The Alibi (42 page)

to his defense. Contradicting his anointed successor

might not be the wisest thing to do.

On the other hand, she couldn't let a perfect suspect

get away just because Hammond had turned

squeamish. If she played this right, Mason might

see a weakness in his heir apparent that he hadn't

before seen. He might spot a character flaw that

would hinder a hard-hitting prosecutor's effectiveness.

"I think what we've got on Dr. Ladd is compelling

enough to make an arrest," she declared. "I

don't understand what we're waiting for."

"Evidence," Hammond said crisply. "How's that

for a concept?"

"We've got evidence."

"Flimsy, circumstantial evidence, to say the least.

The worst defense lawyer in the state of South Carolina

could easily maneuver around everything

we've complied. Far from being the worst, Frank

Perkins is one of the best. I doubt the grand jury

would even indict her if all I went in with was a

strand of hair and a condiment."

"Condiment?" Mason asked.

"Clove is a spice," Steffi countered irritably.

"Whatever," Hammond shouted.

"He's right." Smilow's soft-spoken interjection silenced

them instantly. Steffi couldn't believe that

Smilow had agreed with Hammond, and Hammond

appeared as astonished as she.

Mason was interested in what Smilow had to say.

"You agree with Hammond?"

"Not entirely. I think Dr. Ladd is involved. In

what way and to what extent, I don't know yet. She

was there with Pettijohn on Saturday. My hunch is

that she was there for no good purpose. Otherwise,

why has she been heaping lie upon lie to cover this

up? However, from a legal standpoint, Hammond is

right. We've got no weapon. And no--"

"Motive," Hammond supplied.

"Exactly." Smilow smiled sourly. "If she wasn't

intimate with Pettijohn, it really doesn't matter if

she sleeps with every other man in Charleston.

What do we care if someone did break into her

house for no apparent reason? It's odd, but not illegal

to hoard thousands of dollars in a home safe

when there are several banks within walking distance

of her home.

"From what I've discerned of her character, I believe

she would let herself be sentenced to death

row before betraying a patient's confidence, even if

that patient were her only defense. Not that I believe

that story about delivering a message for a patient.

Which I don't. No more than I believe that nonsense

about going to the fair and all the rest.

"But," he said emphatically, "the bottom line is

that I've established no motive for her to kill Lute

Pettijohn. I haven't even made a connection between

them in either their personal lives or professional

ones. If he was a patient, he never wrote a

check to her. If she invested in one of his development

deals, there are no records of it. I can't even

place them at a dinner party together.

"I've got a guy digging around in Tennessee

where she comes from, but so far he hasn't turned

up much except her school records. If Pettijohn was

ever in the state of Tennessee, he left no trace of

himself there."

"So," Mason said, "either she's telling the truth

or she's covered her tracks well."

"I tend to think the latter," the detective said.

"She's hiding something. I just don't know what it

is."

Steffi said, "But if you did--'

"He doesn't."

"If you did have a motive--" "But he doesn't."

"Shut up, Hammond, and let me talk," she

snapped. "Please." He waved his hand, giving her

the floor. She addressed Smilow. "If you could

make a connection, find a motive, could you move

forward with the evidence we've got?"

Smilow looked across at Hammond. "That's up

to him."

Hammond looked hard at Smilow, then glanced

at her. He then looked at Mason, who seemed anxious

to hear his answer. Finally he said, "Yeah. I

could go with what we've got. But it would have to

be damn strong motivation."

CHAPTER

24

You know, Davee, that this is in very poor taste."

"Very." Davee Pettijohn was practically purring

with self-satisfaction as she traded her empty highball

glass for the full one the roving waiter brought

her. "As I told you before, Hammond, I refuse to be

a hypocrite."

"Your late husband's funeral was only yesterday."

"God, don't remind me. What a freaking dismal

event that was. Weren't you just bored out of your

gourd?"

In spite of himself Hammond smiled and thanked

the waiter for his own made-to-order drink. "They'll

be talking about this for years."

"That's the general idea, sweetheart," Davee said.

"This little soiree was meant to offend all the bitches

who'll be gossiping about me no matter what I do.

Why not go all out?"

The gathering could hardly be called a little soiree.

The lower level rooms of the Pettijohn mansion were

teeming with friends, acquaintances, and hangers-on

who were too flamboyantly rebellious in their own

right to give a fig if the widow threw a party the day

following her husband's funeral or not. There was no

way it could be misconstrued as a wake. It was a

highly improper, ill-timed bacchanal, which, of

course, was the general idea.

"Wouldn't this make Lute furious? He'd have a

stroke."

"He did," Hammond remarked.

"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot that."

"Did he have warning of a pending stroke?"

"Blood pressure readings off the charts."

"Didn't he take medication for it?"

"He was supposed to. But it made his dick limp, so

he stopped taking it."

"And you knew that?"

She laughed "What do you think, Hammond? That

I caused him to have a stroke? Look, it was his own

damn, stubborn fault. He said if it came to a choice

between screwing or blowing a gasket, he'd choose

blowing a gasket."

"The stroke didn't kill him, Davee."

"No. The bastard was shot. In the back. Here's to

the one who did it." She raised her glass.

Hammond couldn't drink to that, and it made him

uneasy that she could. He turned his attention back to

the party. They were standing on the second-floor

gallery, an excellent vantage point from which to

watch the merrymaking. "I don't see any of the Old

Guard here."

"They weren't invited." She sipped from her

drink, smiling wickedly. "Why spoil their pleasure of speculating on all the sin and iniquity taking place?"

The party would supply the gossips with plenty of

material. The rock band's amps were maxed out. The

catered food was ample. Liquor was in even more

abundant supply. Drugs were available, too. Earlier

Hammond had recognized a well-known dealer who

had eluded conviction numerous times.

He spotted a bestselling novelist who'd recently

come out of the closet. In celebration of this liberating

decision, he was overtly making out with his date

for the evening. Their unabashed public display

might have drawn attention, except for a stunning

young woman nearby who was showing off her

newly augmented breasts to a group of avid admirers

who were invited to touch and test.

"She paid too much for those," Davee remarked

cattily.

"Do you know a discount boob doctor?"

"No, but I know one who would have done a better

job." Hammond looked at her askance, and she

laughed in her throaty, sexy way. "No, darling. Mine

are all me. But I've slept with him. He's a lousy lover,

but when it comes to his work he's an absolute perfectionist."

Hammond gave her a once-over. "Ever since I got

here, I've been meaning to ask."

"What?"

"Have you taken up belly dancing?"

"Isn't it divine?"

Davee spread her arms and executed a pirouette to

show off her outfit. Made of red raw silk, it consisted

of tight hip-hugger pants and a top cropped just

below her breasts. The pants rode dangerously low

on her abdomen. Her waist was encircled by a thin

gold chain. On each arm she wore at least a dozen

gold bangles.

She ended the turn with a nasty bump and grind.

Hammond laughed. "Divine."

Lowering her arms, she frowned at him. "Fat lot of

good it does me for you to think so. Hammond, why

aren't we lovers?"

"I'd have to take a number."

"Fuck you." He laughed, but her frown only deepened.

"How can you say something so mean when I

don't even have a date for my own party?"

"Where's the masseur?"

"Sandro. I had to let him go."

"Since Sunday? That was quick."

"You know how I am once I make up my mind

about something."

"He was rubbing you the wrong way?"

In response to his bad joke, she gave him a sarcastic,

"Ha-ha."

"Sore subject?"

"God, no. He wasn't a heartthrob, just a crotch

throb. His penis is a whole lot bigger than his brain."

"Every woman's fantasy man."

"For a while, maybe. I got bored."

"And boredom is anathema to you."

"Positively." Looking down at the crowd, she

sighed. "And I'm there now." She reached for his

hand. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

She drew him down the hallway and into her bed

room. By closing the door, they were granted a

blessed reprieve from the music. She leaned against

the door and closed her eyes. "Enough of that. I was

developing a bitching headache."

"You can't abandon your own party, Davee."

"Only a handful of those people know me. They

were just looking for a party and they found one. It

doesn't matter whether or not I mingle. Besides,

they're all on their way to becoming blind drunk." As

she moved across the room, she stepped out of her

high-heeled sandals and set her drink on the small

table near the chaise. "Want another?"

"No, thanks."

She took his sweating glass from him and set it

down beside hers. What happened next caught him

completely by surprise. She reached for his hands

and positioned them on her bare waist, then came up

on her tiptoes and kissed him, doing another bump

and grind against his middle that wasn't as exaggerated

as the first, but even more suggestive.

He reacted with a start, jerking his head up and

back. "What are you doing?"

"You have to ask?"

She looped her arms around his neck and tried to

kiss him again, but when he didn't respond, she lowered

her heels and gazed up at him with evident disappointment.

"No?"

"No, Davee."

"Just for the hell of it? If you can't fuck an old

friend, who can you fuck?"

"Whom can you fuck."

She grinned and tried to lock lips again, but he angled

his head back.

"We're not kids any longer, Davee. We're past the

experimental age."

"It would be good," she promised seductively.

"Much better than the first time."

"No doubt about that." He smiled and gave her

waist an affectionate squeeze before lowering his

hands to his sides. "But I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"I mean I won't."

"Oh, Jesus," she groaned. As she lowered her

arms, she dragged her hands down his chest all the

way to his belt before letting them fall away from

him. "Tell me it isn't so."

"What?"

"You've fallen for her."

His heart all but stopped. "How did you find out?"

"Oh, please, Hammond. For months it's been in

the grapevine that you two take your work home with

you."

"Steffi!" he exclaimed on an expulsion of relief.

"You're talking about Steffi."

Davee cocked her head with perplexity. "Who else

could I be talking about?"

Admitting to his affair with Steffi was less harmful

than answering her question. "I had a relationship

with Steffi, but it's over."

"Swear?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Scout's honor."

"Well, I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that.

Sunday night when you were here, I gave you ample

opportunity to talk trash on Ms. Mundell. When you

didn't, I figured the rumors were true. I was floored.

I mean, Hammond, where was the appeal? She has no

style, no sense of humor, no class, and I'd be willing

to bet she doesn't know any better than to wear white

shoes after Labor Day."

Hammond laughed. "You big phony. You're not

nearly as unconventional as you want everyone to believe."

She assumed a haughty air. "Some things simply

aren't done."

"And that white shoes bit is strictly taboo."

"But you are interested in someone, aren't you?"

she asked suddenly. "And don't try that 'who, me?'

face on me, because I know I'm right."

He neither admitted nor denied it.

Exasperated, she propped her fists on her hips. "I