“If I had it to do over again, I’d make sure of it. I’d tell her every day. I’d do it differently. I’d do it right.”
Lilly hugged him tightly, laying her head on his chest so he wouldn’t see her secret smile. Today was theirs alone. There would be time enough tomorrow to tell him that, although he had lost one child on the mountain, he had created another.
Already he had been granted a second chance to do it right.
Simon & Schuster Proudly Presents
RICOCHET
Sandra Brown
Available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster
Turn the page for a preview of RICOCHET . . .
There hadn’t been a peep out of Savich since the severed tongue incident. The lab at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation had confirmed that it had indeed belonged to Freddy Morris, but that left them no closer to pinning his murder on Savich.
Savich was free. He was free to continue his lucrative drug trafficking, free to kill anyone who crossed him. And Duncan knew that somewhere on Savich’s agenda, he was an annotation. Probably his name had a large asterisk beside it.
He tried not to dwell on it. He had other cases, other responsibilities, but it gnawed at him constantly that Savich was out there, biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike. These days Duncan exercised a bit more caution, was a fraction more vigilant, never went anywhere unarmed. But it wasn’t really fear he felt. More like anticipation.
On this night, that super-charged feeling of expectation was keeping him awake. He’d sought refuge from the restlessness by playing his piano. In the darkness of his living room, he was tinkering with a tune of his own composition when his telephone rang.
He glanced at the clock. Work. Nobody called at 1:34 in the morning to report that there hadn’t been a killing. He answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”
Early in their partnership, he and DeeDee had made a deal. She would be the first one called if they were needed at the scene of a homicide. Between the two of them, he was the one more likely to sleep through a ringing telephone. She was the caffeine junkie and a light sleeper by nature.
He expected the caller to be her and it was. “Were you asleep?” she asked cheerfully.
“Sort of.”
“Playing the piano?”
“I don’t play the piano.”
“Right. Well, stop whatever it is you’re doing. We’re on.”
“Who iced whom?”
“You won’t believe it. Pick me up in ten.”
“Where—” But he was talking to air. She’d hung up.
He went upstairs, dressed, and slipped on his holster. Within two minutes of his partner’s call, he was in his car.
He lived in a town house in the historic district of downtown, only blocks from the police station—the venerable redbrick building known to everyone in Savannah as “the Barracks.”
At this hour, the narrow, tree-shrouded streets were deserted. He eased through
a couple of red lights on his way out Abercorn Street. DeeDee lived on a side street off that main thoroughfare in a neat duplex with a tidy patch of yard. She was pacing it when he pulled up to the curb.
She got in quickly and buckled her seat belt. Then she cupped her armpits in turn. “I’m already sweating like a hoss. How can it be this hot and sticky at this time of night?”
“Lots of things are hot and sticky at this time of night.”
“You’ve been hanging around with Worley too much.”
He grinned. “Where to?”