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’s corpse, I see that not only is his brain an oozing mush, his tongue has been cut out. According to the ME, it was cut out while he was still alive. You don’t think that gave me probable cause to go after Savich immediately?”

The blood had been fresh and Freddy’s body still warm when Duncan and DeeDee were called to the grisly scene. DEA officers and SPD narcs were engaged in a battle royal over who had blown Freddy’s cover.

“You were supposed to have three men monitoring his every move,” one of the DEA agents yelled at his police counterpart.

“You had four! Where were they?” the narc yelled back.

“They thought he was safe at home.”

“Yeah? Well, so did we.”

“Jesus!” the federal agent swore in frustration. “How’d he slip past us?”

No matter who had botched the sting, Freddy was no longer any use to them and quarreling about it was a waste of time. Leaving DeeDee to referee the two factions swapping invectives and blame, Duncan had gone after Savich.

“I didn’t plan on arresting him,” Duncan had explained to Mike Nelson. “I only went to his office to question him. Swear to God.”

“You fought with him, Dunk. That may hurt us. Adams isn’t going to let that get past the jury. He’s going to hint at police brutality, if not accuse you outright. False arrest. Hell, I don’t know what all he’ll pull out of the hat.”

He’d ended by tacking on a reminder that nothing was a sure thing and that anything could happen during a trial.

Duncan didn’t understand the ADA ’s concern. To him it seemed clear-cut and easily understood. He’d gone directly from the scene of Freddy Morris’s murder to Savich’s office. Duncan had barged in unannounced to find Savich in the company of a woman later identified by mug shots as Lucille Jones, who was on her knees fellating him.

This morning, Duncan ’s testimony about that had caused a hush to fall over the courtroom. Restless movements ceased. The bailiff, who had been dozing, sat up, suddenly wakeful. Duncan glanced at the jury box. One of the older women ducked her head in embarrassment. Another, a contemporary of the first, appeared confused as to the meaning of the word. One of the four male jurors looked at Savich with a smirk of admiration. Savich was examining his fingernails as though considering a manicure later in the day.

Duncan had testified that the moment he entered Savich’s office, Savich had reached for a gun. “A pistol was lying on his desk. He lunged toward it. I knew I’d be dead if he got hold of that weapon.”

Adams came to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Conclusion.”

“Sustained.”

Mike Nelson amended his question and eventually established with the jurors that Duncan had rushed Savich only to defend himself from possible harm. The ensuing struggle was intense, but finally Duncan was able to restrain Savich.

“And once you had subdued Mr. Savich,” the prosecutor said, “did you confiscate that weapon as evidence, Detective Hatcher?”

Here’s where it got tricky. “No. By the time I had Savich in restraints, the pistol had disappeared and so had the woman.”

Neither had been seen since.

Duncan arrested Savich for assault on a police officer. While he was being held on that charge, Duncan, DeeDee, and other officers had constructed a case against him for the murder of Freddy Morris.

They didn’t have the weapon that Duncan had seen, which they were certain Savich had used to slay Freddy Morris less than an hour earlier. They didn’t have the testimony of the woman. They didn’t even have footprints or tire prints at the scene because the tide had come in and washed them away prior to the discovery of the body.

What they did have was the testimony of several other agents who’d heard Freddy’s fearful claim that Savich would cut out his tongue and then kill him if he made a deal with the authorities, or even talked to them. And, since Lucille Jones’s whereabouts were unknown, Savich couldn’t produce a credible alibi. The DA’s office had won convictions on less, so the case had come to trial.

Nelson expected Duncan would get hammered by Savich’s attorney during cross-examination that afternoon. Over lunch, he had tried to prepare him for it. “He’s going to claim harassment and tell the jury that you’ve harbored a personal grudge against his client for years.”

“You bet your ass, I have,” Duncan said. “The son of a bitch is a killer. It’s my sworn duty to catch killers.”

Nelson sighed. “Just don’t let it sound personal, all right?”

“I’ll try.”

“Even though it is.”

“I said I’ll try, Mike. But, yeah, it’s become personal.”

“ Adams is going to claim that Savich has a permit to carry a handgun, so the weapon itself isn’t incriminating. And then he’s going to claim that there never was a weapon. He may even question if there was really a woman giving him a blow job. He’ll deny, deny, deny, and build up a mountain of doubt in the jurors’ minds. He may even make a motion to dismiss your entire testimony since there’s no corroboration.”