The Alibi (25 page)

"Dr. Ladd?"

"Yes."

"I'm Sergeant Rory Smilow, a homicide detective

with Charleston P.D. I'd like to talk to you about the

murder of Lute Pettijohn."

"Lute Pettijohn? I'm afraid I don't know--"

"You were seen outside his penthouse suite on the

afternoon he was murdered, Dr. Ladd. So please

don't waste my time by pretending that you don't

know what I'm talking about."

She and Detective Smilow stared at one another,

taking each other's measure. It was Alex who finally

relented. She stood aside. "Come in."

"Actually, I was hoping you would come with us."

She swallowed, although her mouth was dry. "I'd

like to call my lawyer."

"That isn't necessary. This isn't an arrest."

She looked pointedly at the stoic policemen flanking

him.

Smilow's lips lifted in what could have passed as

a wry smile. "Volunteering to be questioned without

an attorney present would go a long way toward convincing

me that you're innocent of any wrongdoing."

"I don't believe that for an instant, Detective

Smilow." She scored a point. Her directness seemed

to take him aback. "I'll be happy to accompany you

as soon as I notify my lawyer."

CHAPTER

15

Rory Smilow sat on the corner of his desk. Unlike

all other desks in the Criminal Investigation Division,

his was uncluttered. The files and paperwork

were neatly stacked. Thanks to Smitty's shoeshine

early that morning, his lace-up shoes reflected the

overhead lights. His suit jacket remained on.

Alex Ladd was seated with her hands calmly

clasped in her lap, legs decorously crossed. Smilow

thought she was remarkably composed for someone

who, appearance-wise at least, seemed out of place in

a homicide detective's office.

For half an hour they had been waiting for her solicitor,

who had agreed to meet her there. If she was

uncomfortable with the prolonged silence and

Smilow's close scrutiny, she gave no sign of it. She

exhibited no fear or nervousness, merely a grudging

tolerance for the inconvenience.

Solicitor Frank Perkins arrived looking flushed,

rushed, and apologetic. Except for cleats, he was

dressed for the golf course. "I'm sorry, Alex. I was on

the tenth hole when I got your page. I came as soon

as I could. What's this about, Smilow?"

Perkins had a solid reputation and an excellent

track record. Rarer than that, he was known to be a

decent human being with unimpeachable integrity.

Smilow wondered in what capacity the defense attorney

had served Alex Ladd before, so he asked.

"It's a rude question," Perkins replied, "but I don't

mind answering if Alex doesn't."

"Please," she said.

"Up till now, we've been social friends. We met a

couple of years ago when she and Maggie, my wife,

served on a Spoleto committee together," he explained,

referring to Charleston's renowned arts festival

in May.

"Then, to your knowledge, Dr. Ladd has never

been faced with criminal charges before?"

"Come to the point, Smilow." Perkins's tone

demonstrated why prosecutors considered him a

tough adversary in the courtroom.

"I wish to question Dr. Ladd in connection to the

Lute Pettijohn murder."

Perkins's jaw dropped. He gaped at them like he

was waiting for the punch line. "You've got to be kidding."

"Unfortunately, no, he's not," Alex said. "Thank

you for coming, Frank. I'm terribly sorry I interrupted

your golf game. Were you winning?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah," he replied absently, still trying

to digest what Smilow had told him.

"Then I'm doubly sorry." Glancing at Smilow, she

said, "This is all so ridiculous. It's a waste of time. I

just want to get through it and get out of here."

In a manner that looked like she was granting him

permission to proceed, she nodded at Smilow. He

leaned across his desk, clicked on a tape recorder,

then stated their names, the time, and the date.

"Dr. Ladd, the attendant of a public parking lot on

East Bay Street identified you by an artist's sketch.

Since the lot doesn't have an automated ticketing system,

he keeps a record of each car by writing down

the license plate number and the time it came in."

Unfortunately for Smilow, no record was kept of

the time a car exited the lot. The charge was based on

the time of entry. For any stay under two hours, the

fee was five dollars. Incremental charges didn't start

until after that first one hundred twenty minutes. The

charge was noted, but not the exact exit time.

"We traced you through your car tag. On Saturday

afternoon you left your car in that lot for up to two

hours."

Perkins, who had been listening intently, laughed.

"That's your earthshaking discovery? That's your big

breakthrough on this case?"

"It's a start."

"One hell of a slow start. How does the parking lot

business connect Dr. Ladd to the murder?"

"I tipped--"

Perkins held up his hand in caution, but she waved

it down. "It's okay, Frank. I gave that young man at

the parking lot a ten-dollar bill, which was the smallest

denomination I had. That represented a five-dollar

tip. I'm sure that's why he remembered me

well enough to describe me to a sketch artist."

"He wasn't the one who provided us with the de

scription," Smilow told them. "That was a Mr.

Daniels of Macon, Georgia. His room in the Charles

Towne Plaza was located down the hallway from the

penthouse suite briefly occupied by Lute Pettijohn on

Saturday afternoon. Did you know him?"

"You don't have to answer, Alex," the attorney

told her. "In fact, I recommend that you don't say

anything else until we've had a chance to speak privately."

"It's all right," she repeated, this time with a small

laugh. Looking back to Smilow, she said, "I've never

heard of Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia."

She was not only cool, but clever, thought Smilow.

"I was referring to Mr. Pettijohn. Did you know him?'

"Everyone in Charleston has heard of Lute Pettijohn,"

she said. "His name was constantly in the

news."

"You knew he had been murdered."

"Of course."

"You saw it on TV?"

"I was out of town for a portion of the weekend.

But when I got back, I heard it on the news."

"You didn't know Pettijohn personally?"

"No."

"Then why were you standing outside his hotel

suite near the time he was murdered?"

"I wasn't."

"Alex, please, don't say anything more." Placing

his hand beneath her elbow, Perkins indicated the

door. "We're leaving."

"It won't look good."

"Detective, you're the one who doesn't look good.

You owe Dr. Ladd an apology."

"I don't mind answering the questions, Frank, if it

means stopping this nonsense here and now," she

said.

Perkins looked at her for a long moment. He obviously

disagreed, but he turned toward Smilow. "I insist

on consulting with my client before this goes any

further."

"Fine. I'll give you a moment alone."

"Be sure and turn off the microphone before you

leave."

"Believe me, Frank, I want this to go by the books.

I don't want a murderer to be set free on a technicality."

Looking pointedly at Alex, he switched off the

recorder and left her alone with her solicitor.

"Can you believe it?" Steffi Mundell was outside

in the narrow hall, staring through the two-way mirror

into Smilow's private office. "The artist was right

on. What's she like?"

"Don't you have any other cases, Steffi? I thought

all of you A.D.A.s were overworked and underpaid.

At least that's what you would have everyone believe."

"With Mason's sanction, I've lightened my caseload

so I can concentrate on this one. He wants me to

assist Hammond any way I can."

"Where is the boy wonder?" He watched Alex

Ladd adamantly shake her head to one of Frank

Perkins's inquiries.

"Barricaded inside his office. I haven't seen him

since we left the hospital this morning. I left him a

message that I was coming over here to take a gander

at our suspect. Good work on the capture, by the

way."

"Duck soup. Will Hammond be joining us?"

"Would you mind?"

Smilow shrugged. "I'd like to gauge his reaction."

"To Dr. Ladd?"

"It might be interesting to see if Saint Hammond

could demand the death penalty for a beautiful

woman."

Steffi reacted with a start. "You think she's beautiful?"

Before Smilow could answer, Frank Perkins

opened the door and, after giving Steffi a blunt greeting,

waved them inside.

Bobby Trimble breathed deeply in an effort to

bring his heart rate under control. It had been racing

ever since he saw Alex talking to cops on her front

door step.

That was bad. Very bad. Were the cops wise to his

Pettijohn plot? Had Alex called them with the intention

of turning him in to save herself?

He had cruised past her house at a moderate speed

with studied indifference. What he saw in his peripheral

vision, however, was cause for alarm--two uniforms,

a plainclothesman, and a vindictive woman

who made no secret of despising him. A foolproof

recipe for disaster.

There was one positive sign. Alex hadn't fingered

him. She hadn't pointed to him and shouted, "Get

him!" But he wasn't sure what that signified, or

where it left him. It might mean only that she hadn't

seen him driving past.

Deliberating his next move, he aimlessly wove the

convertible through downtown Charleston's midday

traffic. Last night he had thought he was home free.

After a lot of arm-twisting, Alex had agreed to give

him the money he demanded.

"If you think you can steal my idea and use it for

your own gain, you've got another think coming,

missy!" When agitated, his accent returned. Hating the sound of that hick whine, he had paused to modulate

his voice. "Don't even think about double-crossing

me, Alex," he told her in a softer, but no less

threatening tone. "That money belongs to me, and I

want it."

Alex had cleaned up her act, too. She spoke better.

Dressed better. Lived well. But for all her snooty

high-and-mighty airs, she hadn't really changed. No

more than he had. Just as she knew his true nature, he

knew hers. Did she think he was born yesterday? He

saw what was happening. She had seized on his

brainstorm and was trying to cheat him out of his

half.

When he accused her of it, she had said, "For the

last time, Bobby: I don't have any money to give you.

Leave me alone!"

"That's simply not going to happen, Alex. I'm in

your life until I get what I came for. If you want me

to disappear, pay up."

Her weary sigh had been as good as a waving

white flag. "Be at my house at noon tomorrow."

So he was at her house at noon, and guess what?

She had cops for company. There might already be a

warrant out for his arrest.

Although maybe not, he thought, forcing himself

to calm down. If she and the police had been laying a

trap for him, why was the patrol car parked in plain

sight? And how could she rat on him without ratting

out herself, too?

In any event, until he knew for certain what was

going on, it would be wise for Bobby Trimble to lay

low. Boring.

Stopping for a red light, he folded his hands over

the steering wheel and contemplated his immediate

future. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another

convertible pull up alongside his. He turned his

head.

The two faces looking back at him were partially

concealed by sunglasses with bright yellow lenses.

The coeds were young and attractive. Their grins

were saucy and challenging. Spoiled, rich daddy's

girls looking for mischief on a hot summer afternoon.

In other words, prey.

The light changed, and with a screech of tires,

their car shot forward. They made a right turn at the

next corner. Bobby switched lanes and made the

same turn. The girls, glancing over their bare shoul

1

ders, were aware he was following them. He saw

them laughing.

The BMW convertible whipped into the parking

lot of a trendy luncheon restaurant. Bobby followed.

He watched them as they made their way toward the

entrance. They were dressed in short shorts that

showed an inch of butt cheek and seeming miles of

tanned legs. Their halter tops left little to the imagination.

They were a walking, giggling, flirting reminder

to Bobby of what he did best.

He made his way through the crowded restaurant

and spotted them seated at a table on the patio beneath

the shade of an umbrella, giving their drink