The Alibi (40 page)

But now, the rosy glow of romance was dimmed by the dark terrors accompanying one-night stands

with total strangers. Pregnancy. (Hey, it could happen

to women in their forties.) STDs. AIDS.

Any one of those consequences would dash her

dream of marrying one day. Her shot at matrimony

had been growing slimmer with each passing year,

but last night's indiscretion had made it a truly impossible

dream. What man would want her now? Not

a decent man. Not now that she had a past.

Her situation couldn't get much worse.

But it did.

She'd been robbed, too.

She discovered that when she finally left the bed

to go into the bathroom to assess the damage. She realized

that her handbag wasn't in the chair where she

had dropped it the night before. She remembered distinctly.

It wasn't something she was likely to forget

because that had been the first time a man had ever

come up behind her and started grinding his ... you

know ... against her. He had reached around her and

put his hand inside her dress to caress her breasts.

Bones virtually melting, she had dropped her purse

on the chair. She was certain of that.

Nevertheless, she searched the room frantically,

berating herself for not heeding the television commercials

that strongly urged never to leave home

without traveler's checks.

Whether it was that blistering self-incrimination or

recollections of the ease with which glib Eddie had

convinced her of all his lies, Ellen Rogers suddenly

stopped her futile searching for the handbag and

stood stock-still in the center of the hotel room. Still

mother-naked, she placed her hands on her hips,

stepped out of her decorous self, and swore like a

sailor.

She no longer felt sorry for herself. She was

pissed.

CHAPTER

23

It was almost noon by the time Hammond reached

the judicial building. On his way past the receptionist's

desk, he asked her to bring him a cup of coffee.

He wasn't happy to see Steffi lying in wait for him

inside his office.

To his further annoyance, she took one look at him

and said, "Rough night?"

He hadn't returned home until nearly dawn. Once

he fell asleep, he had slept hard for several hours.

When he finally woke up, he cursed the time he read

on his bedside clock. He didn't need Steffi to point

out how late a start he was getting on the day.

"What happened to your thumb?"

It had taken two Band-Aids to cover the gash. "I

cut myself shaving."

"Hairy thumbs?"

"What's up, Steffi?"

"Smilow's got some more evidence on its way up

to SLED. He's hoping for a hair match."

He hid his inward knee-jerk reaction by calmly

going about his business--setting his briefcase on his

desk, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it up, flipping through a stack of mail and phone messages.

Studying one, he asked absently, "Which case?"

Extremely perturbed, Steffi folded her arms across

her waist. "The Lute Pettijohn murder case, Hammond."

He sat down behind his desk and thanked the receptionist

when she brought in a cup of coffee. "Want

one, Steffi?"

"No, thanks." None too gently she closed the door

behind the departing receptionist. "Now that you're

settled and have your coffee, may we please discuss

this latest development?"

"Smilow found a hair in Pettijohn's hotel suite?"

"Correct."

"And he's having it matched to ... ?"

"To one he took from Alex Ladd's hairbrush this

morning during the search."

That jolted him. "Search?"

"He obtained a warrant first thing this morning.

They've already conducted the search."

"I didn't even know he was going for a warrant.

Did you?"

"Not until a while ago."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I saw no reason to until we had something."

"It's my case, Steffi."

"Well, you're sure as hell not acting like it is," she

said, raising her voice.

"How am I acting?"

"You figure it out. For starters you might ask yourself

why you're dragging in here so late. Don't get

mad at me because you weren't here when things

started rolling."

They glared at each other across his desk. He was

angry over being excluded from the tight loop that

she had formed with Smilow. They were practically

joined at the hip over this case. But, as much as he

hated to admit it, her arguments were valid. He was

angry at himself and at the situation, and he was taking

it out on her.

"Anything else?" he asked in a more civil tone.

"He got the cloves, too."

"Cloves? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Remember the fleck of something removed from

Pettijohn's sleeve?"

"Vaguely."

She explained that the speck had been identified as

clove, and that Alex Ladd had clove-spiked oranges

in a bowl in her entryway. "They scent the rooms like

a natural potpourri. Plus, they found a wad of money

in her home safe. Thousands of dollars."

"Which is supposed to prove what?"

"I don't know what it proves yet, Hammond. But

you must admit it's unorthodox and suspicious for

someone to keep that much cash in a home safe."

Throat tight, he asked. "What about the weapon?"

"Unfortunately, that didn't turn up."

His telephone beeped, and the receptionist informed

him that Detective Smilow was on the line.

"He's probably calling me," Steffi said, reaching

for the receiver. "I told him I would be in your office."

She listened for a moment, consulted her wristwatch,

then said cheerfully, "On our way."

"On our way where?" Hammond asked when she

hung up.

"I guess Dr. Ladd realizes she's up you-know-what

creek. She's coming in for further questioning."

Although his desk was covered with untouched

paperwork, briefs, memos, and unanswered messages,

he didn't even think of sending Steffi on his

behalf. He needed to be there to hear what Alex had

to say, even if it was something he didn't want to

hear.

His living nightmare continued. The horror of it

escalated. Smilow was irrepressible, although the

man couldn't be faulted for doing his job and doing

it well. Alex . . . hell, he didn't know what to think

about Alex. She had admitted to deliberately compromising

him by sleeping with him, but she refused

to explain why. What other reason could there be except

for a link with Pettijohn and/or his murder?

Dreading the unknown, Hammond moved as

though slogging through quicksand as they left the

building. The sun felt like a broiler. The air was heavy

and still. Even the air-conditioning in Steffi's car was

insufficient. He was sweating as they climbed the steps

to the entrance of police headquarters. Today, he rode

the elevator with Steffi up to Smilow's territory.

Steffi knocked once on his office door before

barging in. "Did we miss anything?"

Smilow, who had started without them, continued

speaking into the tape recorder's microphone. "As

sistant D.A.s Mundell and Cross have joined us." He

stated the time and date.

Alex turned toward Hammond where he was

crowded in behind Steffi. When he had bent down

from the side of the bed to kiss her goodbye early

this morning, she had curved her hands around the

back of his neck and lifted her mouth to his for a sustained,

deep kiss. When it finally ended and he

groaned his regret, she had smiled up at him from

her pillow sleepily, sexily, her eyes slumberous and

heavy-lidded.

Now he read in them an apprehension that

matched his own.

Once the formalities were out of the way, Frank

Perkins said, "Before you start, Smilow, my client

would like to amend some of her previous statements."

Steffi smirked. Smilow, showing no reaction, signaled

for Alex to proceed.

Her steady voice filled the expectant silence. "I

lied to you before about being in Mr. Pettijohn's penthouse

suite. I was there last Saturday afternoon. As I

was waiting for him to answer his door, I saw the

man from Macon going into his room, just as he told

you."

"Why did you lie about it?"

"To protect one of my patients."

Steffi snorted with disbelief, but Smilow cut her

off with a hard look.

"Please continue, Dr. Ladd."

"I went to see Mr. Pettijohn on a patient's behalf."

"What for?"

"To deliver a verbal message. I can't divulge any

more than that."

"Professional privilege is a very convenient

shield."

She conceded the point with a small nod. "Nevertheless,

that's what I was doing there."

"Why didn't you tell us this before?"

"I was afraid you would browbeat me into disclosing

the patient's name. That individual's best interests

came before mine."

"Until now."

"The situation has become precarious. More so

than I anticipated. I've been forced to tell what I had

hoped to keep confidential for my patient's sake."

"Do you usually go to such lengths for your patients?

Delivering messages and so forth?"

"Customarily, no. But it would have been terribly

upsetting for this patient to have a face-to-face meeting

with Mr. Pettijohn. It was a small favor to grant."

"So you saw Mr. Pettijohn?" She nodded. "How

long were you inside the suite with him?"

"A few minutes."

"Less than five? More than ten?"

"Less than five."

"Isn't a hotel suite an odd setting for that kind of

meeting?"

"I thought so, too, but it was at Mr. Pettijohn's request

that we meet there. He said the hotel would be

more convenient for him since someone else was

joining him there later."

"Who?"

"I wouldn't know. In any case, I didn't mind going

there because, as I told you, the remainder of my day

was free. I had no other commitments. I did some

window-shopping in the area of the Charles Towne,

then left the city."

"And went to the fair."

"That's right. Everything else I told you stands."

"Which version?"

Frank Perkins frowned at Steffi's wisecrack.

"There's no need for sarcasm, Ms. Mundell. It's clear

now why Dr. Ladd was reluctant to tell you about her

brief meeting with Pettijohn. She was protecting a

patient's privacy."

"How noble of her."

Before the solicitor could admonish Steffi again,

Smilow continued, "How did Mr. Pettijohn seem to

you, Dr. Ladd?"

"How did he seem?"

"What was his mood?"

"I didn't know him so I have nothing with which

to compare his mood that afternoon."

"Well, was he jovial or cranky? Happy or sad?

Complacent or upset?"

"None of those extremes."

"What was the gist of the message you delivered?"

"I can't tell you."

"Was it provoking?"

"Do you mean did it make him angry?"

"Did it?"

"If it did, he didn't show it."

"It didn't make him upset to the point of causing a

stroke?"

"No. Not in the slightest."

"Did he seem nervous?"

She smiled at that. "Mr. Pettijohn didn't strike me

as a person who would get nervous easily. Nothing

I've read about him suggests that he was timid."

"Was he basically friendly toward you?"

"Polite. I wouldn't go so far as to say friendly. We

were strangers."

"Polite." Smilow pondered that. "Did he play

host? For instance, did he offer you a seat?"

"Yes, but I remained standing."

"Why?"

"Because I knew I wouldn't be there long, and I

preferred standing to sitting."

"Did he offer you a drink?"

"No."

"Sex?"

Everyone in the room reacted to the unheralded

question, but none more violently than Hammond.

He jumped as though the wall he had been leaning

against had bit him. "What the hell?" he exclaimed.

"Where'd that come from?"

Smilow switched off the microphone, then turned

toward Hammond. "Butt out. This is my interrogation."

"The question was inappropriate, and you damn

well know it."

"I couldn't agree more," Frank Perkins said, his

anger almost matching Hammond's. "Your investiga

tion has turned up nothing to indicate that Pettijohn

had a sexual encounter that afternoon."

"Not in the bed in the hotel suite. That doesn't preclude

all sexual activity. Oral sex, for instance."

"Smilow--"

"Did you perform oral sex on Mr. Pettijohn, Dr.

Ladd? Or he on you?"

Hammond lunged across the crowded room and

shoved him hard. "You son of a bitch."

"Get your goddamn hands off me," Smilow said,

shoving him back.

"Hammond! Smilow!" Steffi tried to step between

them and got knocked aside for her efforts.

Frank Perkins was beside himself. "This is outrageous."