Ricochet (43 page)

“I don’t want my lips and tongue dyed red.”

He wiped his mouth. “Are they?”

“You look like Dracula.” She laughed. “Maybe it’ll wear off soon.”

They paid for her purchases — Duncan doing his best not to analyze the panties and bras as they moved along the conveyor belt — and drove back toward Lady’s Island. They stopped at a roadside stand to buy fresh shrimp for dinner. “I
can
boil water,” he said as he passed the package to her through the passenger window.

After returning to the house, they went for a walk. Strolling the narrow lanes of the island, shimmering in the afternoon heat, he felt as though they should be holding hands. But he didn’t reach for hers, and she didn’t touch him.

When they returned to the house, she excused herself to take a shower. Duncan sat on the front steps in the shade, sweating profusely and telling himself he needed the solitude in order to plan his attack on Savich and Laird, when actually he was escaping the sound of the shower and mental images of Elise in nothing but suds.

Eventually she joined him on the steps, bringing with her a glass of iced tea for each of them and the scent of sweet-smelling soap. Her hair was still damp, sticking up in places. Blond strands were beginning to shine through the temporary brown tint. Catching him looking at it, she self-consciously raised her hand to it. “It’ll grow back.”

“Maybe you should leave it short. It’s…” He was about to say sexy, and amended it to “fetching.”

She was wearing some of her recent purchases, a pair of apple green shorts that came just above her knees, and a white T-shirt, the vague outline of her new bra beneath it. Nothing fancy. Nothing in the least provocative. He wanted to rip everything off her. With his teeth.

Standing suddenly, he asked if she was finished in the bathroom and when she said yes, he went straight into the bathroom, stripped, and got in the shower, the shelf of which was now cluttered with shaving cream in a pastel can, a pink razor, shampoo and conditioner, and moisturizing body wash. Hanging from the shower nozzle was a round sponge thing made out of lavender netting.

“Damn bunch of crap,” he muttered as he picked up the plain ole bar of soap.

But the damn bunch of crap aroused him. He didn’t even turn on the hot water tap.

When he came out of the bathroom, she was sitting on the sofa watching television. “What’s this?” he asked.

“A classic-movie station.”

“It’s in black and white.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Who’s that?”

She frowned at his ignorance. “Natalie Wood, of course.”

“Huh.” He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. “What’s it about?”

“She and Steve McQueen had a one-night stand, which he barely remembered, but she got pregnant. She tracks him down and asks him to help her get an abortion — the movie was made when abortions were done illegally in back rooms.

“Steve McQueen has to come up with the money to pay for it, which isn’t easy, but he finally does and makes the arrangements. Except when they get to the appointed place — this creepy, cold, empty building — they can’t go through with it.

“She becomes hysterical and starts screaming. He — he’d been waiting out in the hall — barges through the door and yells at the abortionist, ‘If you touch her, I’ll kill you.’ Then he holds her while she’s crying. That’s my favorite scene. That, and the one right after when they’re riding in the backseat of a taxi and he puts his arm around her, and she falls asleep on his chest.”

Duncan stared. “Amazing.”

“It’s a good movie.”

“No, I mean you. How did you remember all that? How many times have you seen it?”

“A dozen or more.” Surprising him, she reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

“Don’t you want to see the ending?”

“It’s a fairy tale. It ends happily.”

“Don’t you believe in happy endings?”

Turning toward him she said, “Do
you
?”

“I
USED TO,” HE SAID.
“I’
M NOT SURE
I
DO ANYMORE.”

Despondently she leaned her head against the sofa’s back cushion. “I’m not sure I do anymore, either. I think I was terribly naive, perhaps foolish.” She smiled but it was with self-deprecation. “Maybe I’d watched too many movies. My plan was to marry Cato, so I could find evidence against him, which I could hand over to the authorities. He would be convicted and sent to prison.

“I would have my vengeance for Chet, and Cato’s criminal career would be over. He would no longer be duping the trusting public who vote him into office.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Then I would be able to begin again. Clean slate. Make a fresh start on another life.”

She gave a rueful laugh. “But I didn’t plan on
this
. I didn’t make a contingency for his catching on before I could expose his crimes.” Looking over at Duncan, she said, “How is this going to end?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ve got no evidence. Nothing except your say-so, and that’s not good enough.”

“I realize that. Besides, I’m officially dead.”

“You will be for sure if either Savich or Laird learns you’re alive. I can’t hide and protect you forever.”

“Chet’s letter?”

He frowned. “Still iffy. Too much room for a good defense attorney to maneuver.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“First I’ve got to know the court cases that Laird threw out for Savich. Case numbers, who the offender was, what he was charged with. That will take some research. Delicate research, because we can’t tip our hand while we’re doing it.

“We also need to locate more sacrificial lambs, like Chet. If we find some who’ve been languishing in prison long enough, growing more bitter by the day, they may be willing to deal with us for a reduced sentence, maybe even for time served. But we’ve tried that tack before.”

“And they die.”

“And they die.” He stood up and began to pace. “You said there was no paperwork, phone records, receipts, canceled checks, bank books.”

She was shaking her head. “There’s a safe in the study, but Cato never gave me the combination to it.”

“We’ll get into the safe if we ever get a search warrant. But we must show probable cause to obtain a warrant. What about his office at the courthouse?”

“He wouldn’t dare keep a record of transactions like that in his office, would he?”

“Doubtful. And again, we’d need a search warrant.” He socked his fist against his open palm. “How does Savich pay him?”

“I would guess Cato has a bank account somewhere out of the country. The Cayman Islands, maybe. We went there on a trip once.”

“You’re probably right, but digging into those records involves the Feds, all kinds of red tape and legal—” He stopped midsentence.

“What?”

“Legal procedures,” he said absently. “I need to think about that some more.”

“Okay, I’ll make dinner. You think.”

He tried, but it was hard for him to concentrate while she moved about the kitchen. He was seated at the table, a tablet in front of him, pen primed to take notes. But he was easily distracted.

Elise reaching for something on the top shelf, lifting her T-shirt and exposing a band of skin.

Elise bending down to get a colander from a lower cabinet.

Elise’s breasts at his eye level as she walked past.

His frustration increased in proportion to his distraction, and it made him angry. Eventually he gave up the pretense of working and set the table. She served dinner. She must have sensed the dark mood that had settled over him because she didn’t initiate conversation. They ate in virtual silence.

Finally she said, “Good shrimp.”

“Fresh off the boat.”

“Would you like more French bread?”

“No, thanks.”

“Salad?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He tossed an empty shrimp shell on the plate in the center of the table now heaped with them, and popped the meat into his mouth. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You’re being awfully quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh.” She ripped a paper towel from the roll he’d brought to the table and cleaned her hands. “I was thinking earlier today.”

“About what?”

“I was thinking that if I’d gone to the police with Chet’s letter as soon as I received it, you and I might have met then.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” He ripped off a paper towel and wiped his mouth. “Instead you got chummy with Savich and made your bed with Cato.”

She looked as though he’d slapped her. But once she’d recovered from her initial hurt, she got angry. “That’s right.”

“Yeah, yeah, you did what you had to do. Used what you had. And we all know what
that
is. You used it first with Cato Laird, then with me. Probably Savich, too, even though you’ve denied it. That’s a real lucky charm for you. It works every time, doesn’t it?”

She scraped back her chair. “You can be a real bastard.”

He stood up just as quickly. “But at least I’m not a—” He caught himself before he said it, but the unspoken word hung there, trapped in the tension between them.

“Don’t back down now, Duncan. Say it. At least you’re not a
whore
.”

She picked up her place setting and carried it to the counter, slinging disposables into the trash can, clattering the rest in the sink. He did likewise. They were careful not to touch or even to look at each other.

By the time they finished cleaning up, he was regretting what he’d said. He carefully folded the dish towel, then for ponderous seconds studied the faded stripes woven into the muslin, silently cursing himself for being a son of a bitch and a hypocrite.

Turning to her, he said, “I’m tired. I’m worried. The strain got to me. I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

“Oh yes, you did.”

“Elise.”

She backed away from the hand he extended toward her. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m sick of it. All of it.”

Her expression was the cool, closed mask she’d showed him at the awards dinner. Without animation or excitement for a sentimental, romantic movie. Without hope for a happy ending.

Saying nothing more, she went into the bedroom and soundly closed the door behind her.

He awoke to the sound of birds chirping somewhere close. It was still early. The sun wasn’t fully up. He rarely woke up in time to see a sunrise, but he’d gone to sleep unusually early. After trying to wrestle his way through his jumbled thoughts and conflicting emotions, he’d given up and allowed his eyes to close. That’s the last thing he remembered. His sleep had been deep and dreamless.

He threw off the light quilt and stood up, stretching to work the cramps out of his muscles. He thought about going for a run while it was reasonably cool, but decided he wasn’t awake enough yet. He would wait awhile and then go. After Elise was up.

The bedroom door was closed, as it had remained since she’d disappeared through it last night.

He pulled on his jeans. He used the bathroom and conscientiously put the seat down. He wondered what people did at this time of the morning if they hadn’t been called into work or they weren’t exercising. Reading the newspaper? Watching the morning talk shows? He didn’t have a newspaper and he didn’t want to disturb Elise by turning on the TV.

Coffee. He would make coffee and go light on the amount of grounds.

But in the midst of the process, his hands fell still. He stared out the window above the sink. The water was calm this morning, almost like glass, undisturbed save for the small wake of one lone fishing boat.

Why had he become so mad at her last night? If Elise had been successful at collecting evidence against Laird and Savich, would he have acted like a jerk and condemned her as he had? Or would he be lauding her courage, commending her for making such a tremendous sacrifice to her personal happiness?

Was he actually blaming her for failing at what he himself had been unable to accomplish? With all his training and advanced degree, with the support of the police department behind him, he hadn’t brought these criminals to justice, either.

And he hadn’t denied himself a personal life in order to do it. Elise had.

But he hadn’t been so much angry as jealous. That’s what it boiled down to. He’d become angry because he couldn’t stand the thought of her with Cato Laird. With any man. Except himself.

He didn’t think about it, he just left the paper filter and the empty carafe on the counter and walked to the bedroom door. Without hesitation, he opened it.

She was lying with her back to him. When the door hinge squeaked, she raised her head from the pillow, then rolled onto her back and looked toward the door. Seeing him, she came up on her elbows. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

She glanced toward the window. “What time is it?”

“The sun’s not quite up.”

“Oh.”

And then there was silence except for their breathing while they stared at each other across the dim room. Duncan walked to the side of the bed. She smelled of warmth and sleep. She was wearing the new pajamas she’d bought yesterday. Under the thin cotton tank top her breasts lay soft.

His voice a harsh whisper, he said, “Did you fake it?”

For several moments, she looked at him with dazed puzzlement, then her eyes cleared with understanding. “Yes.”

His heart plummeted.

“Every time while I was married.” She gave a small shake of her head, adding huskily, “But not with you.”

He dragged in a deep, restorative breath. Never breaking eye contact, he unbottoned his jeans and pulled them off, then stepped out of his boxers. He pulled back the light covers and got in beside her, stretching out above her, trapping her head between his hands.

He lowered his forehead to hers, resting it there, inhaling her scent. “You’re married to him.”

“Legally. But I’m not his
wife
.”

She angled her head and touched her mouth to his, tentatively. He made an inarticulate sound of surrender and sank into the kiss. His fingers burrowed in her cropped hair, but the passion was tender, not turbulent.