Ricochet (21 page)

“Admit to committing adultery, but deny murdering Trotter.”

“Not a tough choice,” he said. “Especially if your husband has already forgiven you.”

“Hubby also knows the ins and outs of murder trials,” DeeDee said. “He knows the best defense attorneys, and price wouldn’t be an issue. The judge could save her skinny tush.”

But would he? Duncan wondered. Not if Elise’s claim that he wanted to kill her was true.

“We could clear up a lot of this if we could talk to Napoli,” DeeDee remarked, breaking into his thoughts.

“Kong says he’s got no leads. They can’t even locate his car. No airline ticket or bus ticket.”

“Boat rental?”

Duncan shook his head as his desk phone buzzed.

“Maybe Napoli was raptured, taken straight to heaven.”

“That was going to be my next guess.” He answered the phone and was informed that Mrs. Laird had arrived and was in the lobby. He covered the mouthpiece. “Where should we do this? Interrogation room?”

“Let’s keep it as friendly as possible,” DeeDee suggested. “How about right here?”

He told the receptionist that Detective Bowen would come down and escort Mrs. Laird to the VCU. While DeeDee was gone, he wedged another chair into his cramped office, then caught himself checking his shirttail and straightening his necktie. What the hell? he thought querulously. He didn’t have a date with her; this was an interrogation.

DeeDee was chattering like a magpie, making friendly small talk as she led Elise down the space that separated the detectives’ desks. Elise, on the other hand, didn’t say anything until she reached the open door of his office. “Hello, Detective Hatcher.”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

He offered her a chair. DeeDee took the other. He sat down at his desk. “We—”

“Should I call a lawyer?”

“If you like,” he replied.

She glanced at DeeDee, then back at him. “Before you ask me a question, I have one for you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why are you investigating the shooting at my home as though it’s a homicide?”

“We’re not,” DeeDee said.

But Elise’s gaze didn’t waver from his. “What do you know, or think you know, that prevents you from accepting that I shot that man in self-defense?”

“If you polled the murderers in prison, Mrs. Laird, probably ninety-nine percent of them would claim they killed in self-defense. We can’t simply take their word for it.”

“Nor mine, it seems.”

The softened pitch of her voice hinted that she was referring to more than just the question of self-defense. He hadn’t taken her word about Cato Laird wanting her dead, either. “Nor yours,” he said.

She took a steadying breath. “Why did you ask me to come here today?”

“What about the attorney?” DeeDee asked.

“First, tell me what this is about.”

“Coleman Greer.”

Caught completely off-guard, she breathed out in a gust. “
What
?”

“You knew the late Coleman Greer, All-Star first baseman for the Atlanta Braves.”

She darted a look toward Duncan, then addressed her nod to DeeDee. “I knew him well. We were friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes.”

No one said anything for several moments. Duncan and DeeDee waited to see if she would elaborate, but she appeared shell-shocked. Finally she looked at Duncan. “What about Coleman?”

Before he could answer, DeeDee said, “He was an amazing athlete.”

“He was very talented.”

“Were you a fan?”

“More his friend than a fan. I don’t follow the sport that closely.”

“How did you two meet?”

“We grew up together.” Seeing their surprise, she continued. “Junior high. High school. We were from the same small town in central Georgia.”

“Were you high school sweethearts?”

“No, Detective Bowen. Friends.”

“Did you maintain this friendship after high school?”

“That was difficult. Coleman got a baseball scholarship. After college he was drafted into the minors. I’m sure you know all this,” she said to Duncan.

“I know about his baseball career. I don’t know about his personal relationships. That’s what we want to know. About your relationship with him.”

“Why? What relevance does it have?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

“There’s nothing to
determine
,” she said. “How did you even know that Coleman and I were friends?”

“We have our ways.”

It was such an inane statement that Duncan echoed the look of derision that Elise shot DeeDee. He said, “You lost contact with him while he was in college and the minor leagues?”

“Playing baseball consumed all his time. We sent birthday cards, Christmas greetings. But beyond that, we didn’t stay in close contact.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

She looked away, said quietly, “A few days before he died.”

“Before he killed himself,” DeeDee said bluntly.

Head lowered, Elise nodded.

“Did he give you any indication that he planned to end his life?”

She raised her head and glared at DeeDee. “If he had, don’t you think I’d have done something to stop him?”

“I don’t know. Would you?”

DeeDee’s harsh question left her dumbfounded. She stared at DeeDee for several beats, then turned to Duncan. “I don’t understand this. Why are you asking me questions about Coleman?”

“They’re painful for you?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“He was my friend!”

“And lover.”

“What?”

“I need to repeat it?”

“No, but you’re wrong. We weren’t lovers. We were friends.” DeeDee made a snorting sound of disbelief, but Elise ignored it. Her attention was focused on Duncan. “I thought this was about Gary Ray Trotter. What does Coleman have to do with that? With anything?”

“When did you reestablish contact with him? More contact than birthday cards and such.”

“He called and invited me to come see him in Atlanta.”

“Was your husband included in this reunion?”

“No, this was right when Coleman started playing for the Braves. I hadn’t even met Cato. Later, after I was married, I invited Coleman to our home for dinner. Cato is a Braves fan, so he was delighted to learn that Coleman and I were friends.”

“They liked each other?”

“Very well.”

“Except for that one dinner, did they ever socialize?”

“Coleman arranged for us to sit in a box at one of the home games. We met him afterward for dinner. As far as I know, those are the only two occasions he and Cato were together.”

Duncan got up from his chair and sat on the corner of his desk, so he’d have the advantage of height and would be looking down at her. “You know very well that they never saw each other again, because it would’ve been messy to have your husband and your lover—”

“Coleman was not my lover.”

“You never saw him alone, without your husband?”

She faltered. “I didn’t say that.”

“So you did see him alone.”

“Sometimes.”

“Often?”

“Coleman’s schedule was—”

“Often?”

Relenting to his pressure, she nodded. “Whenever our schedules allowed it.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Usually here in Savannah.”

“Where, here in Savannah?”

“Different places.”

“Restaurants? Bars?”

“Coleman tried to avoid public places. Fans wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“So you met in places that afforded you privacy?”

“Yes.”

“Like hotel rooms?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“What did your husband think of these rendezvous in hotel rooms?”

She didn’t respond.

“He didn’t know about them, did he?” Duncan continued. “You didn’t inform him when you were going to meet a popular, good-looking superstar like Coleman Greer in a hotel room, did you? Because he wouldn’t have liked it one bit.”

She shot up from her chair. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

Duncan placed a hand on her shoulder. “You can listen to it here and now, alone, or you can listen to it later with a lawyer and your husband present.”

He could feel her body heat radiating into his hand. Her breathing was rapid and light, agitated. “Coleman and I were friends. Only friends.”

“Who had secret meetings in hotel rooms.”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because nothing you’ve told me is credible.” His eyes speared into hers. “
Nothing
.”

“I’ve told you the truth.”

“About you and Coleman Greer?”

“About everything.”

“How long did these cozy get-togethers last? One hour? Two? Longer?”

“It varied.”

“Ballpark. No pun intended.”

“An hour or two. Usually no longer.”

“Depending on how long you could sneak away.”

She released a slow breath. “You’re correct about that. Cato didn’t know about these visits with Coleman.”

“Ah.”

“But it wasn’t what you’re thinking. It wasn’t an affair.”

“Hotel rooms are used for two things. One of them is sleeping. I don’t think you met with Coleman Greer to sleep.”

“We talked.”

“Talked.”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“With all your clothes on?”

“Yes!”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe—”

“It’s the truth!”

“—that you were in a hotel room with a man—”

“A
friend
.”

“—and didn’t get fucked?”

She inhaled a quick breath. She seemed about to speak, then thought better of it. Her lips compressed.

Duncan smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Until she shrugged off his hand, he didn’t realize that it had been clamping her shoulder all this time. “Are you arresting me, Detective Hatcher?”

“Not yet.”

She retrieved her handbag and stormed out.

Her sudden departure left a vacuum in the small room. Duncan, staring at the empty doorway through which she had passed, raked his fingers through his hair and mumbled a stream of swear words. Long moments later, he realized DeeDee was still there, watching him, parallel frown lines between her eyebrows.

He raised his shoulders. “What?”

“What was that all about?”

“What?”

“The…” She sawed her hand back and forth, as though forming a connection between her chest and an invisible point in space. “That thing between the two of you.”

“What thing?”

“Tension. Something. I don’t know. Whatever it was, it was crackling.”

“You’re imagining things. Talking about Coleman Greer naked got your sap running.”

“If you let this woman cloud your judgment, you’re the sap.”

He pounced on that. “Tell me how I exercised poor judgment.”

“By letting her sail out of here.”

“We don’t have anything to justify holding her, DeeDee,” he said, rather too loudly. “Without any evidence, how could I? I wanted to detain her, God knows.”

Before walking out, she fired a parting shot. “
Detain
? Is that a new word for it?”

For the remainder of the afternoon, DeeDee stayed at her desk, cleaning up paperwork on another case. Duncan stayed at his desk, too, thinking about Elise and wondering if she was an accomplished liar or telling the truth, but ostensibly running his trotlines on Savich.

Going through the motions, he placed a call to his contact at the DEA. “He’s been quiet,” Duncan said. “Makes me nervous.”

He learned from the agent that after getting a tip from an informant, they’d raided one of Savich’s trucks. All they’d found was machinery and the proper shipping invoices that matched the cargo, right down to the correct serial numbers.

Duncan wasn’t surprised. Savich wouldn’t use his company trucks to ship drugs along Interstate 95. While the truck was being stripped down and searched, family vans and nondescript sedans loaded to the gills were headed for the lucrative markets along the eastern seaboard.

He consoled the agent over the failed mission. “I couldn’t get him for Freddy Morris, either.”

“You still dry?”

“As a bone,” Duncan admitted. “Lucille Jones has gone underground, and the DA won’t try the case again without something substantial, like the knife Savich used to cut out Freddy’s tongue. He’d prefer it to still be dripping blood.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“One can dream.”

Duncan’s frustration matched that of the federal agent. He suspected that Savich was having information fed to him, probably by one of the department’s own paid informants. Although, maybe not. Savich had infallible sensors that had served him well over the course of his criminal career. He may only have sensed Freddy Morris’s betrayal and, taking no chances, acted with dispatch to eliminate him.

Ready to put an end to the unproductive Monday, Duncan left for home early. On his way out, he stopped at DeeDee’s desk. “What’s your gut feeling?”

She didn’t look up. “On?”

“Laird. Do we sign off on it? It was self-defense. Case closed.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“If we could talk to Napoli—”

“But we can’t.”

“And that’s like an itch I can’t scratch,” he said. “The whole Napoli-Trotter-Laird connection.”

“It would be useful to know what Napoli had on Mrs. Laird. How damaging was it?”

He stared out the window for a moment, then said decisively, “Let’s keep working it. Give it a few more days. Maybe Napoli will surface.”

She looked up at him then, her smile bright. “See you tomorrow.”

However, less than an hour later, she called him on his cell phone. “What are you doing?”

“Buying groceries,” he replied.

“Groceries? You don’t cook.”

“So far I’ve got toilet paper and beer.”

“Essentials, for sure.”

Relieved that they were friends again, he asked, “What’s up?”

“We’ve been summoned to appear at the Lairds’ house at eight o’clock.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.”

“What for?”

“I don’t think it’s for dinner.”

“Meet you there.”

At thirty seconds to eight, they met on the walkway leading up to the front door of the stately residence. “Any ideas?” he asked.

“He just said to be here at eight, and here we be.”