Ricochet

Chapter 7

Elise was watching a movie on DVD. It was the film version of a Jane Austen novel. She’d seen it at least a dozen times and could practically quote the dialogue. The costumes and sets were lavish. The cinematography was gorgeous. The tribulations suffered by the heroine were superficial and easily solved. The outcome was happy.

Unlike real life. Which is why she liked the story so well.

“I was right,” Cato announced as he entered the den, where there was a wide-screen TV and her sizable library of DVDs.

She reached for the remote and muted the audio. “About what?”

He sat down beside her on the sofa. “Gary Ray Trotter was never in my courtroom. As soon as the detectives left, I called my office and ordered that the records be searched. Thoroughly. I never presided over the trial of a Gary Ray Trotter.”

“Would you know if he was ever called as a witness in another trial?”

“Determining that would take more man-hours than I’m willing to invest. Besides, I’m almost certain that what I told the detectives is correct. I’d never seen the man before. You said you didn’t recognize him either.”

“I said it because it’s true.”

After a beat, he said, “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, Elise.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so short.”

“You have reason to be.” He kissed her gently. When they pulled apart, she asked if he would like a drink. “I’d love one, thank you.”

She went to the small wet bar, picked up a heavy crystal decanter of scotch, and tilted the spout against a highball glass.

“Do you know Robert Savich?”

Elise nearly dropped the decanter. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Savich. Ever hear of him?”

She redirected her attention to pouring scotch. “Hmm, the name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“It should. He’s in the news now and again. He’s a drug kingpin. Among other things.”

Keeping her expression impassive, she plunked two cubes of ice into his drink, carried it with her back to the sofa, and passed it to him. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

He took a sip, pronounced it perfect, and kept his eyes trained on her over the top of the glass. “Savich is the reason Hatcher is being so rough on you.”

She picked up a throw pillow and hugged it against her chest. “What does one have to do with the other?”

“Remember I told you that I’d found Hatcher in contempt of court and put him in jail?”

“You said he was upset over a mistrial.”

“Savich’s.”

“Oh.”

“Detective Hatcher is still holding a grudge against me,” Cato said. “You’re catching the brunt of it.”

She threaded the fringe on the pillow through her fingers. “He’s only doing his job.”

“I grant that he has to ask difficult questions in any investigation, but he’s had you on the defensive from the get-go. His partner, too.”

“Detective Bowen doesn’t like me at all.”

“Jealousy,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “She’s pea green with it, and one can clearly see why. But she’s insignificant.”

“That’s not the impression I get,” Elise murmured, remembering the suspicion with which the other woman had looked at her, last night and today.

“Bowen has earned some commendations, as you know. But Hatcher is the standard by which she measures herself.” Chuckling, he rattled the ice cubes in his glass. “And he’s a tough yardstick.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s smart, and he’s an honest cop. Bowen looks up to him. His allies are hers. That goes double for his enemies.”

“I doubt he thinks of you as an enemy, Cato.”

“Maybe that word is a bit strong, but he has a long-standing gripe with me, and now he’s taking it out on you.”

“There’s more water under the bridge than this recent mistrial?”

“I’ve heard of his rumblings. He thinks I’m not tough enough.” He shrugged as if the criticism didn’t concern him. “That’s a common complaint from hard-nosed cops.”

“He’s hardly Dirty Harry.”

He smiled at her analogy. “No, he’s not that hard-nosed. In fact, the man’s a contradiction. Once, when he was testifying at the trial of an accused child killer, he got tears in his eyes when he described the crime scene, the small body of the victim. To see him that day on the witness stand, you’d think he was a softie.

“But I’ve heard that he assumes another personality when he’s questioning a suspect, particularly when he knows the suspect is lying or giving him the runaround. It’s said he can lose his temper and even get physical.” He stroked her hair. “You got a glimpse of that side of him today, didn’t you?”

“I never felt physically threatened,” she said, only half in jest.

Cato responded in kind. “He wouldn’t dare. But the way he was questioning you about who fired first, you or that Trotter character, bordered on harassment.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully. “A call to his supervisor, Bill Gerard, or even to Chief Taylor may be in order.”

“Please don’t.”

Her sharp tone surprised him. “Why not?”

“Because…” She stopped to think of a plausible answer. “Because I don’t want to draw attention to the incident. I don’t want more made of it than already has been.”

Studying her, he set his drink on the coffee table and curved his hand around her neck. His fingers were very cold. “What are you afraid of, Elise?”

Her heart somersaulted, but she managed to form a puzzled smile. “I’m not afraid.”

“Are you afraid that the questions Hatcher and Bowen are asking about last night may lead to…something? Something uglier than what happened?”

“What could be uglier than a man dying?”

He studied her for several seconds, then smiled at her tenderly. “You’re right. Never mind. Silly thought.” He released her and stood up. “Finish your movie. Would you like Mrs. Berry to bring you something?”

She declined with a shake of her head.

He picked up his highball glass and carried it with him. At the door, he turned back. “Darling?”

“Yes?”

“If you hadn’t been downstairs last night, this incident would have been avoided. Trotter may have burglarized us, but that wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Everything is well insured. Perhaps from now on, you should confine your strolls through the house in the middle of the night to the upper floor.”

She gave him a weak smile. “That’s probably a good idea.”

He returned her smile and seemed about to go, when he hesitated a second time. “You know…another reason for Hatcher’s badgering.”

“What?”

“It gives him an excuse to look at you.” He chuckled. “Poor bastard.”

Duncan was in his office, seated at his littered desk, shuffling through telephone messages, trying to look busy for the benefit of DeeDee and the other detectives who were at their desks that afternoon, and wishing like hell that he’d never opened that note.

He couldn’t guess at Elise Laird’s purpose for passing it to him. But the result was that it had convinced him that her explanation for the shooting of Gary Ray Trotter was bogus. There was more to it than the luck of a dumb crook finally running out. If it had been strictly a matter of self-defense, she wouldn’t be slipping a note to the detective overseeing the investigation, asking him to meet her alone.

Which was not going to happen.

It wasn’t.

He pushed aside the unanswered telephone messages, propped his feet on top of his desk, and reached for a yellow legal tablet on which to jot down thoughts as they came to him.

In addition to the note, there were other reasons he-and DeeDee-found Elise Laird’s story hard to accept. One was the burglary itself. It seemed odd that Trotter was on foot in a classy neighborhood like Ardsley Park. The residential area was demarcated by busy boulevards, but the streets within the area didn’t invite pedestrians other than moms pushing baby strollers or people out getting their exercise. A man walking the streets a half hour after midnight would arouse immediate suspicion. A seasoned crook-even an unsuccessful one-would know that and have a getaway car parked nearby.

Also, it was an outlandish coincidence that Trotter had chosen to break into that house on the one night, out of all nights, that Mrs. Laird had forgotten to engage the alarm system.

Okay, so wine and sex could make you lazy. But her satiation hadn’t overcome her insomnia. She hadn’t drifted off into a peaceful, postcoital slumber. No, she’d gone downstairs for a glass of milk to help her fall asleep. Wouldn’t roaming around in the dark house have reminded her that she had failed to set the alarm?

Second, when she heard a noise coming from the study, why hadn’t she crept back into the kitchen and used the telephone to dial 911? Why had her first reaction been to grab a pistol and confront the intruder?

Third, Trotter didn’t seem like a guy who would brazen it out if caught red-handed. He seemed the type to tuck tail and get the hell outta there. Only a supremely confident burglar would stick around and have a face-off, especially if he was there only to steal something.

Duncan ’s mind stumbled over that thought. Mentally he backtracked and looked at it again. He underlined if he was there only to steal something, then drew a large question mark beside it.

“Hey, Dunk.”

Another detective popped his head inside the door. His name was Harvey Reynolds, but everyone called him Kong because of his gorilla-like pelt. Every inch of exposed skin was covered in thick, curly black hair. No one dared speculate on what the unexposed parts of his body looked like.

His apelike appearance was further enhanced by his thick neck, barrel chest, and short legs. Despite his intimidating appearance, he couldn’t be a nicer guy. He coached Little League for his twin sons’ team and was dotty over his homely wife, believing himself lucky to have won such a prize as she. Duncan, who’d met the lady on several occasions, agreed with Kong. She was a prize. It was clear the couple were nuts about each other.

“Can I bend your ear for a minute?”

Duncan was eager to get back to examining that last niggling thought he’d written down, but he tossed the legal tablet onto his desk and motioned Kong in. “What’s the Little League team selling this week? Candy bars? Magazine subscriptions?”

Kong gave him a good-natured grin. “Citrus fruit from the valley.”

“What valley?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I’ll hit you up for that later. This is business.” Kong worked missing persons in the special victims unit, or SVU. Sometimes their cases overlapped. He pulled up a chair and straddled it backward, folding his hirsute arms over it. “Anything cooking on Savich since the mistrial?”

“Not even a simmer.”

“Bitch of a turn.”

“Tell me.”

“He never got nailed for those other two…uh…Bonnet, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, and a guy named Chet Rollins before him,” Duncan said tightly.

“Right. Wasn’t ever indicted for those, was he?”

Duncan shook his head.

“I thought you had him for sure this time. Is he gonna get away with doing Freddy Morris, too?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Limp-dick DA,” Kong muttered.

Duncan shrugged. “He says he’s hamstrung till we come up with something solid.”

“Yeah, but still…Feds have anything?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“They still steamed?”

“Oh, yeah. Breaks my heart. They never call, never write.”

Kong chuckled. “Well, anything that I can do to help you nail that son of a bitch Savich…”

“Thanks.” Duncan hitched his chin at the sheet of paper in Kong’s shaggy clutch. “What’s up?”

“Meyer Napoli.”

Duncan guffawed. “You must have been out overturning rocks today.”

Meyer Napoli was well known to the police department. He was a private investigator who specialized in fleecing his clients of huge sums of money by doing practically nothing except making guarantees that he rarely fulfilled.

It wasn’t unlike him to work both ends against the middle. If hired by a wife to get the goods on an unfaithful husband, Napoli was known to go to said husband and, for a fee, promise to return to the wife empty-handed. He also usually consoled the brokenhearted wife in a way that made her feel like a desirable woman again.

“Which rock did you find Napoli under?”

Kong tugged on his earlobe, from which a crop of black bristles sprouted. “Well, that’s the problem. I didn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Napoli’s secretary called us this morning, said Napoli failed to show up at his office for a meeting with a client. She called his house and his cell phone a dozen times apiece, but failed to raise him. That never happens. He stays in touch, she said. Always. No exceptions.

“So she went over to his place to see if he was dead or something. No trace of him. That’s when she called us. She’s been calling every hour since, insisting that something has happened to him. Said he wouldn’t miss a morning of appointments with clients, no matter what. According to her, he never takes a sick day or vacation, and even if he did, he wouldn’t without letting her know.

“She was bugging us so bad, hell, I gave in. I went over to his office and explained that unless there’s evidence of foul play, we don’t consider an adult officially missing unless it’s been twenty-four hours since he was last seen. She said there was nothing at his house to indicate foul play, but something bad must’ve happened to him or else he’d be at work.”

Duncan figured Kong had a good reason for telling him all this, and he wished he’d get to the point. His stomach had reminded him that it was past suppertime. It had been a very long day after a very short night. He was ready to take home some carry-out chicken, crack a beer, maybe play the piano to help him do some free associating about Trotter, specifically what he was doing in the Lairds’ house and why he hadn’t made a dash for it when he was caught.

He also needed to think about Elise Laird’s note, why she’d given it to him, and why he hadn’t shared it with his partner.

Kong was still talking. “I figured Napoli ’s private office would be sacrosanct. Locked down, you know? But his secretary was so flustered, she didn’t notice that I was scanning the paperwork on his desk while she was wringing her hands, wondering where her boss is at.”

At this point, Kong produced the sheet of paper he’d brought in with him. Duncan saw on it a typewritten list of names. “I memorized some of the names I saw on paperwork scattered across Napoli ’s desk,” Kong explained. “Typed up this list soon as I got back to the office so I wouldn’t forget them.

“Frankly, I figure Napoli dived underground to avoid somebody he’s pissed off, either an irate, dissatisfied client or some broad he was banging. But if the scumbag has met with foul play-the secretary’s convinced-I figured these names might come in handy. Gives us places to start looking for him.”

Duncan nodded, indicating that he followed Kong’s reasoning.

“Now, why I bring this up to you…” Kong pointed to a name about midway down the list. “Isn’t this your guy?”

Duncan read the name. Moving slowly, he lowered his feet from his desk, took the sheet from Kong, and read it again. Then in a dry, scratchy voice, he said, “Yeah, that’s my guy.”

“It was scandalous. From meeting to altar took less than three months.”

It was a short drive from the Barracks to Meyer Napoli’s downtown office. DeeDee took advantage of it to share what she’d pieced together about Elise Laird’s background.

“Short courtships aren’t that unusual or scandalous,” Duncan observed.

“Unless a distinguished superior court judge is marrying a cocktail waitress. Riiiiight,” she drawled in response to Duncan ’s sharp look. “Elise worked the bar at Judge Laird’s country club.”

“Which is?”

“Silver Tide, naturally. Anyway, after meeting her, the judge began playing golf every single day, sometimes two rounds, but spent most of his time at the nineteenth hole.”

Duncan parked at the curb in front of the squat, square office building and put a sign in his windshield identifying him as a cop to avoid getting a ticket from one of Savannah ’s infamous meter maids. He opened his car door and got out, hoping to catch a breeze. The air was motionless, suffocating. The sun had set, but heat still radiated up from the sidewalk, baking the soles of his shoes.

“Want to hear the skinny now or later?” DeeDee asked as they approached the door of the office building.

“Now.”

“The judge was a confirmed bachelor who enjoyed casual affairs with widows and divorcées with no intention of getting married. Why share the family wealth? But Elise dazzled him. He fell hard. The gossip is she screwed him silly, got him addicted to her, then refused to sleep with him again unless and until he married her.”

“What the hell’s taking this elevator so long?” While the air-conditioning inside the building was welcome, it did little to improve Duncan ’s crankiness, which he blamed on the sultry heat. He punched the up button on the elevator several times, but heard no grinding of gears indicating movement in the shaft. “Let’s take the stairs. It’s only two flights.”

DeeDee followed him up the aggregate steps. Depressions had been worn into them by decades of foot traffic. This wasn’t prize real estate. A smell of mildew clung to the old walls.

“The judge’s friends and associates were shocked by the engagement,” DeeDee said. “The rock he bought her-have you noticed it?”

“No.”

“A marquise, reputedly six carats. I’d say that’s a conservative estimate.”

“You noticed?” Jewelry wasn’t something DeeDee ordinarily paid attention to.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” she said to his back as they rounded the second-floor landing. “Damn near blinded me this afternoon when we were in the sunroom. Didn’t you notice the rainbow it cast on the wall?”

“Guess I missed that.”

“You were too busy gazing into her eyes.”

He stopped in midstep and looked over his shoulder.

“Well, you were,” she said defensively.

“I was questioning her. What was I supposed to do, keep my eyes shut?”

“Never mind. Just…” She motioned him forward. He continued climbing the stairs and she picked up her story. “So, the besotted judge throws himself this big, elaborate wedding. Under the circumstances, some thought it the height of tacky and tasteless, and attributed his extravagance to his greedy and demanding bride.”

Duncan had reached the third-floor landing. Ahead was a corridor lined on both sides with doors to various offices. Names were stenciled in black on frosted glass. A CPA firm, an attorney, a dentist advertising fillings for the low, low price of twenty-five dollars. All were closed for the night. But one door about midway down stood open, casting a wedge of light into the otherwise dim hallway. He could hear Kong talking to Napoli ’s secretary. Her voice rose and fell emotionally.

Before joining them, he wished to finish this conversation with DeeDee. He turned to face her, blocking her path. “What ‘circumstances’?”

“Pardon?”

“You said circumstances made the wedding tacky and tasteless.”

“The bride had no pedigree, no family of any sort. At least none turned up at the wedding. She had no formal education, no property, no trust fund, no stock portfolio, nothing to recommend her. She brought nothing to the relationship except…well, the obvious.

“And she wore white. A simple dress, not too froufrou, but definitely white, which some considered the worst breach of etiquette. She did, however, order personalized stationery. Good stock, ivory in color, with the return address in dove gray lettering. She sent handwritten thank-you notes on behalf of her and the judge to everyone who gave them a wedding gift. And she has a very nice script.”

Yeah. Duncan had seen her script. Scowling, he said, “Are you making this shit up?”

“No, swear to God.”

“Where’d you get your information?”

“The friend I mentioned. We go all the way back to Catholic school. My folks had to roll coins to pay for my tuition. Her family is very well-to-do, but we formed a bond because both of us hated the school.

“Anyway, I called her up, mentioned the shooting at the Lairds’ house, which she already knew about, because it’s caused such a buzz. Her mom is definitely in the know, plugged into the society grapevine. If you’re into this kind of stuff, she’s a reliable source.”

Duncan ran his sleeve across his forehead. The cloth came away wet. “Is there more? What color was the punch at the reception?”

She frowned at him, but continued. “Mrs. Laird never fails to RSVP to an invitation whether she’s accepting or declining. Evidently she picked up a few social graces when she became Mrs. Cato Laird, and she’s shown surprising good taste in clothes, but she’s still considered trash-and that word was emphasized in an undertone. She’s tolerated because of the judge, but she’s far from accepted. You can forget embraced.”

Duncan said, “You know what this sounds like to me? It sounds like Savannah ’s social set found an easy target for their malice. Here you have a bunch of snooty, jealous gossips who would give up their pedigree for Elise Laird’s looks. They’d sacrifice Great-grandma’s pearls in exchange for a chest like hers.”

“Funny you should mention that particular attribute.” DeeDee took the final steps necessary to join him on the landing. “The judge’s circle of acquaintances might have overlooked her other shortcomings, even the fact that she worked in the bar at their country club. After all, it’s an elite club, its membership limited to only the ‘best people.’ But what they couldn’t forgive is what she was before becoming a cocktail waitress.”

“Which was what?”

“A topless cocktail waitress.”