The Alibi (44 page)

cards. Luckily she had remembered tucking some

cash into the pocket of a blazer. It was a fraction of

the amount Eddie had stolen, but if she was frugal it

would see her home.

So why not just cut her losses and go?

Charleston had been spoiled for her. The sultry

heat that had enhanced the city's romantic appeal

now made her irritable and headachy. If she stayed as

long as planned, she wouldn't be able to afford any

tours or attractions. Fewer nights here would mean a

smaller hotel bill.

Common sense told her to return to Indianapolis tomorrow. The airline would charge her for changing

her ticket, but the fee would be worth it. In her safe

little house, with her two cats and familiar belongings,

she could retreat to lick her wounds until the fall

semester began. Eventually work and routine would

crowd the nasty incident from her mind.

In any case, slogging through Charleston searching

for Eddie was a waste of time and effort.

On the other hand, even now, while she was limping

along in her uncomfortable, blister-rubbing

patent leather shoes, he was probably working his

con on another lonely lady who would wake up tomorrow

morning relived of her pocketbook and her

self-respect. The crime would go unreported because

the victim was too ashamed to report it to the author

ities. That's why Eddie could do it with such arrogance

--he could get away with it.

Well, he wasn't going to get away with it this time.

"Not if I can help it," Ellen Rogers said out loud.

With renewed determination, she entered the next

club.

Hammond slid into the booth across from Loretta.

"What have you got for me?"

"No hello or how are you?"

"I'm fresh out of pleasantries today."

"You look like shit."

"You must be out of pleasantries, too." Hammond

smiled grimly. "Actually, that's the second time today

that it's been noted how ragged I look. That's how my

day started out, in fact."

"What's wrong?"

"You haven't got that much time. I'm running out

of time myself, so do you have something for me, or

not?"

"I called you, didn't I?" she retorted.

He didn't blame her for taking umbrage. He was

acting like a jerk. His visit with Davee had left him

more disconcerted than before. When he got in his

car and used his cell phone to check for messages, he

was only half glad to hear Loretta's voice urging him

to meet her as soon as possible at the Shady Rest

Lounge. Seeing her meant extending a day he was

ready to put to a close. Conversely, he was anxious to

know what her probe had turned up.

Shaking his head and sighing heavily, he apologized.

"I'm in a pisser of a mood, Loretta, but I

shouldn't be taking it out on you."

"You need a drink."

"Your solution for everything."

"Not for everything. Not by a long shot. But it can

be a Band-Aid cure for a bad mood." She ordered

him a bourbon and water.

In less than a minute, he had the drink in his hand

and was taking a sip. "You look good."

She laughed around a swallow of club soda.

"Maybe when viewed through the bottom of a highball

glass."

She had undergone noticeable improvements since

Monday night. She was far better groomed, her

clothes were clean and pressed. Correctly applied

makeup had softened the lines in her face. Her eyes

were bright and clear. Although she had tried to laugh

off his compliment, he could tell she was flattered.

"I've cleaned up a little, is all."

"Put some color in your hair?"

"Bev's idea."

"Good one."

"Thanks." Self-consciously she raised her hand

and patted her rejuvenated hairdo. "She was happy to

hear I had a job. I told her it was just temporary, but,

well, she was still glad. She let me move back into

the apartment, under the condition—she's big on

conditions, just like you—that I keep perfect attendance

at the AA meetings."

"How're you doing?"

"I get the morning shakes, but I'm dealing with it."

"That's good, Loretta. That's real good," he said,

meaning it. He paused, signaling the conclusion of

that topic before moving on to the reason for the

meeting. "What have you got for me?"

She winked. "The motherlode. You'll probably recommend that I get a staff position with the solicitor's

office. You might even ask me to have your children."

"That good?"

He set his drink aside. It wasn't mixing well with

the one he'd drunk at Davee's party. Besides, he got

the feeling that the information he was about to receive

would be upsetting, and it would be better dealt

with if his head were clear.

"I have a mole who shall remain nameless, a real

computer geek--"

"Knuckle."

"You know him?"

"Harvey's my mole, too. He's everybody's mole."

"Are you shitting me?" she asked, astonished and

more than a little abashed and angry.

"You weaseled him, right?"

"Damn!" she said, slapping the tabletop. "I can't

believe that pompous little fucker made me feel

guilty for twisting his arm and trying to get him to

compromise his integrity."

"He's thoroughly corruptible. That's why I didn't

go to him directly. He's untrustworthy."

Hammond wasn't worried that Harvey's delving

into Alex's records would be traced back to him. He believed Loretta when she vowed they would have to

cut out her tongue before she would betray his confidence.

But he wondered if anyone else had tried to

coerce Knuckle for the same purpose. "When you approached

him, did Harvey know anything about the

case?"

"He didn't appear to. But now I'm doubting him,

as well as my own instincts. Why?"

Hammond raised a shoulder. "I'm just curious if

anyone else asked him to run a trace on Dr. Ladd."

"Like Steffi Mundell?"

"Or Smilow."

"If Harvey is everyone's mole, I guess that's a possibility.

But, honestly, Hammond, he acted surprised

and pleased that I was including him on my investigation."

Nodding, he indicated the letter-size envelope beneath

her right hand. "Let's have the scoop."

She opened the envelope and removed several

folded sheets of paper. From what Hammond could

tell, they were typewritten notes. By now Loretta had

reviewed the information so many times, she had

practically memorized it. She referred to the typewritten

data only to verify specific dates.

"Impressive," he murmured as she enumerated

Alex Ladd's scholastic accomplishments, most of

which he already knew. Any relief he felt, however,

was short-lived.

"Hold on. I haven't got to the good stuff yet."

"By good, do you really mean bad?"

"She doesn't have as impressive a record in Tennessee."

"What happened there?"

"What didn't?"

She then told him what Harvey Knuckle had

mined from unmineable juvenile records. It didn't

make for easy listening. By the time Loretta finished,

half an hour had passed and Hammond was wishing

he hadn't drunk any whiskey that evening. He was

fairly certain he was going to see it recycled. Now he

understood what Alex had meant last night about his

being disillusioned, about explanations being painful.

She hadn't wanted to share, and now he knew why.

Loretta replaced the sheets of paper in the envelope

and triumphantly handed it to him. "I didn't find

the link between her and Pettijohn. That remains a

mystery."

"I think--thought," he amended, "that she was too

classy to have any link to Lute. Apparently I

was

wrong."

He slid the envelope and its incriminating contents

into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. His dejection

wasn't lost on her. "You don't seem very excited."

"I couldn't have asked for more thorough coverage.

You should feel very good about the way you

pulled yourself together and came through for me.

You more than made up for past mistakes. Thanks."

He scooted to the end of the booth, but Loretta

reached across the table and seized his hand. "What

is with you, Hammond?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I thought you'd be over the moon."

"It's good stuff, no question."

"And it only took me two days."

"Can't complain about the short turnaround, either."

"It definitely gives you something to work with,

doesn't it?"

"Definitely."

"So why do you look so goddamn glum?"

"I guess I'm embarrassed."

"By what?"

"This," he said, tapping his jacket outside the

breast pocket. "It indicates that I'm a lousy judge of

character. I honestly didn't think she was capable

of..." His voice trailed off, leaving his complete

thought unspoken.

"Alex Ladd, you mean?" He nodded. "You think

she's innocent? That Smilow is barking up the wrong

tree? Has she come up with an alibi?"

"It's weak. She says she went to a county fair in

Beaufort. No corroboration." It seemed lying came

easily now. Even to trusted friends. "Anyway, in light

of this information, an unsubstantiated alibi seems

academic."

"I could--"

"Excuse me, Loretta. As I said earlier, it's been a

rough day, and I'm exhausted."

He tried to smile, but knew he failed. The gloomy

interior of the bar was suffocating him. The smoke

seemed thicker. The odor of despair more pervasive.

His head was throbbing and his gut was churning.

Loretta's eyes were as sharp as boning knives. Afraid

they would see too much, he avoided looking straight

into them.

"I'll get your fee to you tomorrow."

"I turned over every stone I could, Hammond."

"You did a terrific job."

"But you were hoping for more."

Actually he had been hoping for nothing, but certainly

less than what he had got. "No, no. With this,

I'll be able to move the case forward."

Pathetically eager to please him, Loretta gripped

his hand tighter. "I could try digging even deeper."

"Give me time to assimilate this first. I'm sure it'll

be sufficient. If not, I'll be in touch."

Without fresh air, he was going to die. He worked

his hand out of Loretta's damp grip, told her to stay

sober, thanked her again for a job well done, and

tossed a hasty goodbye over his shoulder.

Outside the Shady Rest, the air was neither fresh

nor bracing. It was stagnant and thick and seemed to

take on the properties of cotton as he sucked it into

his lungs.

Even hours after sundown the sidewalk was emanating

heat that burned his feet through the soles of

his shoes. His skin was clammy. Like when he was a

kid, sick. After a fever broke, his mother would remove

his damp pajamas and change his bed sheets,

assuring him that the sweat was a good sign. It meant

he was getting better. But it didn't feel better. He pre

ferred the dryness of fever to the cloying moisture on

his skin.

The sidewalk was congested with people milling

from doorway to doorway but having no real place to

go. They were looking for something interesting to

do, which might include, but wasn't limited to, getting

drunk in one of the taverns, stealing something

they needed, destroying or defacing property just for

the hell of it, or satisfying a vendetta with bloodshed.

Ordinarily Hammond would have been attuned to

the potential danger the neighborhood posed to one

who obviously didn't belong there. Both blacks and

whites sneered at him with palpable prejudice and

cultivated hatred. He was definitely a "have" in an

area of "have nots," and resentment ran high. At any

other time, he would have been looking over one

shoulder as he made his way back to his car, half expecting

to find it stripped when he reached it.

Tonight, preoccupation made him careless and indifferent

to the hostile glances cast at him.

Loretta's report on Alex had plunged him into a

moral morass. The incriminating information was

stultifying. The emotional impact of it severe. The

whole of it was so devastating, he couldn't separate

individual aspects of it.

When Smilow learned her history--and it was

only a matter of time before one of his detectives uncovered

it--he would have wet dreams. Steffi would

break out a bottle of champagne. But for him and

Alex, professionally and personally, the discovery

would be disastrous.

Disclosure was like a lead weight hanging by an

unraveling filament just above his head. When would

it drop? Tonight? Tomorrow? The next day? How

long could he stand the suspense? How long could he

wrestle with his own conscience? Even if the time of