The Alibi (37 page)

And then he charitably graced her with a return

smile.

Nervously she looked away. Her hand flew to her

throat, where she played with the silver beading on

the collar of her shirt.

"Bingo," Bobby said to himself as he settled his

tab with the bartender.

He came up from behind her, so she didn't see him

until he said, "Excuse me. Is someone sitting here?"

Her head came around with a quick snap. She gave

away her delight with the widening of her eyes,

which she then tried to cover by being flirtatious.

"Now there is."

He smiled and joined her at the small table, intentionally

bumping her knees with his, then offering a

quick apology. He asked if he could buy her a drink,

and she said that would be awfully nice of him.

Her name was Ellen Rogers. She was from Indiana

and this was her first time in the Deep South. She

loved it except for the heat, but even that had a certain

charm. The food was divine. She complained of

gaining five pounds since she'd been in Charleston.

Although she could have stood to lose fifteen,

Bobby said gallantly, "You certainly don't need to

watch your weight. I mean, you have a terrific fig

ure."

Slapping his hand, she demurred. "I get plenty of

exercise at work."

"Are you an aerobics instructor? Personal

trainer?"

"Me? Goodness gracious, no. I'm a middle school

teacher. English grammar and remedial reading. I

probably walk ten miles a day, going up and down

those halls."

He was from the South, she observed correctly.

She could tell by his soft drawl and the melodic pattern of his speech. And southern people were so friendly.

Smiling, he leaned toward her. "We try, ma'am."

He proved it by inviting her to dance. After they

had gyrated through several songs, the DJ played a

slow dance. Bobby pulled her against him, apologizing

for being so sweaty. She said that she didn't mind

at all. Sweat was manly. By the end of the dance, his

hand was riding her ass and no way was Miss Ellen

Rogers in doubt that he was aroused.

When he released her, her cheeks were red and she

was flustered.

"I'm sorry about..." he stammered. "It's ...

Lordy, this is embarrassing. I haven't held a woman

... If you want me to leave you alone, I'll--"

"You don't have to apologize," said Miss Rogers

gently. "It's only natural. It's not like you could control

it."

"No, ma'am, I couldn't. Not with holding you

close against me."

She took his hand and led him back to the table. It

was she who ordered another round of drinks. Midway

through them, Bobby told her about his wife.

"She died of cancer. Two years ago in October."

Her eyes misted. "Oh, how awful for you."

Only recently had he been able to go out and start

enjoying life again, he told her. "At first I thought it

was good we didn't have kids. Now I sorta wish we

had. It's lonesome, you know, being all by yourself in

the world. People aren't supposed to be alone. It goes

against nature."

Her hand crept beneath the table to give his thigh

a sympathetic pat and then stayed there. Jesus, I'm good! Bobby thought.

Hammond was standing on the other side of the

shower curtain.

"You scared me half to death!" Alex gasped.

"What are you doing here? How'd you get in? How

long have you been here?"

"You scared me, too."

"Me? How?"

"I figured out why you've been lying. You're

afraid of Pettijohn's killer."

"It occurred to me that I might be in jeopardy,

yes."

"I wanted to warn you and didn't trust the telephone."

She glanced toward the bedroom. "Tapped?"

"I wouldn't put it past Smilow. Even without a

court order."

"I think he might have me under surveillance."

"If he does, I don't know about it. Anyway, I

scaled your back wall. Wouldn't suit to be seen at

your house, would it? I've been knocking on the

kitchen door for five minutes. I could see your upstairs

lights on, but when you didn't answer, my

imagination went wild. I thought maybe I was too

late, that something terrible ..." He stopped. "You're

shivering."

"I'm cold."

He reached for a towel and placed it around her,

folding it closed in front but not letting it go. "What

makes you think you're under surveillance?"

"I saw a suspicious-looking car while I was running.

Engine on. Lights out."

"You went running tonight? In this weather?

Alone?"

"I'm usually alone. But I'm always careful."

He smiled weakly. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"I already had the jitters."

"I couldn't very well come up to your front door

and ring the bell, could I?"

"I guess not."

"Would you have let me in?"

"I don't know." Then, more quietly, "Yes."

He stared at the hollow of her throat, where a

droplet of water shimmered in the shallow depression.

Releasing his grip on the towel, he stepped

away from her, a move that deserved a goddamn

merit badge for valor. "We've got to talk," he said

thickly.

"I'll be right out."

Woodenly, he moved into the bedroom, actually

seeing nothing, but noticing her stamp on everything.

Every item in the room was a reflection of her.

When she joined him, she was wearing a robe, the

old-fashioned, no-nonsense kind that folded over her

front and had a tie belt at the waist, as opaque as a

lead apron, yet sexy as hell because she was naked

and wet underneath.

"Your hand is bleeding."

He looked at the cut on his thumb, which had gone

unnoticed until now. "I guess I did that when I busted

your lock."

"Do you need a bandage?"

"It's fine."

The last thing he wanted to do was talk. He longed

to touch her. He wanted to open the robe and press his

face against her softness, taste her skin, inhale her

essence. His whole body pulsed with physical desire,

but he resisted yielding to it. He couldn't be held accountable

for last Saturday night. But he was accountable

for everything that followed.

"You knew my name all along, didn't you? Knew

who I was."

"Yes."

He nodded slowly, assimilating what he had known

but hadn't wanted to accept. "I don't want to have this

conversation."

"Because... ?"

"Because I know you'll lie to me. That will make

me angry. I don't want to be angry with you."

"I don't want you to be angry with me, either. So

maybe we shouldn't talk."

"There is something I'd like to hear you say. Even

if it is a lie."

"What?"

"I'd like to hear you say that Saturday night...

that it had never been like that for you before."

She tilted her head slightly.

"Not just the passion," he added. "The ... All of

it."

He saw her swallow, dislodging the drop of water

he had noticed earlier. It trickled beneath the collar of

her robe. Her voice was husky with emotion. "It had

never been like that for me before."

It was what he had hoped to hear, but if anything

his expression became more bleak. "Whether we

want to or not, we must talk."

"We don't have to."

"Yes, we do. When you and I showed up at the

dance pavilion at approximately the same time, it

wasn't by accident, was it?"

She hesitated for a few seconds, then shook her

head no.

"How in God's name did you know I was going to

be there? I didn't even know myself."

"Please don't ask me any more questions."

"Were you with Lute Pettijohn earlier that afternoon?"

"I can't talk to you about this."

"Dammit, answer me."

"I can't."

"It's a simple question."

On a humorless laugh, she shook her head. "It's

not simple at all."

"Then answer it with an explanation."

"If I did, I would leave myself too vulnerable."

"'Vulnerable' is a strange word for you to use,

when it would appear that I am the one who's hanging

out in the wind."

"You're not the one suspected of murder."

"No, but wouldn't you agree that I'm in an awk

ward situation? I'm prosecuting the murder case of

our city's best-known citizen, who also happened to

be married to my best friend."

"Your best friend?"

"Davee Burton, now Lute Pettijohn's widow.

We've been friends all our lives. She campaigned for

me to be assigned this case. A lot of people are depending

on me, people I would rather not disappoint.

Can you even fathom what would happen to my reputation,

career, my future, if anyone found out I was

here with you tonight?"

"That's why I left you Sunday morning." Restlessly

she began to prowl the bedroom. "I wanted to

remain anonymous. I didn't want you to feel conflicted,

the way you're feeling now."

"By Sunday morning it was a little too late for

concern and circumspection. If you were so worried

about preserving my reputation, you shouldn't have

picked me up in the first place."

She turned to stare at him with patent disbelief.

"Pardon me, but your memory is slightly skewed.

You picked me up."

"Yeah, right," he snorted.

"Who tried to leave? Twice. Twice I tried to leave,

and both times you came after me, begging me to

stay with you longer. Who followed who from the

fair? Who stopped and--"

"Okay," he said, slicing the air with his hands.

"But that hard-to-get act is the strongest turn-on there

is, and women have known it since creation. You

knew exactly what you were doing."

"Yes, I did," she exclaimed in a raised voice. Then

she clasped her hands at her waist and searched his

face with tearful eyes. "Yes, I knew what I was doing.

And you're exactly right. At first I just wanted to ...

make contact with you."

"Why?"

"Insurance."

"In other words, to establish an alibi."

She cast her eyes downward. "I didn't know I was

going to like you," she said softly. "I hadn't counted

on the chemistry between us. I started feeling badly

about using you. So I tried to get away from you. I

didn't want you to be compromised because of an association

--even a brief one--with me.

"But you came after me. You kissed me. After

that..." She lifted her eyes to his again. "After that

kiss, my initial reasons for meeting you ceased to

matter. At that point I just wanted to be with you."

She brushed tears off her cheeks. "That is the truth.

You can believe it or not."

"Why did you need an alibi?"

"You know I didn't kill Pettijohn. You said so in

the elevator."

"Right. So I repeat, why did you need an alibi?"

"Don't ask me, please."

"Just tell me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want you to think..." She

paused and drew a deep breath. "I just can't, that's

all."

"Has it got something to do with the man?"

The question took her aback. She blinked rapidly.

"What man?"

"I traced you here Sunday night. I saw you with a

man in a Mercedes convertible, approximately

twelve hours after you left my bed."

"Oh. Sunday night? That was ... an old friend.

From college. He was in Charleston on business. He

called and invited me out for a drink."

"You're lying."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"Because part of my job is to detect lies and liars,

    and you're goddamn lying!"

    She pulled herself up straight and crossed her arms

at her waist. "We should just as well let this be the

end of it. Now. Tonight. This is an impossible situation.

Your career is at stake. I don't want the responsibility

of wrecking it. And I certainly don't want to

be with someone who thinks I'm a liar."

"Who ... was ... he?"

"What does it matter who my friends are, when your friends, Steffi and Smilow, are itching to charge

me with murder?"

"Is it any wonder that I don't believe you when

you continue to avoid answering the simplest question?"

"They're not simple questions," she shouted. "You

have no idea how difficult they are. They dredge up

things I would rather forget, that I've tried to forget,

that have haunted--" She stopped, realizing she was

    about to reveal too much. "You can't trust me. All the

more reason for you to leave now and not come back.

Ever."

"Fine."

"As long as we were in bed--"

"It was bloody great."

"But if you distrust me--"

"I do."

"Then--"

"Did you fuck Pettijohn?"

Her features went slack. "What?"

"Were you lovers?"

Hammond advanced on her, backing her into the

wall. This was what was really bugging him. This

was what had driven him to act like he had taken

complete leave of his senses, to rant and rave and behave

with reckless disregard for his career and everything