The Alibi (61 page)

Davee decided.

After thanking the housekeeper for the coffee and

taking a sip, Alex said, "I saw your husband last Saturday

afternoon in his hotel suite." She indicated the

sections of the morning edition scattered about. "The

newspaper write-ups subtly suggest that Mr. Pettijohn

and I had a personal relationship."

Davee smiled wryly. "Well, he had a reputation to

uphold."

"But I don't. There's absolutely no basis for that

implication. Although you'll probably think I'm

lying if my half-brother ever testifies against me."

"I read about him, too. In print Bobby Trimble

comes across as a real asshole."

"You flatter him."

Davee laughed, but as she watched the other

woman's face, she realized that the topic wasn't

pleasant for her. "You had it rough as a kid?"

"I got past it."

Davee nodded. "We all bear scars from childhood,

I guess."

"Some scars are just more visible than others,"

Alex said by way of agreeing. "In my work, I've

learned how clever people can be at hiding them.

Even from themselves."

Davee studied her for a moment longer. "You're

not what I expected. From the way you were portrayed

in the news stories, I would have thought you

were ... coarser. Harder. Devious. Even wicked."

She laughed again. "I would have thought you were

more like me."

"I have my flaws. Plenty of them. But I swear that

I met your husband only once. That was last Saturday.

As it turns out, not long before he was killed. But

I didn't kill him, and I didn't go to that hotel suite to

sleep with him. It's important to me that you know

that."

"I'm inclined to believe you," Davee said. "First

of all, you have nothing to gain by coming here and

telling me that. Moreover, and I mean no offense by

this, you're not my dearly departed's type."

Alex smiled at that, but her curiosity was genuine when she asked, "Why wouldn't I have been his

type?"

"Physically you would have passed muster. Don't

be offended by this, either--Lute would screw any

woman whose body was warm. Who knows? Sometimes

that might not even have been a qualification.

"But he liked his women to be in awe of him. Submissive

and stupid. Silent for the most part, except

maybe during orgasm. You wouldn't have appealed

to him because you're far too self-confident and

bright."

She refilled her coffee cup from a silver carafe,

then dropped two sugar cubes into the cup so that

they made soft splashes. "FYI, Dr. Ladd, some of the

people accusing you of killing Lute don't truly believe

you did."

Registering surprise, Alex blurted out, "You've

spoken with Hammond?"

"No. It wasn't..." A jolt of enlightenment halted

Davee in mid sentence "'Hammond'? You're on a

first-name basis with the man prosecuting your murder

case?"

Clearly flustered, Alex set her cup and saucer on

the coffee table. "I hope my coming here wasn't too

much of an imposition, Mrs. Pettijohn. I wasn't sure

you would even consent to see me. Thank you for

the--"

Davee stopped the chatter by reaching across the

space separating them and laying her hand on Alex's

arm. After a pause, Alex raised her head and stared

back at Davee with quiet dignity. They communi

cated on a different level. Defenses were down. Two

women seeing, understanding, accepting.

Peering deeply into the other woman's eyes,

Davee said softly, "You're the one who is not just

complicated but impossible."

Alex opened her mouth to speak, but Davee forestalled

her. "No, don't tell me. It would be like reading

the last page of a juicy novel. But I can't wait to

find out how the two of you managed to get yourselves

into this mess. I hope the circumstances were

absolutely decadent and delicious. Hammond deserves

that." Then she smiled ruefully. "Poor Hammond.

This must be one hell of a dilemma for him."

"Very much so."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"He may soon find himself in need of friends. Be

his friend."

"I am."

"So he says." Alex slid the strap of her handbag

onto her shoulder. "I should go."

Davee didn't summon her housekeeper but walked

Alex to the front door herself. "You haven't commented

on my house," she observed as they crossed

the front foyer. "Most people do the first time they

come. What do you think?"

Alex gave a quick look around. "Honestly?"

"I asked."

"You have some lovely things. But to my taste it's

a little overdone."

"Are you kidding?" Davee chortled. "It's gaudy as

all get-out. Now that Lute is dead, I plan on detackying

it."

The two women smiled at each other. This was a

rare thing for Davee--feeling a kinship with another

woman. With characteristic straightforwardness, she

said, "I don't care whether you slept with Lute or not,

I like you, Alex."

"I like you, too."

Alex was halfway down the front walk when

Davee called out to her. "You were with Lute shortly

before he was killed?"

"That's right."

"Hmm. The killer might think that you're holding

something back. Something you saw or heard. Are

you?" she asked bluntly.

"Shouldn't we leave the questions to the police?"

She continued down the walk and let herself out

through the front gate. Davee closed the door and

turned. Sarah Birch had come up behind her.

"What is it, baby?" She reached out and smoothed

away the worry lines creasing Davee's forehead.

"Nothing, Sarah," she murmured absently. "Nothing."

CHAPTER

36

Very early that morning, before leaving for the office

and his conversation with Steffi, Hammond had

checked his voice mail. He returned only one message.

"Loretta, this is Hammond. I didn't get your messages

until this morning. Sorry I put you in a huff last

night. I mistook your pages for a wrong number. Uh,

listen, I appreciate what you did. But the fact is, I

don't want you to bring in this guy you talked to at the

fair. Not now anyway. I have my reasons, believe me,

and I'll explain everything later. For now, keep him

on ice. If it turns out I need him, I'll let you know.

Otherwise, just... I guess you can . . . what I'm saying

is, you're free to take on other work. If I need you

further, I'll be in touch. Thanks again. You're the

best. Goodbye. Oh, I'll send you a check to cover yesterday

and last night. You went above and beyond.

'Bye."

Bev Boothe listened to the message twice, then

stared at the telephone, her fingers tapping lightly on

the number pad as she reflected on what to do with

the message--save or delete?

What she would like to tell Mr. Cross to do with

his message was anatomically impossible.

She was tired and cranky. Overnight someone had

dented her car while it was parked in the hospital personnel

parking lot. A dull lower backache took hold

every morning following her twelve-hour shift.

Mostly, she was worried about her mother, whose

bedroom was empty and undisturbed. Where had she

been all night, and where was she now? Bev remembered

that when she left for the hospital last evening,

Loretta had seemed preoccupied and depressed.

This message indicated that she was out doing the

county solicitor's dirty work for him, at least for a

portion of the night. The bastard didn't sound very

appreciative of her mother's efforts.

Spitefully, Bev depressed the numeral three to

delete the message.

Five minutes later, as she was stepping from the

shower, she heard her mother call into her room.

"Bev, just wanted to let you know that I'm home."

Bev grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself.

She tracked wet footprints down the hallway

into her mother's bedroom. Loretta was sitting on the

side of her bed, easing off a pair of sandals that had

cut vivid red stripes into her swollen feet.

"Mom, I was worried," Bev exclaimed, trying not

to sound surprised and relieved that her mother was

sober, although she looked haggard and unkempt.

"Where've you been?"

"It's a long story that can wait until we've both put

in a few hours of rack time. I'm exhausted. Did you

check the voice mail when you came in? Were there

any messages?"

Bev hesitated only a heartbeat. "No, Mom. None."

"I can't believe it," Loretta muttered as she peeled

off her dress. "I busted my ass, and Hammond pulls

a disappearing act."

Having stripped to her underwear, she pulled back the covers and lay down. She was almost asleep by

the time her head hit the pillow.

Bev returned to her own room, slipped on a nightgown,

set her alarm, readjusted the thermostat to a

cooler temperature, and got into bed.

Loretta had come home sober this time. But what

about the next? She was trying so hard to keep her

tenuous hold on sobriety. She needed constant reinforcement

and encouragement. She needed to feel

useful and productive.

Bev's last thought before drifting off to sleep was

that if Mr. Hammond Cross was going to relieve her

mother of the job she desperately needed for her present

and future well-being, then he could damn well

relieve her of it in person and not via the lousy voice

mail.

"What's that?"

Rory Smilow glanced up from the manila envelope

that Steffi had just plunked down on top of a littered

desk. As soon as Hammond left her office, she

wasted no time driving to police headquarters. She

found the detective in the large, open Criminal Investigation

office.

She felt no compunction about informing Smilow

of this latest development. Loyalty to her former

lover never entered her mind. Nor did she let her

pledge of confidentiality deter her. From here on, she

was playing for keeps.

"It's a lab report." She retrieved the envelope,

holding it flat against her chest as though cherishing

it. "Can we talk in your office?"

Smilow came to his feet and nodded her in that direction.

As they weaved their way through the maze

of desks, Detective Mike Collins greeted Steffi in a

singsong voice. "Good morning, Miss Mundell."

"Up yours, Collins."

Ignoring the laughter and catcalls, she preceded

Smilow down the short hallway and into his private

office. When the door closed behind them, he asked

her what was up.

"Remember the bloodstains on Alex Ladd's

sheets?"

"She nicked her leg shaving."

"No, she didn't. Or maybe she did, but it wasn't

her who bled on the sheet. I had the blood typed and

compared to another specimen. They match."

"And this other specimen would be ... ?"

"Hammond's."

For the first time since she had met him, Smilow

seemed completely unprepared for what he'd just

heard. It left him speechless.

"The night he was mugged," she explained, "he

bled. Quite a lot, I think. I got to his place early the

following morning to tell him that Trimble was in our

jail. He was acting weird. I attributed his weirdness to

the rough night he'd had and the medication he was

taking.

"But it was more than that. I got this feeling that he

was lying to cover up a shameful secret. Anyway, before

we left, I impulsively sneaked a bloody washcloth

out of his bathroom."

"What prompted you to do that? And to test it

against the stains on Ladd's sheets?"

"The way he acts around her!" she cried softly,

flinging her arms out to her sides. "Like it's all he can

do to keep from devouring her. You've sensed it, too,

Smilow. I know you have."

He ran his hand around the back of his neck and

said the last thing Steffi would have expected. "Jesus,

I'm embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?"

"I should have reached this conclusion myself.

Long before now. You're right, I did sense something

between them. I just couldn't lay my finger on what

it was. It's so unthinkable, I never even thought of

sexual attraction."

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Smilow. Women

are more intuitive about these things."

"And you had another advantage over me."

"What?"

"I've never slept with Hammond."

He grinned wryly, but Steffi didn't find the statement

humorous. "Well, it really doesn't matter who

sensed what when, or who first defined what is going

on between them. The bottom line is that Hammond

has been in bed with Alex Ladd since he was appointed