The Alibi (48 page)

reason to doubt him?"

"Not really. It's just..." She stared thoughtfully at

the doorway of the powder room, now blocked by a

Hefty bag stuffed with blood-soaked towels. "It just

seems uncharacteristic for our Mr. Crime and Punishment

to dismiss an assault with a switchblade. He

tried to minimize his injuries, but he looks like he

went fifteen rounds with a grizzly."

"Maybe he's just embarrassed for being so careless."

"Maybe. Anyway, we'll be there in fifteen minutes."

She didn't tell him about Hammond's lame excuse

for not going to a hospital for treatment. The "old college

friend" doctor was a transparent lie. Hammond

had never been good at lying. He should take lying

lessons from Alex Ladd. He seemed to admire that

lady's penchant for--

Steffi's mind slammed on the brakes.

Staring into near space, her eyes unfocused, her

head was assailed by unthinkable thoughts that

whizzed through her consciousness with the speed of

light. Holding those thoughts was like trying to catch

comets.

Hammond came clumping down the stairs.

She joined him at the front door, but not before

snatching one of the bloody hand towels from the

trash bag and stuffing it into her satchel.

* * *

Bobby Trimble was scared spitless. But he would

be damned before he let them see his fear. Fucking

cops.

He owed his present situation to a dowdy, overweight,

old-maid schoolteacher. It was an insult to his

pride that such a pushover could bring about his

downfall. She'd been no challenge at all. Her seduction

had been boring and routine. He had struggled to

stay awake through it. It had been all he could do to

keep from dozing off.

Who would have guessed that the frump would

turn out to be a femme fatale in the strictest sense?

Last night he had been well on his way to scoring

big time with a widow lady from Denver who had diamonds

as big as headlights in her ears and on both

hands. They would have financed a luxurious

lifestyle for a long time. Immediately she had revealed

a raunchy sense of humor and spirit of adventure,

so that's what he had appealed to. With his hand

up her skirt, he had been describing to her the hard-on

she'd given him, sparing no anatomical details,

when two cops grabbed him under the arms and

hauled him out of the nightclub.

Outside, they had spread-eagled him against the

hood of the squad car, frisked him and cuffed him

like he was a common criminal, and read him his

rights. Out the corner of his eye, he had spotted the

Indiana schoolmarm standing nearby clutching a pair

of patent leather shoes in one hand.

"Damn bitch," he muttered now, just as the door

swung open.

"What's that, Bobby? Did you say something?"

The guy looked vaguely familiar, although Bobby

couldn't place him. He wasn't tall, but he gave off

that impression as he strode into the room. He was

wearing a three-piece suit, which Bobby recognized

as quality goods. His cologne smelled pricey, too.

He shook hands with Bobby's pro bono lawyer, a

guy named "Heinz, like the ketchup," who looked

like a loser, and whose advice to Bobby so far had

been to keep his trap shut until they knew what was

going on. He then had sat down at the end of the

small table and politely covered his yawns behind his

hand. However, the man who'd just come in had

made him sit up and look sharp.

Taking the chair across from Bobby, he introduced

himself as Detective Rory Smilow. Bobby didn't

trust his smile any further than he could have thrown

the suave son of a bitch. He said, "I'm here to make

your life a whole lot easier, Bobby."

Bobby didn't trust the promise, either. "Is that a

fact? If so, you can start by hearing my side of this

story. That bitch is lying."

"You didn't rape her?"

Bobby's facial features went slack. In contrast, his

sphincter tightened. "Rape?"

"Mr. Smilow, my client and I were under the impression

that this was a purse-snatching offense. Miss

Rogers's complaint doesn't mention rape," Heinz

nervously pointed out.

"She's talking it over with a policewoman,"

Smilow explained. "She was too embarrassed to dis-

cuss the details of the offense with the arresting male

officers."

"If she's alleging rape, then I need to consult further

with my client."

Bobby, having recovered from the initial shock,

looked at his attorney with scorn. "There's nothing to

consult about. I didn't rape her. Everything we did

was consensual."

Smilow opened a folder and skimmed the written

report. "You picked her up in a nightclub. According

to Miss Rogers, you plied her with liquor and intentionally

got her intoxicated."

"We had a few drinks. And, yes, she was tipsy. But

I never forced alcohol on her."

"You accompanied her back to her hotel room and

had sex with her." He glanced up at Bobby. "Is that

true?"

Bobby couldn't resist meeting the silent challenge

of the other man's eyes. "Yes, it's true. And she loved

every minute of it."

Heinz cleared his throat uneasily. "Mr. Trimble,

I'm advising you not to say anything more. Anything

you say can be used against you. Remember that."

"Do you think I'm going to let some dumpy broad

accuse me of rape and not defend myself?"

"That's what a trial is for."

"Fuck a trial. And fuck you." Bobby turned back to

Smilow. "She's lying through those buck teeth of hers."

"You didn't have sex with her while she was under

the influence?"

"Of course I did. With encouragement from her."

Looking pained, Smilow sighed and rubbed his

eyebrow. "I believe you, Mr. Trimble. I do. But from

a legal standpoint you're walking a high wire. The

laws have changed. Definitions have been sharpened

to a fine point. Because of increased public awareness

on the mistreatment of rape victims, prosecutors

and judges take a hard line. They don't want to be

held responsible for releasing a rapist--"

"I've never had to rape a woman," Bobby exclaimed.

"Just the opposite, in fact."

"I understand," Smilow returned calmly. "But if

Miss Rogers alleges that she was mentally incapacitated

by the alcohol which you urged her to drink,

then technically and legally, in the hands of a good

D.A., a case could be made for rape."

Bobby folded his arms across his chest, partially

because it was a nonchalant pose, but mostly because

he was on the brink of panic. When he was eighteen,

he'd been sentenced to goddamn prison. He hadn't

liked it. Not one freaking bit. He had vowed that he

would never go again. Afraid that his voice would

give away his fear, he said nothing.

Smilow continued. "You were in possession of

drugs when you were arrested."

"A few joints. I didn't give what's-her-name any."

Smilow looked hard at him. "No?"

"I wouldn't have wasted good smoke on her. She

was too easy."

"Nevertheless, you still have a problem. Who do

you think a jury would believe? A simple, sweet-looking

lady like her? Or a worldly stud like you?"

While Bobby was composing a suitable answer,

the door opened and a woman came in. She was petite,

with short dark hair and bright, black eyes. Good

legs. Small pointed tits. But a ball-breaker if Bobby

had ever seen one.

She said, "I hope the slime-bucket hasn't confessed."

Smilow introduced her as Stefanie Mundell from

the County Solicitor's Office. Heinz had gone a little

green around the gills and was swallowing convulsively.

It wasn't a good sign that his own lawyer

was quaking at the sight of this bitch and looked

ready to heave.

Smilow offered her a chair, but she said she preferred

to stand. "I won't be here that long. I just

wanted to make Mr. Trimble aware that rape cases

are my specialty, and that I advocate castration for

first-time offenders. And not the chemical kind, either."

Placing her palms down on the table, she

leaned over it until she was nose to nose with him.

"For what you did to poor Ellen Rogers, I can't wait

to get your balls on the chopping block."

"I didn't rape her."

His sincere denial didn't faze Ms. Mundell, who

smirked at him and said, "See you in court, Bobby."

Turning on her high heels, she went out, slamming

the door behind her.

Smilow was massaging his jaw and shaking his

head sorrowfully. "I feel for you, Bobby. If Steffi

Mundell is prosecuting, I'm afraid you're in for a

world of hurt."

"Maybe Mr. Trimble would consider pleading

guilty to a lesser charge."

Bobby glared at Heinz, who had tentatively offered

the suggestion. "Who asked you? I'm not

pleading guilty to anything, understand?"

"But stealing--"

"Gentlemen," Smilow said, interrupting. "It has

just occurred to me that since Ms. Mundell is involved,

there might be a way around this."

With affected calmness, Bobby asked, "What's on

your mind?"

"She's prosecuting the Pettijohn murder case."

Red alert!

Suddenly he remembered where he had seen

Smilow before. On TV the night following Pettijohn's

murder. He was the homicide detective in

charge of the investigation. Bobby leaned back in his

chair and tried to pretend that he wasn't suddenly

sweating like a cracker in a cornfield. "Pettijohn murder

case?"

Smilow gave him a long, hard, withering stare.

Then he sighed and closed the folder. "I thought we

might be able to help each other, Bobby. But if you're

going to play dumb, you leave me no choice but to let

Ms. Mundell have at you."

He scraped back his chair and left the room without

another word, closing the door firmly behind him.

Bobby looked over at Heinz-like-the-ketchup and

raised his shoulders. "What did I do?"

"You tried to mind-fuck Rory Smilow. Bad idea."

CHAPTER

28

For half an hour Smilow and Steffi had been patting

one another on the back for the excellent job

they'd done of manipulating Bobby Trimble. Their

self-congratulations were almost more than Hammond

could stomach.

"I gave him over an hour to think about it,"

Smilow told him for what must have been at least the

tenth time.

"So you've said."

"As soon as we walked back into the room," Steffi

chimed in, "he started talking."

"You must've played the bad cop very well."

"If I do say so myself," she boasted. "Bobby was

convinced that he was facing a rape charge."

Ellen Rogers had never alleged rape. On the contrary,

she had acknowledged her own culpability for

the theft of her credit cards and money. She had

wanted only to see Bobby Trimble captured and put

out of commission, sparing other women a similar

humiliating experience.

She had made arrangements to return to Indianapolis

immediately, although she made it clear she

was willing to testify against Trimble in court if the

case came to trial. She left the city, never knowing the

gift she had handed the Charleston Police Department.

"I can't wait to see the expression on Alex Ladd's

face when she hears this tape recording. Hammond,

you won't believe it," Steffi enthused. "You asked for

motive and, brother, did you get it. In spades."

He breathed through his mouth to stave off nausea.

It had been threatening since he was informed that

Alex's half-brother was in police custody. Steffi and

Smilow were so proud of their goddamn tape recording.

They were salivating in anticipation of his hearing

it, when he already knew the substance of it. He'd

heard the incriminating story from Loretta Boothe

last night.

The raw facts alone painted an unflattering picture

of Alex. By the time Bobby Trimble had embellished

the story to suit his own purposes, it would be a character

assassination. As Steffi had noted, it provided

the motivation the case had lacked. In spades.

Hammond had hoped that Smilow's investigators

wouldn't be as resourceful or as diligent as Loretta,

and that he could continue stalling the case indefinitely

until he determined the nature of Alex's connection

to Pettijohn and explained to her about his

own meeting with Lute.

He was going to suggest that they both come clean

with Smilow. He should have told the detective about

his meeting with Pettijohn immediately. But it had

been a delicate issue, one he had hoped to avoid anyone

knowing about. He was also going to advise Alex

to inform Smilow of her past, before he had a chance

to uncover it himself and jump to his own conclusions