The Alibi (60 page)

width of her office. He didn't look much better than

he had yesterday. His arm was still in the sling. His

hair looked like it had been dried with a leaf blower.

He had nicked his chin shaving, and the scabbing

spot of blood reminded her of the lab report she had

received only minutes ago.

"You look frazzled. How much coffee have you

had this morning?" she asked.

"None."

"Really? You look like you've been taking caffeine

by IV."

Suddenly he stopped pacing and faced her across the desk. "Steffi, we have a special relationship, don't

we?"

"Pardon?"

"It transcends our being colleagues. While we

were together, I entrusted you with my secrets. That

past intimacy elevates our relationship to another

plane, right?" He looked closely at her for a moment,

then cursed and tried in vain to smooth down his hair.

"God, this is awkward."

"Hammond, what is going on?"

"Before I tell you, I've got to clear the air on another

matter."

"I'm over it, Hammond. Okay? I don't want a man

who--"

"Not that. Not us. Harvey Knuckle."

The name landed like a rock on her desk. She tried

to contain her surprise, but knew her shattered expression

must be a dead giveaway. Under Hammond's

piercing gaze, a denial would be futile.

"Okay, so you know. I had him sneak me some private

information on Pettijohn."

"Why?"

She tinkered with a paper clip for a moment,

weighing the advisability of dissecting this with

Hammond. Finally she said, "Pettijohn approached

me several months ago. It seemed innocent enough at

first. Then he made his pitch. He said it had occurred

to him how comfortable it could be for both of us if I

held the county solicitor's job. He promised to make

it happen."

"If?"

"If I would keep my eyes and ears open and report

to him anything that might be of interest. Such as a

covert investigation into his business dealings."

"To which you said?"

"Something not too ladylike, I'm afraid. I turned

down the offer, but it made me curious to know what

he could be hiding, what he was into. Wouldn't it be

a feather in Steffi Mundell's cap if she nailed the

biggest crook in Charleston County? So I approached

Harvey." She bent the paper clip into an S shape. "I

got the information I was after and--"

"Saw my father's name on the partnership papers."

"Yes, Hammond," she replied solemnly.

"And you kept quiet about it."

"It was his crime, not yours. Preston couldn't be

punished without you getting hurt. I didn't want that

to happen. You know I would love to have the top

job. I've made no secret of it."

"But not if it meant getting into bed with Pettijohn."

She shuddered. "I hope you meant that figuratively."

"I did. Thanks for coming clean."

"Actually, I'm glad it's out in the open. It's been

like a fester." She dropped the paper clip. "Now

what's up?"

He sat down across from her, balancing on the

edge of the seat and leaning forward as he spoke.

"What I'm about to tell you must remain strictly be

tween us," he said in a low, urgent voice. "Do I have

your confidence?"

"Implicitly."

"Good." He took a deep breath. "Alex Ladd did

not kill Lute Pettijohn."

That was the big proclamation? After that grand

buildup, she'd been expecting a heart-rending confession

of their affair, maybe an earnest plea for forgiveness.

Instead his verbal drumroll had heralded

only another pathetic petition for his secret lover's innocence.

Her temper surged, but she forced herself to lean

back in her chair in a deceptively relaxed posture.

"Yesterday you were gung-ho to take the case to the

grand jury. Why this sudden reversal of opinion?"

"It's not sudden, and I was never gung-ho. All

along I've felt we had the wrong person. There are

too many factors that don't add up."

"Trimble—"

"Trimble's a pimp."

"And she was his whore," she fired back. "It appears

she still is."

"Let's not go there again, okay?"

"Agreed. It's a tired argument. I hope you've got a

better one."

"Smilow killed him."

Her jaw involuntarily went slack. This time, she

truly couldn't believe that she had heard him correctly.

"Is this a joke?"

"No."

"Hammond, what in God's name—"

"Listen for a minute," he said, patting the air between

them. "Just listen, and then if you disagree, I'll

welcome your viewpoint."

"Save your breath. I can almost assure you that my

viewpoint is going to differ."

"Please."

Last Saturday evening when she had teasingly

asked Smilow if he had murdered his former brother-in-law,

she had intended it as a joke, albeit a bad one.

She had asked him out of pure orneriness, trying to

provoke him. But Hammond was deadly serious. Obviously

he considered Smilow a viable suspect.

"Okay," she said with an exaggerated shrug of surrender.

"Lay it on me."

"Think about it. The crime scene was practically

sterile. Smilow himself has made several references

to how pristine it was. Who would know better how

to leave no trace of himself than a homicide detective

who makes his living picking up after murderers?"

"It's a good point, Hammond, but you're reaching."

He was reaching in order to protect his new lover.

It was deeply insulting that he would go to such

lengths for Alex Ladd's sake. All that schoolboy

stammering about intimacy and entrusting her with

his secrets, and clearing the air, and their special, elevated

relationship had been just so much bullshit.

He was trying to use her to get his lady love off the

hook.

She wanted to tell him that she knew about their

inappropriate affair, but that would be an impetuous

and foolish move. While it would be gratifying to see

him humbled, she would sacrifice a long-term advantage.

Her knowledge of their secret affair was a trump

card. Playing it too soon would reduce its effectiveness.

Meanwhile, the more he talked, the more ammunition

he was giving her to use against him. Unwittingly,

he was handing her the job of county solicitor

gift-wrapped. It took a lot of self-control to maintain

her poker face.

"I hope you're basing your suspicion on more than

the lack of physical evidence," she said.

"Smilow hated Pettijohn."

"It's been established that many people did."

"But not to the degree that Smilow did. On several

occasions, he all but pledged to kill Lute for the unhappiness

he had caused Margaret. I have it on good

authority that he once attacked Lute and would have

killed him on the spot if he hadn't been restrained."

"Who told you that, Deep Throat?"

Unappreciative of her amusement, he said stiffly,

"In a manner of speaking, yes. For the time being I'm

keeping this as confidential as possible."

"Hammond, are you sure you're not letting your

personality conflict with Smilow color your reason?"

"True, I don't like him. But I've never threatened

to kill him. Not like he threatened to kill Lute Pettijohn."

"In the heat of the moment? In a fit of rage? Come

on, Hammond. Nobody takes death threats like that

seriously."

"Smilow often goes for drinks in the lobby bar of

the Charles Towne Plaza."

"So do hundreds of other people. For that matter,

so do we."

"He gets his shoes shined there."

"Oh, he gets his shoes shined there," she exclaimed,

slapping the edge of her desk. "Hell, that's

practically a smoking gun!"

"I refuse to take umbrage, Steffi. Because the gun

was my next point."

"The murder weapon?"

"Smilow has access to handguns. Probably at least

half of them are unregistered and untraceable."

This was the first issue to which Steffi gave serious

consideration. Her teasing smile slowly faded.

She sat up straighten "You mean handguns--"

"In the evidence warehouse. They're confiscated

in drug raids. Seized in arrests. Being held there until

a trial date, or simply awaiting disposal or sale."

"They keep change-of-custody records over

there."

"Smilow would know how to get around that. He

could have used one, then replaced it. Maybe he

threw it away after using it. It would never be missed.

He may have used one that hadn't been consigned to

the warehouse yet. There are dozens of ways."

"I see what you mean," she said thoughtfully, then

shook her head. "But it's still a stretch, Hammond.

Just as we don't have a weapon to prove that Alex

Ladd shot Pettijohn, we don't have one that proves

Smilow did."

He sighed, glanced down at the floor, then looked

across the desk at her again. "There's something else.

Another motive, perhaps even more compelling than

revenge for his sister's suicide."

"Well?"

"I can't discuss it."

"What? Why not?"

"Because someone else's privacy would be violated."

"Wasn't it you who, not five minutes ago, made

that flowery speech about our transcendent relationship

and mutual trust?"

"It's not that I mistrust you, Steffi. Someone else

trusts me. I can't betray that individual's confidence.

I won't, not until and unless this information becomes

a material element in the case."

"The case?" she repeated with ridicule. "There is

no case."

"I think there is."

"Do you actually intend to pursue this?"

"I know it won't be easy. Smilow isn't a favorite

among CPD personnel, but he's feared and respected.

No doubt I'll encounter some resistance."

"'Resistance' is putting it mildly, Hammond. If

you investigate one of their own, you'll never have

the cooperation of another city cop."

"I'm aware of the obstacles. I realize what it's

going to cost me. But I'm determined to go through

with it. Which should give you some indication of

how firmly I believe that I'm right."

Or how besotted you are with your new lover, she

thought. "What about Alex Ladd and the case we've

made against her? You can't just throw it out, make it

disappear."

"No. If I did, Smilow would smell a rat. I plan to

proceed. But even if the grand jury indicts her, we

can't win the case we have against her. We can't," he

said stubbornly when he saw that she was about to

object. "Trimble is a smarmy hustler. A jury will see

right through his cheesy veneer. They'll think his testimony

is self-serving, and they'll be right. They

won't believe him even if he occasionally tells the

truth. Besides, how many times has Dr. Ladd

earnestly denied that she did it?"

"Naturally she's going to deny she did it. They all

deny it."

"But she's different," he muttered.

Even knowing about his affair with the psychologist,

Steffi was dismayed by his unshakable determination

to protect and defend her. She studied him for

a moment, not even trying to hide her frustration.

"That's it? You've told me everything?"

"Honestly, no. I checked some things out last

night, but the evidence isn't concrete."

"What kind of things?"

"I don't want to discuss them now, Steffi. Not until

I'm certain that I'm right. This is a precarious situation."

"You're damn right it is," she said angrily. "If you

won't tell me everything, why tell me anything?

What do you want from me?"

The last person Davee Pettijohn expected to come

calling that morning was the woman suspected of

making her a widow.

"Thank you for seeing me."

Sarah Birch had led Dr. Alex Ladd into the casual

living room where Davee was having coffee. Even if

the housekeeper hadn't announced her by name,

Davee would have recognized her. Her picture was

on the front page of the morning newspaper, and

Davee had seen last evening's newscasts before her

troubling, clandestine meeting with Smilow.

"I'm receiving you more out of curiosity than

courtesy, Dr. Ladd," she said candidly. "Have a seat.

Would you like coffee?"

"Please."

While waiting for Sarah Birch to return with an

extra cup and saucer, the two women sat in silence

and assessed one another. The TV cameras and newspaper

photographs hadn't done Alex Ladd justice,