Ricochet by Sandra Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

questions from onlookers and reporters. Turning a deaf ear to them, he started toward the house. “You got gloves?” he asked DeeDee over his shoulder. “I forgot gloves.”
    “You always do. I’ve got spares.”
    DeeDee had to take two steps for every one of his as he strode up the front walkway, lined on both sides with carefully tended beds of begonias. Crime scene tape had already been placed around the house. The beat cop at the door recognized them and lifted the tape high enough for them to duck under. “Inside to the left,” he said.
    “Don’t let anyone set foot on the lawn,” Duncan instructed the officer. “In fact, keep everybody on the other side of the median.”
    “Another unit is on the way to help contain the area.”
    “Good. Forensics?”
    “Got here quick.”
    “Who called the press?”
    The cop shrugged in reply.
    Duncan entered the massive foyer. The floor was white marble with tiny black squares placed here and there. A staircase hugged a curving wall up to the second floor. Overhead was a crystal chandelier turned up full. There was an enormous arrangement of fresh flowers on a table with carved gilded legs that matched the tall mirror above it.
    “Niiiiice,” DeeDee said under her breath.
    Another uniformed policeman greeted them by name, then motioned with his head toward a wide arched opening to the left. They entered what appeared to be the formal living room. The fireplace was pink marble. Above the mantel was an ugly oil still life of a bowl of fresh vegetables and a dead rabbit. A long sofa with a half dozen fringed pillows faced a pair of matching chairs. Between them was another table with gold legs. A pastel carpet covered the polished hardwood floor, and all of it was lighted by a second chandelier.
    Judge Laird, his back to them, was sitting in one of the chairs.
    Realizing the logical implication of seeing the judge alive, Duncan felt his stomach drop.
    The judge’s elbows were braced on his knees, his head down. He was speaking softly to a cop named Crofton, who was balanced tentatively on the edge of the sofa cushion, as though afraid he might get it dirty.
    “Elise went downstairs, but that wasn’t unusual,” Duncan heard the judge say in a voice that was ragged with emotion. He glanced up at the policeman and added, “Chronic insomnia.”
    Crofton looked sympathetic. “What time was this? That she went downstairs.”
    “I woke up, partially, when she left the bed. Out of habit, I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was twelve thirty-something. I think.” He rubbed his forehead. “I think that’s right. Anyway, I dozed off again. The… the shots woke me up.”
    He was saying that someone other than he had shot and killed his wife. Who else was in this house tonight? Duncan wondered.
    “I raced downstairs,” he continued. “Ran from room to room. I was… frantic, a madman. I called her name. Over and over. When I got to the study…” His head dropped forward again. “I saw her there, slumped behind the desk.”
    Duncan felt as though a fist had closed around his throat. He was finding it hard to breathe.
    DeeDee nudged him. “Dothan’s here.”
    Dr. Dothan Brooks, medical examiner for Chatham County, was a fat man and made no apology for it. He knew better than anyone that fatty foods could kill you, but he defiantly ate the worst diet possible. He said that he’d seen far worse ways to die than complications from obesity. Considering the horrific manners of death he’d seen over the course of his own career, Duncan thought he might have a point.
    As the ME approached them, he removed the latex gloves from his hands and used a large white handkerchief to mop his sweating forehead, which had taken on the hue of a raw steak. “Detectives.” He always sounded out of breath and probably was.
    “You beat us here,” DeeDee said.
    “I don’t live far.” Looking around, he added with a trace of bitterness, “Definitely at the poorer edge of