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Investigating the shooting of a burglar in the home of a high-profile Savannah district judge, detectives Hatcher and Bowen suspect the judge's dutiful wife's declarations of innocence, and find the case complicated by the judge's notorious soft-on-crime tactics.
"A masterful storyteller." -- USA Today
Autorentext
Sandra Brown is the author of seventy-three *New York Times *bestsellers. She has published over eighty novels and has upwards of eighty million copies of her books in print worldwide. Her work has been translated into thirty-five languages. Four books have been adapted for film. She lives in Texas.
Klappentext
The "New York Times" bestselling author of "Chill Factor" returns with a chilling story of murder, romance, and betrayal in high society where one rough-and-tumble detective might find his own life on the line. Available in a tall Premium Edition.
Zusammenfassung
The #1 New York Times bestselling author of Seeing Red presents a spine-tingling story of murder and betrayal in high society Savannah, where a homicide detective finds his career—and life—on the line.
When Savannah detective Duncan Hatcher is summoned to an unusual crime scene, he knows discretion is key. Influential Judge Cato Laird’s beloved trophy wife, Elise, has fatally shot a burglar. She claims self-defense, but Duncan suspects she’s lying, and puts his career in jeopardy by investigating further. Then, in secret, Elise makes an incredible allegation, which he dismisses as the lie of a cunning woman trying to exploit his intense attraction to her. But when Elise goes missing, Duncan finds that trusting the wrong person could mean the difference between life and death for both of them.
Leseprobe
Ricochet
CHAPTER
1
Six Weeks Earlier
THE MURDER TRIAL OF ROBERT SAVICH 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 Judge Laird, as perplexed by the request as ADA Mike Nelson, had nonetheless granted it and the three had withdrawn to chambers.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&rsq…