The Alibi (26 page)

order to a waitress. When she left, Bobby dropped

into an empty chair at their table.

Their lips were glossy, framing very white, very

straight teeth. Diamond studs glittered in their ears.

They smelled of expensive perfume.

"I'm a vice cop," he said in a sexy drawl. "Are you

young ladies old enough to drink?"

They giggled.

"Don't worry about us, officer."

"We're way past the age of consent."

"Consent to do what?" he asked.

"We're on vacation, so we're open to just about

anything."

"And we do mean anything."

He gave them a smile of naughty intent. "Is that

right? And here I figured y'all for traveling missionaries."

That brought on another round of giggles. The

waitress arrived with two drinks. Bobby leaned back

in his chair. "What are we drinking, ladies?"

He had scored.

The intrepid receptionist finally broke the invisible

barrier into Hammond's office. "That sketched

suspect? She's been identified as Dr. Alex Ladd. As

we speak, she's in Detective Smilow's office undergoing

questioning."

His palms broke a cold sweat. "Did he arrest her?"

"Came in voluntarily is what Ms. Mundell said.

But she has her solicitor with her. Are you on the way

over there, or what?"

"Maybe later."

The receptionist withdrew.

The ramifications of this news rebounded as

quickly as echoes. Hammond was assailed by them.

Smilow's interrogation tactics could have wrung a

confession from Mother Teresa. Hammond had no

way of knowing how Alex Ladd might respond to

them. Would she be hostile or cooperative? Would

she have something to confess? When she saw him

again, what might she reveal? What might he reveal?

To be on the safe side, he wanted to postpone an

inevitable face-to-face meeting for as long as possible.

Until he knew more about Alex Ladd, and

learned the nature and extent of her involvement with

Pettijohn, it was best for him to keep his distance

from the case.

Ordinarily, that would have been doable. Except

for rare exceptions, his office didn't become directly

involved until the detectives felt they had enough evidence

to press formal charges, or for Hammond to

make a case to the grand jury. Unlike Steffi, who

didn't know the meaning of finesse, he let the police

department do its job until it was time for him to take

over.

But this was one of those rare exceptions. His involvement

was required, if for no other reason than

politics. City and state officials, some of whom had

been Pettijohn's avowed enemies in life, others his

cohorts, were using his murder as a political platform.

Through the media, they were demanding a

quick arrest and prosecution of his murderer.

Fanning public interest, an editorial in this morning's

paper had sounded a wake-up call to the sad

truth that no one, not even a seemingly invulnerable

individual like Lute Pettijohn, was safe from violence.

On the noon edition of the news, a reporter had

conducted a man-on-the-street poll, asking people if

they were confident that Pettijohn's killer would be

captured and justly punished.

The case was creating the media frenzy his father

wished for.

What Hammond wished for was to avoid joining

the fray for as long as possible. To that end, he spent

another half hour creating busywork for himself.

Monroe Mason appeared immediately upon his return

from lunch. "I hear Smilow's already got a suspect." His booming voice bounced off the walls of

Hammond's office like a racquetball.

"News travels fast."

"So it's true?"

"I just got the message a while ago."

"Give me the condensed version."

He explained about Daniels and the sketch. "A

flyer with Endicott's drawing and a written description

was circulated around the area of the Charles

Towne Plaza. Dr. Ladd was identified by a parking

lot attendant."

"I understand she's a prominent psychologist."

"That's the rumor."

"Ever heard of her?"

"No."

"Me either. My wife probably has. She knows

everybody. You figure Pettijohn was a patient of

hers?"

"At this point, Monroe, you know as much as I

do."

"See what you can find out."

"I'll keep you informed as the case progresses."

"No, I mean this afternoon. Now."

"Now? Smilow doesn't like our butting in," Hammond

argued. "He especially dislikes my butting in.

Steffi's already there. If I go, too, he'll resent the hell

out of it. It'll look like we're checking up on him."

"If he gets his ire up, Steffi will smooth it over.

I've got to have something to tell all the reporters

calling my office."

"It can't go on record that Dr. Ladd is a suspect,

Monroe. We don't know that she is. She's only being

questioned, for chrissake."

"She was worried enough to bring Frank Perkins

along with her."

"Frank's her lawyer?" Hammond knew him well,

and he respected him. It was always a challenge to

argue a case against him in court. She couldn't have

a more capable attorney. "Any sensible person would

have her lawyer along when invited to the police station

for questioning."

Mason wasn't deterred. "Let me know what she's

about." With a thundering goodbye, he left, taking

any choice Hammond had with him.

Reaching the police station, he went up to the second

floor and depressed the buzzer on the locked

double doors leading into the Criminal Investigation

Division. They were opened for him by a policewoman.

Knowing why he was there, she said,

"They're in Smilow's office."

"Why not the interrogation room?"

"I think it was occupied. Besides, Solicitor

Mundell wanted to watch through the glass."

Hammond was almost glad Alex wasn't being

questioned in that windowless cubicle that stank of

stale coffee and guilty sweat. He couldn't imagine

her in the same room where he'd watched pedophiles

and rapists and thieves and pimps and murderers become

completely dismantled under the pressure of

tough interrogation.

He rounded the corner into the short hallway

where the homicide detectives had their offices. He

had hoped it would be over and Alex would be gone

by the time he arrived. No such luck. Steffi and

Smilow were peering through the mirrored glass,

looking like vultures waiting for their victim to draw

a final breath.

He heard Steffi say, "She's lying."

"Of course she's lying," Smilow said. "I just don't

know which part is a lie."

They didn't notice Hammond until he spoke.

"What's up?"

Turning around, Steffi looked thoroughly put out.

"Well, it's about time. Didn't you get my messages?"

"I couldn't get away. What makes you think she's

lying?" He nodded toward the small window, so far

too gutless to look through it.

"Normally, an innocent person is nervous and

edgy," Smilow said.

"Our lady doctor hardly blinks," Steffi told him.

"No hem-hawing. No throat clearing. No fidgeting.

She answers each question directly."

Hammond said, "I'm surprised Frank is letting her

answer at all."

"He doesn't want her to. She insists. She has a

mind of her own."

Following Smilow's thoughtful gaze, Hammond

finally turned his head. He could see only a partial

profile, but even that had a profound effect on him.

His first impulse was to smooth back the strand of

hair that had curled against her cheek. The second

was to grab her and shake her angrily, demanding to know just what the hell she was up to and why she

had dragged him into it.

"What do we know about her?" he asked.

Even Smilow appeared impressed as he rattled off

a long list of credentials. "Besides being published

twice in Psychology Today, she's often asked to lecture,

specifically on the study she conducted on panic

attacks. She's considered an expert on the subject. A

few months ago, she talked a man off a window

ledge."

"I remember that," Hammond said.

"It made the newspaper. The man's wife credits

Dr. Ladd with saving his life." Referring to his

notepad, Smilow added, "Her personal life is personal.

All we know is that she's single, no children.

Frank is pissed. He says we've got the wrong per

son."

"What else is he going to say?" Steffi remarked

snidely.

Trying to appear impassive, Hammond said, "She

seems like a woman who's got it all together."

"Oh, she's together, all right," Steffi said. "You

couldn't melt ice on her ass. Once you've talked to

her, you'll see what we mean. She's so cool, she's

practically bloodless."

How little you know, Steffi.

"Ready for the next go 'round?" She and Smilow

moved toward the door.

Hammond hung back. "Do you want me to go in?"

They turned, surprised.

"I thought you'd be chomping at the bit to get your

first crack at the murderess," Steffi said.

"It remains to be seen whether or not she's a murderess,"

he said testily. "But that's not the point. The

point is that since you're here, we outnumber

Smilow. I don't want him to think that we're monitoring

him."

"You can address me directly," Smilow said.

"Okay," Hammond said, looking at the detective.

"Just so we're clear, my coming over here was

Mason's idea, not mine."

"I got the same lecture on peaceful coexistence

from Chief Crane. I can tolerate you if you can tolerate

me."

"Fair enough."

Steffi expelled a deep breath. "So ends round one

of the pissing contest. Now can we please get down

to business?"

Smilow held the door open for them. Hammond

let Steffi precede him. Smilow entered behind him

and closed the door, cramming too many people into

such a small space. There was hardly enough room

for Smilow to squeeze past Hammond on his way to

his desk. "Are you sure you won't have something to

drink, Dr. Ladd?"

"No, thank you, Detective."

To Hammond, hearing her voice was as stirring as

if she had touched him. He could almost feel again

her breath against his ear. His heart was a hard, dull

thudding against his ribs. He could barely breathe.

And, dammit, it was all he could do not to touch her.

Smilow made the superfluous introductions. "Dr.

Ladd, this is Special Assistant Solicitor Hammond

Cross. Mr. Cross, Dr. Alex Ladd."

She turned her head. Hammond held his breath.

CHAPTER

16

Special Assistant Solicitor Cross can tell you where

I was and what I was doing Saturday evening, can't

you, Special Assistant Solicitor Cross?"

"I didn't kill anybody on Saturday, but if I had, it

would have been in self-defense. You see, Detective

Smilow, Solicitor Cross lured me to his cabin in the

woods and there he raped me repeatedly."

"Solicitor Cross, how lovely to see you again.

How long has it been? Oh, I remember. It was last

Saturday night when we screwed our brains out."

Alex Ladd said none of that. Nor did she say any

of the other horrific things that Hammond had imagined

her saying. She didn't scream invectives, or denounce

him in front of his colleagues, or wink

suggestively, or give any other sign of recognition.

But when she turned toward him and their eyes

connected, everything else around him seemed to

vanish and all his focus belonged to her. Their eyes

were engaged for only a second or two, but if the exchange

had lasted an eternity, it couldn't have been

more puissant or meaningful.

He wanted to ask, What have you done to me? and

mean it more ways than one. He had been thunder

struck on Saturday evening. He had thought, even

hoped, that seeing her again, under bright fluorescent

lighting and in a far less romantic surrounding, would

have less of an impact on him. Just the opposite. His

desire to reach for her was a physical ache.

All this shot through his mind in less time than it

took to blink. Hoping his voice wouldn't betray him,

he said, "Dr. Ladd."

"How do you do?"

Then she turned away. That routine acknowledgment

dashed Hammond's desperate hope that he actually had been a stranger to her on Saturday, and that

their meeting at the fair had been purely accidental.

If so, upon being introduced now, her green eyes

would have widened and she would have blurted out

something to the effect of, "Why, hello! I didn't expect