Ricochet (22 page)

“Why’d he call you?”

“I was the one still in the office.” DeeDee punched the doorbell and they heard the chime inside the house. “We probably shouldn’t count on getting a full confession.”

“To what?”

“To anything.”

Mrs. Berry answered the door and regarded them as though they smelled like raw sewage. “They’re waiting for you.”

She led them as far as the arched opening into the living room. Cato Laird was standing with his back to the fireplace and the painting with the dead rabbit lying among the fresh vegetables. Elise was seated on the sofa. Both wore solemn expressions, but his voice was cordial enough when he thanked them for coming and asked them to take seats. There was no offer of refreshments on this visit.

The judge sat down beside his wife on the sofa. He took her hand and patted it reassuringly. “Elise told me about her interview with you earlier today. My initial reaction was to call Bill Gerard and raise hell. You placed my wife at a terrible disadvantage.”

Prudently, Duncan and DeeDee remained silent.

“But on second thought, I changed my mind about filing a complaint. You deserve a dressing-down for pulling a stunt like that, but I didn’t want to put any additional stress on Elise.

“And, actually, I was more angry with myself than with you. It’s my fault that she had to undergo that unpleasant interrogation. I couldn’t live with that.” He glanced at her, then came back to them. “So I confessed to her that I’d hired Meyer Napoli to follow her.”

Duncan’s gaze moved to Elise. She was regarding him with palpable hostility.

The judge said, “I felt that Elise should know everything that was said during our conversation in the locker room the other day, Detective Hatcher. I’m not proud of myself for lying to you and Detective Bowen when I said I’d never had personal dealings with Napoli. I deeply regret my business with him, especially if it resulted in the shooting of Trotter, no matter how roundabout the connection was.”

“That was our thinking when we talked to Mrs. Laird today,” DeeDee said. “That Trotter’s break-in was somehow related to Meyer Napoli.”

“My business with him was so short-lived,” the judge said, “I still hold firm to my theory that Trotter was acting alone, and that any connection he had to Napoli was coincidental. But looking at it from the perspective of an investigator, I’ll admit it warranted closer examination, particularly if Napoli had proof of an affair between Coleman Greer and my wife.

“So,” he went on, “I felt we should clear the air. Hopefully by explaining a couple of outstanding issues, we can put this regrettable incident behind us once and for all. Now that there are no lingering secrets between Elise and me, we can be perfectly frank with you. Fire away.”

DeeDee plunged right in. “Mrs. Laird,
does
Napoli have proof of an affair between you and Coleman Greer?”

“No such proof exists, Detective Bowen. There was no affair.”

Reading the skepticism in DeeDee’s face, the judge said, “You will believe her after she explains the nature of their relationship.”

“She told us they were friends,” DeeDee said.

“I told you we were
close
friends. To have something ugly made of our friendship offends me deeply.” As she said this, she shot Duncan a drop-dead look. “It pains me to have to talk about him at all, but since you give me no choice…” She paused and took a deep breath. “He and I dated a few times in high school, but it was always platonic, never sexual, not even romantic. We were pals, confidantes.”

DeeDee asked, “If you were so close, why didn’t you know he was contemplating suicide?”

“I knew that Coleman was depressed, but I didn’t realize the depth of his depression. I wish I had.”

“He was at the top of his game,” Duncan said. “What did he have to be depressed about?”

“His heart was broken.”

The simple statement took him and DeeDee aback. He said, “That begs for an explanation, Mrs. Laird.”

“Coleman’s lover was leaving him.”

“But you weren’t that lover.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I was not.”

“So all those times that you met him secretly, you—”

“I provided him a shoulder to cry on.”

“You didn’t have a carnal relationship.”

“How many times must I repeat it, Detective Hatcher?”

The judge said, “They still don’t believe you, darling. They won’t believe you until you tell them what you told me.”

She gave Duncan a long, measured look, as though willing him to accept what she was about to say. “Coleman didn’t have a sexual relationship with me or any woman. His lover was Tony Esteban. His teammate.”

E
VEN SO FAR INLAND,
A
TLANTA WAS AS SULTRY AS
S
AVANNAH.

The heat sucked the breath out of Duncan as he exited the airport to hail a cab. The driver was friendly and talkative, keeping up a lively chatter as he negotiated the expressway traffic toward Buckhead, where Tony Esteban owned the penthouse of a high-rise condo.

Duncan had woken up early, knowing he was going to come to Atlanta. He didn’t tell anybody, not even DeeDee, who would have wanted to come with him. He figured the Braves’ Puerto Rican treasure would be reluctant to discuss his sex life with cops, but that one would be less intimidating than two.

Besides, he was grateful to have a break from DeeDee. After leaving the judge and his wife last night, they’d driven separately to a restaurant, where Duncan ate a late supper, and DeeDee imbibed Diet Coke by the quart and railed endlessly against Elise Laird and her lies.

“I can’t believe she had the nerve to say that Coleman Greer was gay! That’s what she wants us to believe? As if!”

“It goes against stereotype, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Coleman Greer was
not
gay.”

She wouldn’t listen to any argument to the contrary and rebuked both Duncan and the judge for giving any credence to it whatsoever. “She’s got her husband by the dick. He’ll believe it because he wants to. She’s so damn clever. She told him the one lie where he could save face. She let herself off the hook
and
salvaged his wounded pride. That takes talent. She’s a player, Duncan. The likes of which I’ve never seen.”

When he could work in a word edgewise, he’d said, “Even if what she claims about Greer is false, that only makes her guilty of adultery. We’re no closer to having evidence that she plugged Gary Ray Trotter for any reason other than self-defense.”

“It’s still murky, Duncan.”

Yes, it was. Murky enough for him to make the short flight from Savannah to Atlanta, paying his own way. He would try to get reimbursed later. Even if he wound up financing the trip himself, it would be worth the price of the airfare to get to the truth. Was Elise Laird a manipulative liar? If so, the investigation into the fatal shooting would continue. If not, her own life was at risk.

Either way, he had to know.

The driver pulled the taxi into the porte cochere of the high-rise and remarked on its swankiness. Duncan agreed. He paid the man and walked into the marble lobby, which embraced him with refrigerated air, the scent of lilies, and soft music. The reception desk was manned by a uniformed concierge.

“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”

“Morning. I’m here to see Mr. Anthony Esteban.” He reached for his ID wallet, and in doing so made certain the man could see the holster beneath his sport jacket.

The concierge cleared his throat. “Is Mr. Esteban expecting you?”

Duncan flashed him a wide smile. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“I’ll have to buzz him.”

“Whatever. No rush.”

Belying his nonchalance, he leaned forward over the tall desk and watched with interest as the concierge raised a telephone receiver to his ear, then pressed the call button for the penthouse. “Mr. Esteban, I hate to disturb you. There’s a gentleman here, asking to see you. A Mr… . uh…”

“Detective Sergeant Duncan Hatcher, Savannah–Chatham Metropolitan Police Department.” The city and county departments had officially merged a year ago. Duncan rarely used the full name. For one thing, it sounded stupid. For another, it was too long. In the time it took you to identify yourself to a felon, you could get killed. He really only used it when he wanted to look like a big shot.

The concierge repeated what he’d said, listened, then asked the baseball player to hold on. “He wants to know in regards to what.”

“Elise Laird and an incident at her house last week.”

Again, he repeated Duncan’s words into the telephone receiver. After a brief pause, he said, “Mr. Esteban says he doesn’t know an Elise Laird.”

“Coleman Greer’s friend.”

The concierge’s mouth formed a small, round O, then he passed along the message to Esteban. “Of course, Mr. Esteban.” He hung up. “Go right up. The elevator bank is behind this wall.”

“Thanks.”

The elevator was so fast, Duncan’s ears popped on the express ascent. The doors opened into a sizable foyer. Tony Esteban was waiting for him outside his front door. He was several inches shorter than Duncan, solidly built, and, Duncan knew, had arms that could knock the stitches out of a baseball. He was wearing nothing except a pair of workout shorts and a chunk of gold suspended from a half-inch-wide chain around his neck.

“Hatcher?”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Esteban.”

“Call me Tony,” he said, extending his hand. “Come in.” He spoke with only a trace of a Spanish accent.

“The proverbial glass house,” Duncan remarked as he stepped into the penthouse and took a look around. Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded almost a 360-degree view of the city.

“You like it? Cost a fucking fortune.”

“You make a fucking fortune.”

He grinned the grin that had made him vastly popular with fans and the media. “You want something to drink?” He led Duncan across what seemed to be an acre of sparsely furnished living space to a wet bar. He pushed a concealed button that opened the mirrored doors behind the bar to reveal its stock. “Whatever you like. Scotch, bourbon, a milk shake? I got everything.”

“How about a glass of ice water?”

He looked disappointed, but said okay. Duncan expected him to step behind the bar, so he was surprised when he hollered, “Jenny!”

Within seconds Jenny appeared. All six feet of her, most of it sleek, tanned legs that looked like they’d been airbrushed to perfection. Her hair was the color of a sunset, her breasts were huge, and she was gorgeous. She was wearing a miniskirt, high-heeled sandals, and a tank top no bigger than a slingshot, which left absolutely nothing to the imagination. “Jenny, this is Mr. Hatcher.”

“Hi, Mr. Hatcher.”

Duncan found his voice. “How do you do, Jenny.”

“Fine. Are you in baseball?”

“Uh, no.”

“He’s a cop from Savannah and he’s thirsty. Fix him some ice water. Do me one of those protein shakes.”

“Berries and yogurt?”

“Yeah, all that health stuff.”

She went behind the bar to do his bidding. Esteban motioned Duncan toward one of the low white leather sofas in a grouping of similar pieces. The end tables were hammered metal and glass.

Once they were seated, Esteban asked, “You a baseball fan?”

“Yes.”

“Braves?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He beamed. “You ever play?”

“Some. Mostly football.”

“Pro?”

Duncan smiled and shook his head. “I maxed out in college.”

They filled the time it took Jenny to prepare their drinks talking about sports and the Braves’ season so far. “Show him your ring, honey,” Esteban said to her after she’d served their drinks. She extended her left hand toward Duncan, who praised the diamond, since it seemed that was expected.

“Almost ten carats,” Esteban told him, though he hadn’t asked.

“Wow.” He smiled up at Jenny. “Is it an engagement ring?”

“He proposed in a hot air balloon,” she simpered.

“In Napa,” Esteban added. “One of those wine country things.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“It was,” said Jenny.

“Have you set a date for the wedding?”

“Thanksgiving weekend. It can’t be during the season.”

“Right.”

“Wedding, wedding, wedding is all she talks about. Flowers. Dresses. Shrimp cocktails. All that shit. Go on now, honey.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hatcher. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Esteban affectionately smacked her heart-shaped butt as she strutted away, her heels tapping on the marble floor. As she disappeared through a set of double doors, he said, “She’s something, huh?”

“She’s amazing.”

“I’m crazy about her. Have you ever seen a body like that?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“She had some added to the top. I paid. She wanted them bigger, and I thought, what the hell? The bigger the better, right?”

“That’s always been my motto.” His wryness escaped the other man, who was too egotistical to hear anything except the sound of his own voice.

“She’s a sweet kid. Goes through money like it was water, but it keeps her happy. And she keeps me happy. I’m telling you — and this is no exaggeration.” He leaned in closer. “She could suck your eyeballs out through your dick.”

“Impressive.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He took a drink of his shake and glanced at his wristwatch. “I got practice in an hour. How can I help you?”

“I’m investigating a fatal shooting.”

“Fatal means somebody died, right?”

“Right. It took place last Thursday evening at the home of Judge Cato Laird and his wife, Elise.”

“Yeah, I remember Elise. Now that you reminded me who she is. She’s dead?”

“No.” Duncan filled him in on the facts. He tried to avoid using words with more than five letters. “It seems Elise fired the fatal shot in self-defense. I’m just clearing up a few points.”

“Like what?”

“I understand she had a close personal relationship with Coleman Greer.”

He grimaced with obvious regret. “King Cole, we called him. What a fucking thing to do. You know, they think he’d been dead for a couple days before someone went to his place and checked on him. I heard it was a mess.”