Ricochet

Synopsis:

When Detective Sergeant Duncan Hatcher is summoned to the home of Judge Cato Laird in the middle of the night to investigate a fatal shooting, he knows that discretion and kid-glove treatment are the keys to staying in the judge’s good graces and keeping his job.

At first glance, the case appears open-and-shut: Elise, the judge’s trophy wife, interrupted a burglary in progress and killed the intruder in self-defense. But Duncan is immediately suspicious of Elise’s innocent act. His gut feeling is that her account of the shooting is only partially true — and it’s the parts she’s leaving out that bother him.

Determined to learn the dead man’s connection to the Lairds and get at the truth, Duncan investigates further and quickly finds his career, as well as his integrity, in jeopardy — because he can’t deny his increasing attraction to Elise Laird, even if she is a married woman, a proven liar, and a murder suspect.

When Elise seeks Duncan out privately and makes an incredible allegation, he initially dismisses it as the manipulative lie of a guilty woman. But what if she’s telling the truth? Then that single fatal gunshot at her home takes on even more sinister significance, possibly involving Duncan’s nemesis, the brutal crime lord Robert Savich.

And then Elise goes missing….

Ricochet
’s plot twists — as only Sandra Brown can write them — and palpable suspense combine to create this gripping thriller, in which a decent cop’s worst enemy may be his own conscience, and trusting the wrong person could mean the difference between life and death.

T
HE RECOVERY MISSION WAS CALLED OFF AT 6:56 P.M.

The grim announcement was made by Chief of Police Clarence Taylor during a locally televised press conference.

His somber expression was in keeping with his buzz haircut and military bearing. “The police department, along with all the other agencies involved, devoted countless hours to the search in hope of a rescue. Short of that, a recovery.

“However, since the exhaustive efforts of law enforcement officers, the Coast Guard, and civilian volunteers haven’t produced any encouraging evidence in several days, we’ve come to the sad conclusion that to continue an organized search would be futile.”

The lone drinker at the bar, watching the snowy TV screen mounted in the corner, tossed back the whiskey remaining in his glass and motioned the barkeep for a refill.

The barkeep held the open bottle poised above the highball glass. “You sure? You’re hitting it pretty hard, pal.”

“Just pour.”

“Have you got a ride home?”

The question was met with a menacing glare. The barkeep shrugged and poured. “Your funeral.”

No, not mine.

Off the beaten path in a low-rent area of downtown Savannah, Smitty’s attracted neither tourists nor respectable locals. It wasn’t the kind of watering hole one came to seeking fun and frivolity. It didn’t take part in the city’s infamous pub crawl on St. Patrick’s Day. Pastel drinks with cute names weren’t served.

The potables were ordered straight up. You might or might not get a lemon twist like the ones the barkeep was mindlessly peeling as he watched the television news bulletin that had preempted a
Seinfeld
rerun.

On the TV screen, Chief Taylor was commending the tireless efforts of the sheriff’s office, canine unit, marine patrol and dive team, on and on, blah, blah, blah.

“Mute that, will you?”

At the request of his customer, the barkeep reached for the remote control and silenced the TV. “He’s dancing around it ’cause he has to. But if you cut through all the B.S., what he’s saying is, the body’s fish food by now.”

The drinker propped both elbows on the bar, hunched his shoulders, and watched the amber liquor sloshing in his glass as he slid it back and forth between his hands across the polished wood surface.

“Ten days after going into the river?” The barkeep shook his head with pessimism. “No way a person could survive. Still, it’s a hell of a sad thing. Especially for the family. I mean, never knowing the fate of your loved one?” He reached for another lemon. “I’d hate to think of somebody I loved, dead or alive, being in the river or out there in the ocean, in this mess.”

He used his chin to motion toward the bar’s single window. It was wide, but only about eighteen inches deep, situated high on the wall, much closer to the ceiling than to the floor, providing a limited view of the outside if one cared to look. It allowed only a slash of semi-light to relieve the oppressive gloom in the bar, and gave only a slim promise of hope to the hopeless inside.

A ponderous rain had been soaking the Low Country of Georgia and South Carolina for the last forty-eight hours. Unrelenting rain. Torrents of water falling straight down out of opaque clouds.

At times the rainfall had been so heavy that you couldn’t see across the river to the opposite bank. Low-lying areas had become lakes. Roads had been closed due to flooding. Gutters roiled with currents as swift as white-water rapids.

The barkeep wiped lemon juice from his fingers and cleaned the blade of his knife on a towel. “This rain, can’t say I blame ’em for calling off the search. They’ll probably never find the body now. But I guess that means it’ll forever remain a mystery. Was it murder or suicide?” He tossed aside his towel and leaned on the bar. “What do you think happened?”

His customer looked up at him with bleary eyes and said hoarsely, “I know what happened.”

Six Weeks Earlier

T
HE MURDER TRIAL OF
R
OBERT
S
AVICH WAS IN ITS FOURTH DAY.

Homicide detective Duncan Hatcher was wondering what the hell was going on.

As soon as court had reconvened after the lunch break, the defendant’s attorney, Stan Adams, had asked the judge for a private meeting. Judge Laird, as perplexed by the request as ADA Mike Nelson, had nonetheless granted it and the three had withdrawn to chambers. The jury had retired to the jury room, leaving only the spectators to question the significance of this unexpected conference.

They’d been out for half an hour. Duncan’s anxiety grew with each passing minute. He’d wanted the trial to proceed without a blip, without any hitch that could result in an easy appeal or, God forbid, an overturned verdict. That’s why this behind-closed-doors powwow was making him so nervous.

His impatience eventually drove him out into the corridor, where he paced, but never out of earshot of the courtroom. From this fourth-floor vantage point, he watched a pair of tugs guide a merchant ship along the channel toward the ocean. Then, unable to stand the suspense, he returned to his seat in the courtroom.

“Duncan, for heaven’s sake, sit still! You’re squirming like a two-year-old.” To pass the time, his partner detective, DeeDee Bowen, was working a crossword puzzle.

“What could they be talking about in there?”

“Plea bargain? Manslaughter, maybe?”

“Get real,” he said. “Savich wouldn’t admit to a parking violation, much less a hit.”

“What’s a seven-letter word for surrender?” DeeDee asked.

“Abdicate.”

She looked at him with annoyance. “How’d you come up with that so fast?”

“I’m a genius.”

She tried the word. “Not this time. ‘Abdicate’ doesn’t fit. Besides, that’s eight letters.”

“Then I don’t know.”

The defendant, Robert Savich, was seated at the defense table looking way too complacent for a man on trial for murder, and much too confident to allay Duncan’s anxiety. As though feeling Duncan’s stare on the back of his neck, Savich turned and smiled at him. His fingers continued to idly drum the arms of his chair as though keeping time to a catchy tune only he could hear. His legs were casually crossed. He was a portrait of composure.

To anyone who didn’t know him, Robert Savich looked like a respectable businessman with a slightly rebellious flair for fashion. For court today he was dressed in a suit of conservative gray, but the slim tailoring of it was distinctly European. His shirt was pale blue, his necktie lavender. His signature ponytail was sleek and glossy. A multicarat diamond glittered from his earlobe.

The classy clothes, his insouciance, were elements of his polished veneer, which gave no indication of the unconscionable criminal behind them.

He’d been arrested and brought before the grand jury on numerous charges that included several murders, one arson, and various lesser felonies, most of which were related to drug trafficking. But over the course of his long and illustrious career, he’d been indicted and tried only twice. The first had been a drug charge. He’d been acquitted because the state failed to prove their case, which, granted, was flimsy.

His second trial was for the murder of one Andre Bonnet. Savich had blown up his house. Along with ATF agents, Duncan had investigated the homicide. Unfortunately, most of the evidence was circumstantial, but had been believed strong enough to win a conviction. However, the DA’s office had assigned a green prosecutor who didn’t have the savvy or experience necessary to convince all the jurors of Savich’s guilt. The trial had resulted in a hung jury.

But it hadn’t ended there. It was discovered that the young ADA had also withheld exculpatory evidence from attorney Stan Adams. The hue and cry he raised made the DA’s office gun-shy to prosecute again in any sort of timely fashion. The case remained on the books and probably would until the polar ice caps melted.

Duncan had taken that defeat hard. Despite the young prosecutor’s bungling, he’d regarded it a personal failure and had dedicated himself to putting an end to Savich’s thriving criminal career.

This time, he was betting the farm on a conviction. Savich was charged with the murder of Freddy Morris, one of his many employees, a drug dealer whom undercover narcotics officers had caught making and distributing methamphetamine. The evidence against Freddy Morris had been indisputable, his conviction virtually guaranteed, and, since he was a repeat offender, he’d face years of hard time.

The DEA and the police department’s narcs got together and offered Freddy Morris a deal — reduced charges and significantly less prison time in exchange for his boss Savich, who was the kingpin they were really after.

In light of the prison sentence he was facing, Freddy had accepted the offer. But before the carefully planned sting could be executed, Freddy was. He was found lying facedown in a marsh with a bullet hole in the back of his head.

Duncan was confident that Savich wouldn’t escape conviction this time. The prosecutor was less optimistic. “I hope you’re right, Dunk,” Mike Nelson had said the previous evening as he’d coached Duncan on his upcoming appearance on the witness stand. “A lot hinges on your testimony.” Tugging on his lower lip, he’d added thoughtfully, “I’m afraid that Adams is going to hammer us on the probable cause issue.”

“I had probable cause to question Savich,” Duncan insisted. “Freddy’s first reaction to the offer was to say that if he even farted in our direction, Savich would cut out his tongue. So, when I’m looking down at Freddy’s corpse, I see that not only is his brain an oozing mush, his tongue has been cut out. According to the ME, it was cut out while he was still alive. You don’t think that gave me probable cause to go after Savich immediately?”

The blood had been fresh and Freddy’s body still warm when Duncan and DeeDee were called to the grisly scene. DEA officers and SPD narcs were engaged in a battle royal over who had blown Freddy’s cover.

“You were supposed to have three men monitoring his every move,” one of the DEA agents yelled at his police counterpart.

“You had four! Where were they?” the narc yelled back.

“They thought he was safe at home.”

“Yeah? Well, so did we.”

“Jesus!” the federal agent swore in frustration. “How’d he slip past us?”

No matter who had botched the sting, Freddy was no longer any use to them and quarreling about it was a waste of time. Leaving DeeDee to referee the two factions swapping invectives and blame, Duncan had gone after Savich.

“I didn’t plan on arresting him,” Duncan had explained to Mike Nelson. “I only went to his office to question him. Swear to God.”

“You fought with him, Dunk. That may hurt us. Adams isn’t going to let that get past the jury. He’s going to hint at police brutality, if not accuse you outright. False arrest. Hell, I don’t know what all he’ll pull out of the hat.”

He’d ended by tacking on a reminder that nothing was a sure thing and that anything could happen during a trial.

Duncan didn’t understand the ADA’s concern. To him it seemed clear-cut and easily understood. He’d gone directly from the scene of Freddy Morris’s murder to Savich’s office. Duncan had barged in unannounced to find Savich in the company of a woman later identified by mug shots as Lucille Jones, who was on her knees fellating him.