t understand why you’re here today. Why do you feel it necessary to make Elise relive this terrifying event?”

“We have some points that need clarification before we close the case,” DeeDee said.

“Elise told you everything she had to tell you last night. As a judge who’s heard years of courtroom testimony, I can honestly say that her account of what happened was comprehensive.”

“I agree, and we appreciate her cooperation last night,” DeeDee said to the couple, smiling at both. “Identifying Gary Ray Trotter has answered some of our outstanding questions, but created others, I’m afraid.”

“Such as?”

DeeDee laughed softly. “Well, Judge, he wasn’t a very accomplished crook. In fact, he was pretty much a loser, who couldn’t even hack it as a criminal.”

“So?”

“So Detective Hatcher and I were wondering why he chose your house to burglarize.”

“I have no idea.”

“Neither do we,” DeeDee said bluntly. “Trotter had a criminal history dating back to adolescence. Robbery mostly. But he was a goof. For instance, he once walked into a convenience store with a stick in his pocket in lieu of a pistol and demanded the money in the till. But he paid for the gas he pumped into his getaway car with his sister’s credit card.”

The judge smiled wryly. “Which I think explains why he failed as a crook.”

“I guess,” DeeDee exclaimed on a short laugh. “I mean, last night he didn’t even bring along gloves or robber paraphernalia of any kind. Can you believe that? Sort of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

Then she dropped her smile. “What the heck Gary Ray Trotter was doing in your study.”

After a moment of taut silence, the judge said, “I know one thing he did. He tried to kill my wife.”

Duncan pounced on that. “Which is another thing we must clear up, Mrs. Laird.”

“What needs clearing up?” the judge asked.

“Are you absolutely certain that Trotter fired first?”

“Of course she’s certain.”

“I asked her, Judge.”

“My wife has been through a terrible ordeal.”

“And I’ve got a job to do,” Duncan fired back. “That involves asking her some tough questions. If you haven’t got the stomach for it, Judge, you can leave.”

Elise held up her hand, stopping the judge from saying whatever he was about to say in response to Duncan’s angry put-down. “Please, Cato. I want to answer their questions. I don’t want there to be any doubt as to what happened.” She had addressed her husband by name, but DeeDee noticed that her green gaze didn’t waver from Duncan’s face, nor his from hers.

“As I told you last night,” she said, “when I accidentally switched on the foyer light-”

“Excuse me. Do you mind talking us through it where it happened?”

“In the study?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.”

“It will be very difficult for Elise to go into that room until it’s been cleaned, rid of all reminders of what happened in it,” the judge said.

“I realize it won’t be easy,” Duncan said. But he didn’t withdraw the request.

The judge looked at his wife. “Elise?”

“I want to help in any way I can.”

The four of them made their way into the foyer. Duncan approached the fancy console table. Beneath the marble top was a slender drawer that ran the width of the table. “You took the pistol from this drawer?”

“Yes, I came out of the butler’s pantry through that door,” she replied, pointing. “I paused there a moment. I didn’t hear anything, but, as I told you last night, I sensed a presence in the study. I went to the table to get the pistol.”

Duncan fingered one of the drawer pulls. “Did you make any noise?”

“I don’t think so. I tried not to.”

“Did you close the drawer?”

“I…I don’t remember,” she said, faltering. “I don’t believe I did.”

“She didn’t,” the judge said. “It was open when the first two policemen arrived in response to the 911. I remember pointing it out to them.”

DeeDee made a mental note to read the report filed by Officers Beale and Crofton.

Duncan resumed. “You walked from the table to the door of the study.”

“Yes.”

“Were you wearing slippers?”

“I was barefoot.”

“Do you think Trotter heard you approaching?” Duncan asked. “Or did he have no inkling you were there and aware of him until the light came on?”

“If he’d heard me coming toward the study, why didn’t he just scramble out the window?”

“That was going to be my next question,” Duncan said with a guileless smile.

“Then I must have startled him by switching on the light,” Elise said. “When it came on, he froze.”

“This is the switch plate?” Duncan flipped one switch, and the overhead light in the study came on. The other turned on a fixture in the foyer directly above their heads. He looked up at the light, then into the study. “DeeDee, would you play Trotter? Go stand behind the desk.”

She peeled away the crime scene tape that formed an X in the open doorway, then went into the study and took a position behind the desk.

Duncan said, “Is that about where he was standing?”

Elise replied with a slight nod.

“What was he doing, Mrs. Laird?”

“Nothing. Only standing there looking at me. Staring, like a deer caught in headlights.”

“Was he leaning over the desk, like he’d been trying to jimmy the lock on the drawer?”

“It took several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. Maybe he was bending over the desk drawer, I don’t know. The first mental picture I have of him is his standing there behind the desk, looking at me, motionless.”

“Huh.” Duncan looked toward DeeDee behind the desk as though imagining Gary Ray Trotter. “And what was it he said?” He came back around to Elise.

She didn’t flinch and she didn’t hesitate. “He didn’t say anything, Detective Hatcher. I told you that last night.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “Right. You did. But you spoke to him, correct? You ordered him to leave.”

“Yes.”

“Did he make a move toward the window?”

“No. He didn’t move at all except to raise his arm. Suddenly. Like a string attached to his elbow had been yanked.”

“Like this?” DeeDee demonstrated the motion.

“Something like that, yes. And before it even registered with me that he was holding a pistol, he fired it.” She placed a hand at her throat as though suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

The judge moved closer and slid his arm around her waist.

Duncan asked, “Mrs. Laird, is it possible that he was firing a warning shot, meant only to try and scare you?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“Did you feel in mortal danger?”

“I assumed I was. It all happened very fast.”

“But not so fast that you didn’t have time to ‘assume’ that you were in mortal danger.”

“That’s a reasonable assumption, isn’t it, Detective?” the judge asked, sounding vexed. “If a man who’s broken into your house fires a pistol, even if his aim is lousy, isn’t it logical to assume that your life is in danger and to act accordingly?”

“It seems logical, yes,” DeeDee said. “But Dr. Brooks had another theory worth considering. He suggested that maybe Trotter was falling backward when he fired his pistol, that reflexively his finger clenched on the trigger. That would explain his aim being so far off.”

Duncan was staring hard at Elise. “But that would mean that you had shot at him first.”

“But she didn’t,” the judge said. “She’s told you that a dozen times. Why do you keep hammering away at this?”

Duncan tore his gaze from Elise Laird’s stricken face and looked at the judge. “Because I’ve got to have a clear understanding of what happened. I dislike having to put these questions to Mrs. Laird. But I was there this morning when the autopsy was performed on Gary Ray Trotter’s corpse. I feel I owe it to him, crook or not, to determine how and why he wound up like that. You’re a public official, Judge. You have an obligation to the public to do your duty. So do I. Sometimes it’s no fun at all. In fact, most of the time it’s not.”

He turned back to Elise. “Are you absolutely certain that Trotter fired at you first?”

“Absolutely.”

“There. That ends it.” The judge’s statement was followed by a tense stretch of silence. Finally he said, “I admire your sense of duty, Detective Hatcher. I appreciate your quest for the truth. Elise and I have done everything within our power to help you perform your unpleasant duties.

“Haven’t you stopped to consider that we would like a full explanation for what happened here last night, too? We would like that perhaps even more than you and Detective Bowen. Elise has been as straightforward as she could possibly be. Are you now satisfied that it was a break-in that went awry?”

Duncan let the question hover there for at least fifteen seconds before answering, “I believe so, yes.”

My ass, thought DeeDee.

The judge said, “Good. Then if that’s all, I hope you’ll excuse us.” He turned, ready to escort them out, when Elise forestalled him.

“I’d like to know…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, tried again. “I’d like to know if Trotter had a family. A wife, children?”

“No,” Duncan said. “His closest relative was an uncle up in Maryland.”

“I’m glad of that. I would have hated…that.”

“May I show you out now?” The judge started down the hall, expecting them to follow.

DeeDee came from behind the desk. As she moved past Elise, Elise reached for her hand. “Detective Bowen, I want to echo what my husband said. I know you’re only doing your job.”

Surprised by the move, DeeDee tried to think of something neutral to say that would be a fitting response, whether Elise was lying or telling the truth. “This can’t be easy for you, either.”

“It isn’t, but if I think of anything to add, I promise to call you.”

“That would be helpful.”

“Do you have a business card?”

“Right here.” Duncan plucked one from the breast pocket of his jacket and passed it to her.

“Thank you, Detective Hatcher.” Taking the card, she shook hands with him, too.

DeeDee was as bouncy as one of those fuzzy orange dogs that look like manic powder puffs. An ex-girlfriend had owned one. The damn thing had barked nonstop. Most hyper animal Duncan had ever been around. Until today. DeeDee was practically jumping out of her skin.

“She’s hiding something, Duncan. I know it. I feel it in my bones.”

DeeDee’s “bones” were rarely wrong. In this particular case, he hoped they were. He wanted to close this case with dispatch and remain in the judge’s good graces. He’d never been a big fan of Judge Cato Laird, believing that often he talked out both sides of his mouth. Tough on crime and criminals one day, favoring the protection of their civil rights the next. His opinions seemed to drift along with the ebb and flow of public opinion, adhering only to the majority rule of the moment.

Duncan couldn’t admire a man to whom popularity was more important than conviction, but he supposed in order to win elections, the judge had to practice politics. And he certainly didn’t want a superior court judge as an enemy. That’s what he was likely to become if he continued hassling the judge’s wife because of what his partner felt in her bones.

Unfortunately, his bones were feeling the same thing. Especially after that last interview.

He jerked the steering wheel to the right and crossed two lanes of traffic to the accompaniment of blaring horns and shouted invectives. DeeDee gripped the armrest of the passenger door.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m thirsty.” The car jounced over the curb as he came close to missing the entrance to a McDonald’s.

“You had sweetened iced tea. ‘Mrs. Berry thinks that’s the only way to make it,’ ” she said, batting her eyelashes and mocking Elise Laird’s drawl.

“I was served iced tea. I didn’t drink it. Besides, aren’t you overdue a shot of caffeine? Not that you need it,” he added under his breath as he leaned toward the speaker to place their order.

“Should we go back and talk to some of the neighbors?” DeeDee asked.

“What good would that do? They were canvassed last night. None reported a recent burglary or break-in. No one saw Gary Ray Trotter lurking around the neighborhood. Nobody heard anything out of the ordinary last night.”

“Maybe Mrs. Laird opened the door and invited him in.”

“That’s a real stretch, DeeDee.”

After picking up their drinks at the window, he got back onto the street and rapidly closed in on the bumper of a soccer mom’s van. “What is with everybody today?” he said as he went around the van. “People are driving like there’s ice on the road.”

“What’s your hurry?” DeeDee asked.

He whipped into another lane in order to go around a slow-moving parochial school bus. “No hurry. I just hate this damn traffic.”

Heedless of his complaining, DeeDee said, “Okay, so maybe she didn’t welcome Trotter like a guest; there’s still something wrong with that picture.”

“I’ll bite. What makes you think so?”

“Generally-”

“Don’t be general. Be specific.”

“Okay. Specifically, her reaction when you raised the question of her firing her pistol ahead of Trotter. She went whey-faced.”

He supposed that “whey-faced” was one way to accurately describe Elise’s expression. “I pushed pretty hard. She stuck to her story.”

“Most good liars do.”

“You think she’s lying?”

“Maybe not lying,” DeeDee said. “Just not telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“You’re getting general again. Give me an example.”

“I don’t know. I can’t be specific,” she said, matching his irritability. “She just doesn’t act like a woman who killed a hapless burglar last night.”

“She didn’t know he was hapless. Gary Ray Trotter didn’t look like a screwup when he was standing in her house, in the dark, firing a weapon at her. Do you think she should have waited to shoot him until after she’d seen his résumé?”

His sarcasm earned him a glare.

“And she was concerned enough to ask if Trotter had a family,” he pointed out. “It bothered her to think she might have orphaned some kids.”

“I’ll admit that was a nice touch.”

“Why do you think it was a ‘touch’?”

“Why are you defending her?”

“I’m not.”

“Sure sounds like it to me.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you’re doing just the opposite. You think everything she says and does is disingenuous.”

“Not everything. For instance, I believe that she was barefoot.”

This time, she was on the receiving end of a baleful look.

“All I’m saying,” she continued, “is that I believe the sweet remark about Trotter’s family was made for your benefit.”

“My benefit?”

“Oh, please, Duncan. Wake up. She answers my questions, but whenever she wants to stress a point, such as her truthfulness, she looks at you.”

“You’re imagining that.”

“Like hell, I am. The lady knows on which side to butter her bread.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re a man.”

“Which, in the context of this discussion, is beside the point.”

“Right.” She used the tone she did whenever he denied knowing how to play the piano. For the next several moments, she was deep in thought, poking at the ice cubes in her drink with her straw. “You know what else? I think suspicion has reared its ugly head to the judge.”

“Now I know you’re seeing things that aren’t there,” he said. “He’s never more than half a foot away from her, treats her like she’s made of porcelain.”

“True. He’s very protective. Almost as though he’s afraid she might need his protection.”

“He’s her husband.”

“He’s also a judge who’s listened to hours of sworn testimony in his courtroom, as he reminded us today. He commended her comprehensive recall. But you can bet he also knows a lie when he hears one. And he got awfully defensive when we advanced Dothan’s theory about Trotter having been shot and reflexively pulling the trigger on his way down. Judge Laird pooh-poohed it without further explanation or discussion. His wife didn’t fire first. Period. The end.” She paused for breath. “Which leads me to believe that His Honor may be questioning his wife’s story.”

They arrived at the Barracks. Duncan pulled his car into a slot in the parking lot, but neither of them made a move to get out. He leaned forward, crossed his arms over the steering wheel, and stared through the windshield at the civilians and police personnel going in and out of the Habersham Street entrance.

He felt DeeDee’s eyes on him, but he let her be the first to break the weighty silence. “Look, Duncan, I know it’s hard to get past that face. That body. Although I know there’s been speculation about my sexual orientation from yahoos like Worley, I’m straight. But being straight doesn’t make me blind to Elise Laird’s appeal. I can appreciate-okay, appreciate and envy-the way she looks and the effect she has on the opposite sex. There, I’ve been honest. Now you, in turn, must be honest with me.”

She paused, but when he said nothing, she continued. “Can you honestly, cross-your-heart-and-

hope-to-die honestly, be objective when you look at her?”

“I’m a cop.”

“With a penis. And that particular organ is notorious for having lapses in judgment.”

He turned and looked at her then. “Have you ever, ever known me to compromise an investigation?”

“No. With you it’s either wrong or right, black or white, no gray areas. That’s why as soon as I made detective I petitioned hard to become your partner.”

“So where’s this coming from?”

“We’ve never investigated a case involving a woman that you’re attracted to. And you were attracted to Elise Laird the instant you saw her at the awards dinner. You can’t deny that.”

“She was a pretty face in the crowd.”

“Who you compared to a lightning strike.”

“That was before I knew her name. It was for sure as hell before she shot and killed a man.”

“So your attraction to her died along with Trotter? No lingering groin tugs in that direction?”

He used his thumb to whisk beads of sweat off his forehead. “The lady is poison, DeeDee. Don’t you think I know that?”

Her frown told him that wasn’t exactly a direct answer to her question and that she still needed convincing.

“First of all,” he said, “she’s married.”

“To a man you despise.”

“Irrelevant.”

“I wonder.”

“Irrelevant,” he repeated with emphasis. DeeDee didn’t come back with further argument, but she still looked doubtful. He said, “I’ve had my share of girlfriends and short-term bed partners.”

“An understatement.”

“Name one who was married.”

She stayed silent.

“Exactly,” he said. “I’ve massaged the issue of sexual morality to fit my lifestyle and to satisfy the urge of the moment, but I draw the line at adultery, DeeDee.”

She nodded. “Okay, I believe you. But if she wasn’t married-”

“She’s still a principal in an active investigation.”

DeeDee’s face brightened. “Active. Does that mean we’re not closing the book on it just yet?”

“No,” he said heavily. “Not yet. Like you, I sense there’s something out of joint.”

“It’s her. She’s…what was your fifty-cent word? Disingenuous?”

“The background check you ran on her didn’t produce much, did it?”

She ticked off on her fingers the facts she’d learned about Elise Laird. “She has no arrest record, no outstanding debts, and there was nothing printed about her in the local newspaper before she married Laird. She came out of nowhere.”

“Nobody comes out of nowhere.”

DeeDee thought about it for a moment. “I’ve got a friend with ties to the society set. Often the best source of information is good old-fashioned gossip.”

“Keep the inquiry discreet.”

“I won’t even have to ask for info. Once I mention Elise Laird’s name, I bet I get an earful. This friend thrives on gossip.”

They got out, but as they approached the steps of the entrance, Duncan continued down the sidewalk. DeeDee asked where he was going.

“I’m days overdue calling my folks. I can talk to them easier out here than in the office with all the commotion.”

She went inside. Duncan followed the sidewalk around to the front of the building that faced Oglethorpe Avenue, walked past the black-and-white 1953 squad car that was parked out front like a mascot, and continued on until he reached the middle of the block, where there was a gated entrance to the Colonial Park Cemetery.

A few stalwart tourists braving the afternoon heat were taking pictures, reading the historical plaques, and trying to decipher the inscriptions carved into the grave markers. He made his way to one of the shaded wood benches and sat down, but he didn’t reach for his cell phone to call his parents. Instead he sat there and stared at the leaning headstones and crumbling brick vaults.

He could imagine the ghosts of fallen Revolutionary War heroes staring back at him expectantly, waiting to see what he would do. Would he do what he knew to be right? Or, for the first time in his career, would he violate the dictates of his conscience?

Above the nearby rooftops were the twin spires of St. John the Baptist cathedral, serving as another reminder that to transgress was a matter of choice.

Despite these silent warnings, he reached into his trousers pocket and withdrew the note he’d put there after having it surreptitiously slipped to him by Elise Laird when they shook hands.

He’d felt it immediately, sandwiched between their palms. She’d clasped his hand tightly so the note couldn’t fall to the floor and give her away. Her eyes had begged him not to.

Despite her pleading gaze, he should have acknowledged the note right then. If not immediately, then surely as soon as he and DeeDee were alone. He should have told his partner about it, opened it, read it for the first time along with her.

But he hadn’t.

Now, it seemed as hot as a cinder lying in his palm. He turned it over several times, examining it. The single white sheet had been folded over twice to form a small square. It weighed practically nothing. It looked innocuous enough, but he knew better. No matter what it said, it meant trouble for him.

If it contained information on last night’s shooting, it amounted to evidence, which he was already guilty of withholding.

If it was personal, well, that would be even more compromising.

The first instance would be a legal matter. The second, a moral one.

It wasn’t too late to show it to DeeDee now. He could invent an excuse for not having shown it to her sooner, which she probably wouldn’t believe but would readily accept because she would be so curious to read the contents of the note. They would open it, read it, and together analyze its meaning.

Short of that, and almost as honorable an action, he could destroy it and go to his grave wondering what it had said.

Instead, with damp hands, shortness of breath, and a rapidly beating heart, with the spirits of the nation’s founders watching with stern disapproval, and the church spires pointing heavenward as though bringing his error to God’s attention, he slowly unfolded the note. The words had been written in a neat script.

I must see you alone. Please.