Ricochet (12 page)

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.

E
LISE WAS WATCHING A MOVIE ON
DVD. I
T 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.”