The Alibi (18 page)

with one hand, he reached into his breast pocket for

the slip of paper he had tucked there earlier and consulted

the address he'd written down.

Breathlessly, Steffi barged into the hospital room.

"I got here as fast as I could. What've I missed?"

Smilow had reached her on her cell phone shortly

before she left Hammond's place. As promised, he

had called when the attending physician granted permission

for his patients to be questioned.

"I want in on this, Smilow," she had told him over

the phone.

"I can't wait on you. The doctor might rescind the

offer if I don't jump on it."

"Okay, but go slow. I'm on my way."

Hammond's condominium neighborhood wasn't

far from the hospital complex. Even so, she had exceeded

every speed limit to get here. She was very

anxious to know if the food poisoning patients had

seen anyone near the penthouse suite of Pettijohn's

hotel.

Following her abrupt arrival, she paused in the

doorway for a moment, then crossed the tile floor toward

the hospital bed. The patient in it was a man

about fifty years old, whose face was the color of

bread dough and whose eyes were sunken into his

skull and rimmed with dark circles. His right hand

was hooked up to an IV drip. A bedpan and a kidney-bean-shaped

basin were within easy reach on the bedside

table.

A woman that Steffi presumed was his wife was

seated in a chair beside the bed. She didn't look sick,

just exhausted. She was still dressed for sightseeing,

wearing sneakers, walking shorts, and a T-shirt on

which was spelled out in glittering letters: girls

raised in the south.

Smilow, who was standing beside the bed, made

the introductions. "Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, Steffi

Mundell. Ms. Mundell is from the district attorney's

office. She's closely involved with the investigation."

"Hello, Mr. Daniels."

"Hi."

"Are you feeling better?"

"I've stopped praying for death."

"I guess that indicates some improvement." She

looked across him at his wife. "You didn't get sick,

Mrs. Daniels?"

"I had the she-crab soup," she replied with a wan

smile.

"The Daniels are the last ones I've talked to,"

Smilow said. "The others in their group couldn't help

us."

"Can they?"

"Mr. Daniels is a definite maybe."

Seeming none too happy about it, the man in the

bed grumbled, "I might have seen somebody."

Failing to curb her impatience, Steffi pressed

him for accuracy. "Either you saw somebody or

you didn't."

Mrs. Daniels came to her feet. "He's very tired.

Couldn't this wait until tomorrow? After he's had another

night's rest?"

Instantly Steffi saw her mistake and forced herself

to relent. "I'm sorry. Forgive me for being so abrasive.

I'm afraid I've picked up a few bad habits from

the people I prosecute. I'm accustomed to dealing

with killers, thieves, and rapists, usually repeat offenders,

not nice folks like you. It's not too often I get

to interact with tax-paying, law-abiding, God-fearing

people." After that speech, she didn't dare look at

Smilow, knowing that she would see derision in his

expression.

Gnawing her lower lip, Mrs. Daniels consulted her

husband. "It's up to you, honey. Do you feel like

doing this now?"

Steffi had sized them up and immediately concluded

that there would be no contest between her

I.Q. and theirs. She took advantage of their indecision

to do some more manipulating. "Of course if

you want to wait until morning for our questions,

that's fine, Mr. Daniels. But please understand our

position. A leader in our community has been murdered

in cold blood. He was shot in the back with no

provocation. None that we've determined, anyway."

She let that sink in, then added, "We hope to catch

this brutal killer before he has another opportunity to

strike."

"Then I can't help you."

All were taken aback by Mr. Daniels's unexpected

declaration. Smilow was the first to find his voice.

"How do you know you can't help?"

"Because Ms. Mundell here said the killer was a

'he,' and the person I saw was a woman."

Steffi and Smilow exchanged a glance. "I used the

pronoun genetically," she explained.

"Oh, well, it was a woman I saw," Daniels said,

settling back against his pillow. "She didn't look like

a killer, though."

"Could you elaborate on that?" Steffi asked.

"You mean what she looked like?"

"Start at the beginning and talk us through,"

Smilow suggested.

"Well, we--that is, our choir group--left the hotel

directly after lunch. About an hour into our tour, I

started feeling queasy. At first I thought it was the

heat. But a couple of the kids with us had already got

sick with upset stomachs, so I suspected it was more

than that. I got to feeling worse by the minute. Finally,

I told my wife that I was going back to the

hotel, take some Pepto or something, and would

catch up later."

Mrs. Daniels confirmed all this with a solemn nod.

"By the time I'd walked back, I was on the verge

of... of being real sick. I was afraid I wasn't going

to make it to my room in time."

"When did you see the woman?" Steffi asked,

wishing he would get to the point sooner rather than

later.

"When I got to our room."

"Which was on the fifth floor," Smilow verified.

"Five oh six," Daniels said. "I noticed another person

at the end of the hall and glanced in that direction.

She was standing outside another door."

"Doing what?" Smilow asked.

"Doing nothing. Just facing the door, like she had

knocked and was waiting for somebody to answer."

"How far away from you was she?"

"Hmm, not far. But pretty far. I didn't think twice

about it. You know how awkward it is when you

make eye contact with a stranger and you're the only

two around? It was like that. You don't want to seem

either too standoffish or too friendly. Got to be careful

of folks these days."

"Did you speak to her?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I just glanced her way.

Truth is, I wasn't thinking of anything except getting

to the bathroom."

"But you got a good look at her?"

"Not that good."

"Good enough to determine her age?"

"She wasn't old. But not a girl, either. About your

age," he said to Steffi.

"Ethnic?"

"No."

"Tall, short?"

Daniels winced and rubbed a spot on his lower abdomen.

"Honey?" his wife said, anxiously picking up

the basin and tucking it under his chin.

He pushed it aside. "Just a mild cramp."

"Want some Sprite?"

"A sip." Mrs. Daniels brought the covered cup to

his lips and he sucked through the bent straw. When

he was finished, he looked at Smilow again. "What'd

you ask... oh, her height?" He shook his head.

"Didn't notice. Not too extreme one way or the other.

I guess about average."

"Hair color? Was she blond?" Steffi asked.

"Not too."

"Not too?" Smilow repeated.

"Not too blond. It didn't strike me that she was a

Marilyn Monroe type, know what I mean? But her

hair wasn't dark, either. Sorta medium."

"Mr. Daniels, could you give us a general body description?"

"You mean was she ... like fat?"

"Was she?"

"No."

"Thin?"

"Yeah. More thin. Well, sorta thin, I guess you

could say. See, I really didn't pay her much mind. I

was just trying to keep from having a god-awful accident

out there in the hall."

"I think that's all he can tell you," Mrs. Daniels

said to them. "If you think of something else to ask,

you can come back tomorrow."

"One final question, please," Smilow said. "Did

you actually see this woman go into Mr. Pettijohn's

room?"

"Nope. Quick as I could, I unlocked my door with

that credit-card-looking thing and went inside." He

rubbed the stubble on his cheek. "For that matter, I

don't know if it was the room where the guy got

killed or not. It could have been any room down the

hallway from mine."

"It was the penthouse suite. The door is slightly recessed,"

Steffi said. "It's different from the others. If

we pointed out Mr. Pettijohn's suite to you, would

you be able to determine if that was the door you saw

the woman standing in front of?"

"I seriously doubt it. As I told you before, I only

glanced down the hall. It registered with me that there

was a woman standing at a door waiting for it to be

opened. That's all."

"You're sure she wasn't stepping out of it, leaving

it?"

"No, I'm not sure." Daniels was beginning to

sound querulous. "But that wasn't the impression I

got. There was nothing unusual about her or the situation.

Honestly, if you folks hadn't asked, I never

would have thought of her again. You asked did I see

anybody in the hallway yesterday afternoon, and

that's who I saw."

Mrs. Daniels intervened again. Steffi and Smilow

apologized for having to bother him, thanked him for

the information, wished him a speedy recovery, and

left.

Out in the hospital corridor, Smilow was glum.

"Great. We have an eyewitness who saw a woman

standing not too far away from him, but pretty far,

who may or may not have been standing outside Pettijohn's

suite. She was neither old nor young. She

was average height. 'Sorta medium' hair and 'sorta

thin.'"

"I'm disappointed but not surprised," Steffi said.

"I doubted he would remember anything given his

preoccupation at the time."

"Shit," Smilow swore.

"Precisely."

Then they looked at one another and laughed, and

were still laughing when Mrs. Daniels emerged from

her husband's room. "He's finally talked me into returning

to the hotel. I haven't been back since the ambulance

brought us here. Are you going down?" she

asked politely as the elevator arrived.

"Not just yet," Steffi told her. "I've got other business

to discuss with Detective Smilow."

"Good luck with solving the mystery."

They thanked her for her cooperation and willingness

to help, then Steffi motioned Smilow toward the

waiting room, which was presently empty. When

they were seated in facing armchairs, he bluntly informed

her that Hammond Cross would be prosecuting

the Pettijohn case.

"Mason awarded it to his golden boy."

Making no effort to mask her disappointment or

resentment, she asked when he had learned this.

"Earlier this evening. Chief Crane called and told

me because I had campaigned for you."

"Thanks. For all the good it did me," she said bitterly.

"When was I supposed to be told of this development?"

"Tomorrow, I guess."

Hammond hadn't known about Pettijohn's murder

until she told him. It must have been Mason's call he

had received while she was still there. It was doubly

galling that moments after ending their affair, he had

beat her out of a career-making case.

Smilow said, "Davee Pettijohn pulled strings."

"Just as she promised."

"She said she never settles for second best. Apparently

she thinks you are."

"That's not it. Not entirely, anyway. She would

much rather have a man working on her behalf than

another woman."

"Good point. Better chemistry. Besides, her family

and the Crosses have been friends for decades."

"It's not what you know, but who."

After a moment of silent reflection, Steffi stood up

and slipped the strap of her heavy valise over her

shoulder. "Since I'm no longer--"

Smilow waved her back into her chair. "Mason

threw you a bone. Act surprised when he gives you

official notice in the morning."

"What kind of bone?"

"You're to assist Hammond."

"No surprise there. A case like this requires at least

two good heads." Sensing there was more, she

queried Smilow with a raised eyebrow. "And?"

"And it's your responsibility to serve as a barrier

between us and keep the interaction friendly. Failing

that, you're to try and prevent bloodshed."

"Mason's words to your chief?"

"I'm paraphrasing." He smiled grimly. "But don't

worry overmuch. I doubt it'll come to bloodshed."

"I'm not so sure. I've seen you two on the verge of

what appeared to be mortal combat. What's that

about, anyway?"

"We hate the sight of each other."

"That much I know, Smilow. What brought it on?"

"Long story."

"For another time?"

"Maybe."

It frustrated her that he didn't commit to telling

her. She would like to know the circumstances behind

his and Hammond's virulent dislike for one another.

They were entirely different personality types,

of course. Smilow's aloofness repelled people, and