The Alibi (39 page)

the death penalty for a woman such as Dr. Ladd."

"It's only a guess." She lowered her eyes as

though relieved that a terrible task was now behind

her.

Covertly she watched her boss tug thoughtfully on

his lower lip. Several moments passed. Her theory,

and the reluctant manner in which she had vocalized

it, had been perfect. She failed to tell him that Hammond

had gone to the crime scene last night. Mason

might regard that as a favorable sign. Steffi wasn't

certain how she regarded it. Ordinarily Hammond let

the detectives do their job without his interference, so

this turnabout struck her as odd. It was something to

think about, but later.

Right now, she was anxious to hear Mason's response

to what she had told him. Saying anything

more would be overkill, so she sat quietly and gave

him plenty of time to cogitate.

"I disagree."

"What?" Her head came up with an almost audible

snap. So confident had she been that she'd successfully

made her point, his disagreement was totally

unexpected.

"Everything you've said about Hammond's upbringing

is correct. The Crosses drilled manners into

that boy. I'm sure those lessons included a code of

behavior toward women--all women--that harkens

back to the days of knights in armor. But his parents,

Preston in particular, also instilled in him an unshakable

sense of responsibility. I believe that would

override the other."

"Then how do you explain this ennui?"

Mason shrugged. "Other cases. A full court calendar.

A toothache. Something in his private life. There

could be any number of reasons for his distraction. But

we're only a few days distant from the murder. The

investigation is still in the preliminary stage. Smilow

admits that he doesn't have enough evidence to make

an arrest." He smiled and his boom returned. "I'm

confident that when Smilow does charge Dr. Ladd-- or whomever--with this crime, Hammond will step to the plate, bat in hand, and if I know the boy, he'll

knock a home run."

Although Steffi felt like gnashing her teeth, she

expelled a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad you see it that

way. I was reluctant to bring this to your attention."

"That's what I'm here for." Clearly dismissing her,

he stood up and retrieved his jacket from a coat tree.

Following him to the door of his office, Steffi

pressed on. There was more he needed to hear. "I was

afraid you would become dissatisfied with Hammond's

performance and assign the case to someone

else. Then I would no longer be working on it, either,

and I would hate that because I'm finding the case

absolutely fascinating. I'm anxious for the police to

give us a suspect. I can't wait to sink my teeth into the

trial preparation."

Amused by her enthusiasm, Mason chuckled.

"Then you'll be happy to hear what Smilow's been

up to this morning."

"My time is almost up--"

A groan of protest went up from the medical students

who had filled the hall to standing-room-only

capacity to hear Alex's lecture.

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "I appreciate your

attention. Before we're forced to dismiss, I want to

comment on how vital it is that the patient suffering

panic attacks not be dismissed as a hypochondriac.

Sadly, that's too often the case. Family members

can--understandably--become intolerant of the patient's

chronic complaints.

"The symptoms are sometimes so bizarre, they

seem ridiculous and are frequently believed to be

imaginary. So, even as the patient is receiving treatment

and learning ways in which to cope with acute

anxiety disorder, his family should also be instructed

on how to deal with this phenomenon.

"Now I really must let you go, or your other instructors

will have my head. Thank you for your attention."

They applauded enthusiastically before they began

filing out. Several came up to speak with her, shake her hand, and tell her how interesting and informative

her talk had been. One even presented her a copy of

an article she had authored and asked her to autograph

it.

Her host didn't come forward until the last student

departed. Dr. Douglas Mann was on the faculty at

Medical University of South Carolina. He and Alex

had met in med school and had been friends ever

since. He was tall and lanky, as bald as a billiard ball,

an excellent basketball player, and a confirmed bachelor

for reasons he had never shared with Alex.

"Maybe I should charter a fan club," he remarked

as he joined her.

"I'm just relieved I held their attention."

"Are you kidding? They were hanging on to every

word. You've made me the hero of the hour," he told

her with a broad smile. "I love having famous

friends."

She laughed at what she considered to be a misplaced

compliment. "They were easy. A good audience.

Were we that bright when we were their age?"

"Who knew? We were stoned."

"You were stoned."

"Oh, yeah." He shrugged bony shoulders. "That's

right, you were no fun. All work, no play."

"Excuse me. Dr. Ladd?"

Alex turned to find herself face-to-face with

Bobby Trimble. Her heart lurched.

Reaching for her hand, he pumped it enthusiastically.

"Dr. Robert Trimble. Montgomery, Alabama.

I'm on vacation here in Charleston, but I saw a notice

about your lecture this morning and just had to come

and meet you."

Doug, unaware of her discomfiture, introduced

himself and shook Bobby's hand. "Colleagues are always

welcome at our lectures."

"Thanks." Back to Alex, Bobby said, "Your studies

on anxiety have been of particular interest to me.

I'm curious as to what made you focus on that particular

syndrome. Something in your own experience,

perhaps?" He winked. "Afraid past sins will

catch up with you?"

"You'll have to excuse me, Dr. Trimble," she said

frostily. "I have patients scheduled."

"I apologize for detaining you. It's been a plea

sure."

Turning abruptly, she headed for the exit. Doug

mumbled a hasty goodbye to Bobby, then rushed to

catch up with her. "One ardent fan too many, huh?

Are you all right?"

"Of course," she replied brightly. But she wasn't

all right. She was anything but all right. Bobby's unexpected

appearance was his way of letting her know

that he could intrude at any time. Easily. There wasn't

an area of her life that he couldn't penetrate if he

wanted to.

"Alex?" Doug asked if she would join him for a

late breakfast. "By way of thanks, the least I can do

is buy you a plate of shrimp and grits."

"That sounds delicious, Doug, but I have to pass."

She couldn't have swallowed a bite of food if her life

depended on it. Seeing Bobby in what she had considered

a safe realm had left her terribly shaken and

upset, as was most certainly his intention. "I've got a

patient scheduled in fifteen minutes. I'll barely get

there in time as it is."

"We're on our way."

Doug had insisted on picking her up that morning

and driving her to the MUSC Medical Center because

parking spaces near the sprawling complex

were scarce. On the way downtown, he thanked her

again.

"No need. I enjoyed it." Until Bobby ruined it, she

thought.

"Anytime I can return a favor, I owe you one," he

said earnestly.

"I'll remember that."

Trying to hide her agitation, she kept the conversation

light. They exchanged gossip about friends

and colleagues they had in common. She inquired

about the AIDS research paper he was working on.

He asked if anything new and exciting was going on

in her life.

If she told him, he wouldn't believe her. Or maybe

he would, she amended when they turned onto her

street.

"What the hell?" Doug exclaimed. "You must've

had a burglary."

She knew instantly, with a sinking sense of dread,

that the police car parked in front of her house had

nothing to do with a burglary. Two uniformed policemen

were flanking her front door like sentinels. A

plainclothesman was peering into the front windows.

Smilow was talking with her patient, who apparently

had arrived early for her appointment.

Doug pulled his car to a stop and was about to get

out when Alex forestalled him. "Don't get involved

in this, Doug."

"Involved in what? What the hell's going on?"

"I'll fill you in later."

"But--"

"Please. I'll call you."

She squeezed his arm, then got out and hastily

went through her gate and up her walkway, noting as

she went that the scene being played out at her front

door had attracted the attention of several passersby.

A tourist was taking photographs of her house, which

was nothing out of the ordinary. The street was featured

on all the walking tours. While similar in design,

each house on her block boasted at least one

distinctive feature of historical significance. This

morning, her house was set apart from the others by

the police car parked in front.

"Dr. Ladd!" Her patient rushed forward. "What's

going on? I got here just as these policemen arrived."

Alex glared at Smilow over the shoulder of the

woman in distress. "I'm terribly sorry, Evelyn, but

I'll have to reschedule your appointment."

Placing her arm around the woman's shoulders,

she turned her about and walked her to her car. It took

several minutes for Alex to reassure her that everything

was all right and that her appointment would be

rescheduled for the earliest possible time.

"Are you okay?" Alex asked kindly.

"Are you, Dr. Ladd?"

"I'm fine. I promise. I'll call you later today. Don't

worry."

Not until she drove away did Alex turn back. This

time, as she strode up her walkway, she had Smilow

in her sights.

"What the hell are you doing here? I had a patient

and--"

"And I have a search warrant."

He produced the document from the breast pocket

of his suit jacket.

Alex looked toward the three other officers loitering

on her porch before her eyes swung back to

Smilow. "I see my last patient at three o'clock. Can

this wait until after that session?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I'm calling Frank Perkins."

"Be my guest. But we don't need his permission to

come inside. We don't even need yours."

Without further ado, he motioned his men forward.

Perhaps the thing Alex found most offensive was

the plastic gloves they pulled on before entering her

home, as though it and she were contaminants that

needed to be guarded against.

First she cried.

Waking up and finding herself in the worst nightmare

a single woman can fathom--at least a single

middle school teacher from suburban Indianapolis-- Ellen Rogers sat up in bed, clutched the sheet to her

throat, and sobbed her heart out.

Hungover. Naked. Violated. Abandoned.

Reliving the events of last night, it first had

seemed that she had dropped into one of her own fantasies,

in which a good-looking stranger had chosen

her over the younger, prettier, thinner girls in the

nightclub. He had made the initial move. He had chosen

her to dance with and buy drinks for. The attraction

had been instantaneous and mutual, just as she

had always imagined it would be when "it" finally

happened to her.

Furthermore, he wasn't vapid and shallow. He had

a story. His was a tale of love and loss that had

wrenched her heart. He had loved his wife to distraction.

When she became ill, he had dedicated himself

to her care until she finally succumbed. Despite the

hardship it had imposed on him and his business, he

had done all the cooking and cleaning and laundry.

He had performed personal tasks for his wife, even

the most unpleasant ones. On the rare occasions that

she was able to go out, he had applied her makeup.

Such sacrifice! That was what love was all about.

This was a man worth knowing. This was a man worthy of all the love Ellen had been storing up for years

and wished desperately to share.

I He had also been a fantastic lover.

    Even with her experience being limited to an older

male cousin who had once forced a French kiss on

her, a sweetheart who had talked of love through two

awkward couplings in his car before jilting her, and a

married teacher with whom she had carried on an ex citing but unconsummated flirtation until he was

transferred to another school, she had recognized that

Eddie--that was his name--was exceptional in bed.

He had done things to her that she had only read

about in the novels she collected in labeled boxes in : her basement. He had exhausted her with his passion.