“My business with him was so short-lived,” the judge said, “I still hold firm to my theory that Trotter was acting alone, and that any connection he had to Napoli was coincidental. But looking at it from the perspective of an investigator, I’ll admit it warranted closer examination, particularly if Napoli had proof of an affair between Coleman Greer and my wife.

“So,” he went on, “I felt we should clear the air. Hopefully by explaining a couple of outstanding issues, we can put this regrettable incident behind us once and for all. Now that there are no lingering secrets between Elise and me, we can be perfectly frank with you. Fire away.”

DeeDee plunged right in. “Mrs. Laird, does Napoli have proof of an affair between you and Coleman Greer?”

“No such proof exists, Detective Bowen. There was no affair.”

Reading the skepticism in DeeDee’s face, the judge said, “You will believe her after she explains the nature of their relationship.”

“She told us they were friends,” DeeDee said.

“I told you we were close friends. To have something ugly made of our friendship offends me deeply.” As she said this, she shot Duncan a drop-dead look. “It pains me to have to talk about him at all, but since you give me no choice…” She paused and took a deep breath. “He and I dated a few times in high school, but it was always platonic, never sexual, not even romantic. We were pals, confidantes.”

DeeDee asked, “If you were so close, why didn’t you know he was contemplating suicide?”

“I knew that Coleman was depressed, but I didn’t realize the depth of his depression. I wish I had.”

“He was at the top of his game,” Duncan said. “What did he have to be depressed about?”

“His heart was broken.”

The simple statement took him and DeeDee aback. He said, “That begs for an explanation, Mrs. Laird.”

“Coleman’s lover was leaving him.”

“But you weren’t that lover.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I was not.”

“So all those times that you met him secretly, you-”

“I provided him a shoulder to cry on.”

“You didn’t have a carnal relationship.”

“How many times must I repeat it, Detective Hatcher?”

The judge said, “They still don’t believe you, darling. They won’t believe you until you tell them what you told me.”

She gave Duncan a long, measured look, as though willing him to accept what she was about to say. “Coleman didn’t have a sexual relationship with me or any woman. His lover was Tony Esteban. His teammate.”

EVEN SO FAR INLAND, ATLANTA WAS AS SULTRY AS SAVANNAH.

The heat sucked the breath out of Duncan as he exited the airport to hail a cab. The driver was friendly and talkative, keeping up a lively chatter as he negotiated the expressway traffic toward Buckhead, where Tony Esteban owned the penthouse of a high-rise condo.

Duncan had woken up early, knowing he was going to come to Atlanta. He didn’t tell anybody, not even DeeDee, who would have wanted to come with him. He figured the Braves’ Puerto Rican treasure would be reluctant to discuss his sex life with cops, but that one would be less intimidating than two.

Besides, he was grateful to have a break from DeeDee. After leaving the judge and his wife last night, they’d driven separately to a restaurant, where Duncan ate a late supper, and DeeDee imbibed Diet Coke by the quart and railed endlessly against Elise Laird and her lies.

“I can’t believe she had the nerve to say that Coleman Greer was gay! That’s what she wants us to believe? As if!”

“It goes against stereotype, but that doesn’t mean-”

“Coleman Greer was not gay.”

She wouldn’t listen to any argument to the contrary and rebuked both Duncan and the judge for giving any credence to it whatsoever. “She’s got her husband by the dick. He’ll believe it because he wants to. She’s so damn clever. She told him the one lie where he could save face. She let herself off the hook and salvaged his wounded pride. That takes talent. She’s a player, Duncan. The likes of which I’ve never seen.”

When he could work in a word edgewise, he’d said, “Even if what she claims about Greer is false, that only makes her guilty of adultery. We’re no closer to having evidence that she plugged Gary Ray Trotter for any reason other than self-defense.”

“It’s still murky, Duncan.”

Yes, it was. Murky enough for him to make the short flight from Savannah to Atlanta, paying his own way. He would try to get reimbursed later. Even if he wound up financing the trip himself, it would be worth the price of the airfare to get to the truth. Was Elise Laird a manipulative liar? If so, the investigation into the fatal shooting would continue. If not, her own life was at risk.

Either way, he had to know.

The driver pulled the taxi into the porte cochere of the high-rise and remarked on its swankiness. Duncan agreed. He paid the man and walked into the marble lobby, which embraced him with refrigerated air, the scent of lilies, and soft music. The reception desk was manned by a uniformed concierge.

“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”

“Morning. I’m here to see Mr. Anthony Esteban.” He reached for his ID wallet, and in doing so made certain the man could see the holster beneath his sport jacket.

The concierge cleared his throat. “Is Mr. Esteban expecting you?”

Duncan flashed him a wide smile. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“I’ll have to buzz him.”

“Whatever. No rush.”

Belying his nonchalance, he leaned forward over the tall desk and watched with interest as the concierge raised a telephone receiver to his ear, then pressed the call button for the penthouse. “Mr. Esteban, I hate to disturb you. There’s a gentleman here, asking to see you. A Mr… uh…”

“Detective Sergeant Duncan Hatcher, Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department.” The city and county departments had officially merged a year ago. Duncan rarely used the full name. For one thing, it sounded stupid. For another, it was too long. In the time it took you to identify yourself to a felon, you could get killed. He really only used it when he wanted to look like a big shot.

The concierge repeated what he’d said, listened, then asked the baseball player to hold on. “He wants to know in regards to what.”

“Elise Laird and an incident at her house last week.”

Again, he repeated Duncan ’s words into the telephone receiver. After a brief pause, he said, “Mr. Esteban says he doesn’t know an Elise Laird.”

“Coleman Greer’s friend.”

The concierge’s mouth formed a small, round O, then he passed along the message to Esteban. “Of course, Mr. Esteban.” He hung up. “Go right up. The elevator bank is behind this wall.”

“Thanks.”

The elevator was so fast, Duncan ’s ears popped on the express ascent. The doors opened into a sizable foyer. Tony Esteban was waiting for him outside his front door. He was several inches shorter than Duncan, solidly built, and, Duncan knew, had arms that could knock the stitches out of a baseball. He was wearing nothing except a pair of workout shorts and a chunk of gold suspended from a half-inch-wide chain around his neck.

“Hatcher?”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Esteban.”

“Call me Tony,” he said, extending his hand. “Come in.” He spoke with only a trace of a Spanish accent.

“The proverbial glass house,” Duncan remarked as he stepped into the penthouse and took a look around. Floor-to-ceiling windows afforded almost a 360-degree view of the city.

“You like it? Cost a fucking fortune.”

“You make a fucking fortune.”

He grinned the grin that had made him vastly popular with fans and the media. “You want something to drink?” He led Duncan across what seemed to be an acre of sparsely furnished living space to a wet bar. He pushed a concealed button that opened the mirrored doors behind the bar to reveal its stock. “Whatever you like. Scotch, bourbon, a milk shake? I got everything.”