Ricochet by Sandra Brown

said.”
    “That’s her story,” Beale confirmed, slapping her notebook against her palm. “His, too.”
    The judge took umbrage. “It’s not a
story
. It’s a true account of what took place. Is it necessary for Elise to repeat it tonight? She’s already been traumatized.”
    “We haven’t even seen the victim or the scene yet,” DeeDee said.
    “Once we’ve taken a look and talked to forensics, we’re certain to have questions for Mrs. Laird.” Duncan glanced at her. She’d yet to utter a sound. Her eyes were fixed on a spot in near space, as though she had detached herself from what was going on around her.
    Coming back to the judge, he said, “We’ll try and keep it as brief as possible. We certainly wouldn’t want to contribute to the trauma Mrs. Laird has suffered tonight.” He turned and addressed Sally Beale. “Why don’t you take her into the kitchen? Maybe get her something to drink. Crofton, you can continue with the judge.”
    Judge Laird didn’t look happy about Duncan’s directives, which purposefully kept him separated from his missus, but he consented with a terse nod. Stroking his wife’s arm, he said, “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
    Sally Beale laid her wide hand on Elise’s shoulders, firmly but not unkindly. “I could use a Coke or something. How ’bout you?”
    Still saying nothing, Elise went along with the policewoman. DeeDee gave Duncan a questioning look. He raised his shoulders in a shrug and proceeded down the hallway to rejoin the ME. “What about it, Dothan? Does it look like self-defense to you?”
    “See for yourself.”
    Duncan and DeeDee paused on the threshold of the study. From that vantage point, they could see only the victim’s shoes. They asked the crime scene techs if it was all right to come in.
    “Hey, Dunk. DeeDee.” Overseeing the collection of evidence was a small, bookish guy named Baker, who looked more like an antiques dealer than a cop who performed the nasty job of scavenging through the rubble of violent death. “We’ve vacuumed the whole room, but I don’t think he got any farther than where you see him now. He jimmied a window lock to break in.” He motioned toward the window.
    “We found a tire iron outside under the bushes. We’ve got casts of the footprints outside the window. Matching prints here inside don’t extend past the desk. They were muddy prints, so now they’re sorta smeared.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “The Lairds smeared them when they checked to see was he dead.”
    “Lairds plural?” DeeDee asked.
    Baker nodded. “Her, soon as she shot the guy. The judge when he came into the room and saw what had happened. He assessed the situation and immediately called 911. That’s what they told Crofton and Beale anyway.”
    “Huh. How’d the intruder get here? To the house, I mean.”
    “Beats me,” Baker replied. “We’ve lifted prints off the desk drawers, but they could belong to the judge, his wife, the housekeeper. We’ll see. Took a Ruger nine-millimeter out of his right hand.” He held up an evidence bag. “His finger was around the trigger. We’re pretty sure he fired. Smelled like it.”
    “I bagged his hands,” Dothan Brooks said.
    “We pulled a slug out of the wall over there.” Duncan and DeeDee turned to look at where Baker was pointing and saw a bullet hole in the wall about nine feet above the floor.
    “If he was trying to shoot Mrs. Laird, his aim was lousy,” DeeDee remarked, echoing what Duncan was thinking.
    “Maybe she startled him, caught him in the act, and he fired too quickly to take aim,” Duncan said.
    “That’s what we figured,” Baker said. He motioned toward the photographer, who was replacing his gear in its hard-shell case. “We got pictures from every angle. I made sketches of the room, and took measurements. It’ll all be ready when you need it, if you need it. We’re done.”
    With that, he and his crew trailed out.
    Duncan advanced into the room.