The Alibi (62 page)

prosecutor of the criminal case in which she's

a prime suspect." She raised the envelope as though

it were a scalp or some other battle trophy. "And we

can prove it."

"With evidence illegally obtained."

"A technicality," she said with a shrug. "For now,

let's look at the big picture. Hammond is in deep doodoo.

Remember that weak lie about who had busted

the lock on her back door? I'm guessing it was Hammond.

He broke into her house--"

"For what purpose? To lift the silver?"

She frowned at his making light of this. "They had

met before. Before she became a suspect. Each pretended

not to know the other. They had to get together

to compare notes, so Hammond went to see

her.... Let's see, that would have been Tuesday

night, after we'd caught her in several lies.

"He couldn't go up to her front door and ring the

bell, so he sneaked in. When he busted the lock, he

cut his thumb. That's what bled on her sheet. I remember

he was wearing a bandage the next day.

"And I think she was with him the night he was

mugged, too. He was evasive when I asked him about

the doctor who had treated his wounds, and why he

hadn't gone to the emergency room. He fabricated

some farfetched explanations."

The detective was still looking at her with skepticism.

"I know him, Smilow," she said insistently. "I

practically lived with him. I know his habits. He's

relatively neat, but he's a guy. He lets things go until

he's forced to straighten up, or he waits on his weekly

maid to clean up after him. The morning after the

mugging, when he was feeling like shit, do you know

what he was worried about? Making up his bed. Now

I understand why. He didn't want me to notice that

someone had slept beside him."

"I don't know, Steffi," he said, his frown dubious.

"As much as I'd like to see this Boy Scout brought

down several pegs, I can't believe Hammond Cross

would do something this compromising. Have you

confronted him about it?"

"No, but I've baited him. Gently. Teasingly. Until

this morning when I received the lab report, it was

only a hunch."

"Blood type isn't conclusive."

"If it comes to proving malfeasance, we could get

a DNA test."

"If you're right--and I'll concede that it has

weight--that explains his reaction to Bobby Trimble's

statement yesterday."

"Hammond didn't want to hear that Alex Ladd is

a whore."

"Was."

"The tense is still up for debate. In any event,

that's why he balked at our using Trimble's testimony."

When Smilow pulled another steep frown,

Steffi said, "What?"

"I tend to agree with him on that. Hammond's ar

guments make a certain amount of sense. Trimble is

so offensive, he could create sympathy for Dr. Ladd.

Here she is, a respected psychologist. There he is, a

drug-using male prostitute who thinks he's God's

special gift to women. He could hurt our case more

than help it, especially if you wind up with a largely

female jury. It would almost be better if he weren't in

the picture."

"If Hammond has his way, there'll be no case

against Alex Ladd. At least it will never go to trial."

"That decision isn't entirely his. Does he plan--"

"What he plans is to pin Pettijohn's murder on

someone else."

"What?"

"You haven't been listening, Smilow. I'm telling

you that he'll go to any lengths to protect this woman.

In one breath he declined to share the leads he's following,

and in the next breath he's asking for my cooperation

and help in building a case against

someone else. Someone who had motive and opportunity.

Someone he would love to see go down for it."

Steffi savored the moment before adding, "And guess

who he has in mind."

"Hammond, I've been trying to locate you all

morning."

"Hey, Mason." He had got the message that

Mason was looking for him, but had hoped to dodge

him. He didn't have time for a meeting, however

brief. "I've been awfully busy this morning. In fact,

I'm on my way out now."

"Then I won't detain you."

"Thanks," Hammond said, continuing on his way

toward the exit. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Just be sure you're free at five o'clock this after

noon."

Hammond stopped, turned. "What happens then?"

"A press conference. All the local stations are

broadcasting it live."

"Today? Five o'clock?"

"City hall. I've decided to formally announce my

retirement and endorse you as my successor. I see no

reason to postpone it. Everybody knows already anyway.

Come the November election, your name will

be on the ballot." He beamed a smile on his protege

and proudly rocked back on his heels.

Hammond felt like he had just been slam-dunked,

head first. "I... I don't know what to say," he stammered.

"No need to say anything to me," Mason boomed.

"Save your remarks for this afternoon."

"But--"

"I've notified your father. Both he and Amelia

plan to be there."

Christ. "You know, Mason, that I'm right in the

middle of this Pettijohn thing."

"What better time? When you're already in the

public eye. This is a great opportunity to make your

name a Charleston household word."

The statement harkened back to a recent conversa

tion. Hammond closed his eyes briefly and shook his

head. "Dad put you up to this, didn't he?"

Mason chuckled. "He bought a few rounds last

night at our club. I don't have to tell you how persuasive

he can be."

"No, you don't have to tell me," Hammond said in

an angry mutter.

Preston never sat back and let the cards fall as they

may. He always stacked the deck in his favor. His

philanthropy on Speckle Island had disarmed Hammond

and practically assured that he would not be

held accountable for any wrongdoing that had taken

place on the sea island. But just in case Hammond

had in mind to continue pursuing it, Preston had

upped the ante, raised the stakes, and increased the

pressure.

"Look, Mason, I've got to run. Lots going on

today."

"Fine. Just remember five o'clock."

"No. I won't forget."

CHAPTER

37

Loretta swished her feet in the tub of cool water

where she'd been soaking them for almost half an

hour.

Bev came down the hallway, yawning and stretching.

"Mom? You're already up? You didn't sleep

long."

"Too much on my mind," she said absently. Then,

looking up at Bev, she asked, "Are you sure you

checked for messages when you came in this morning?

I hope nothing's wrong with our voice mail."

"There's nothing wrong with it, Mom." Bev

turned toward her, a guilty look on her face. "You did

have a message from Mr. Cross. I just didn't want to

give it to you."

"How come? What did he say?"

"He said never mind about the guy from the fair."

Loretta looked at her with patent disbelief. "Are

you sure?"

"I thought he said 'the fair.'"

"No, are you sure he said never mind about him?"

"I'm certain of that part. Pissed me off. After all

the hard work--Careful, Mom, you're sloshing

water on the floor."

Loretta was on her feet, hands planted solidly on

her hips. "Has he gone crazy?"

Bobby Trimble hadn't counted on jail. Jail stunk.

Jail was for losers. Jail was for the old Bobby, maybe,

but not for the one he had become.

He had spent the night sharing a cell with a drunk

who had snored and farted with equal exuberance

throughout the night. He'd been promised that he

would be released first thing this morning, as soon as

he could be processed out. That was part of the deal

he'd struck with Detective Smilow and the bitch from

the D.A.'s office--no more than one night of incarceration.

But come this morning, they were taking their

sweet time. They served breakfast. At the smell of

food, his cell mate rolled off the top bunk barely in

time to make it to the open toilet, where he puked for

five full minutes. When he was finally empty, he

climbed back into the top bunk and passed out again,

but not before stumbling into Bobby and soiling his

clothes so that he, too, smelled like vomit.

Of course, Bobby didn't take any of this mistreatment

quietly. He voiced his complaints loudly and

frequently. He ranted and raved, but to no avail. He

paced the cell. As the hours crawled by, he sank into

a deep funk. Pessimism set in with a vengeance.

It seemed he couldn't buy a break.

Things had been going from sugar to shit ever

since Pettijohn got killed. That hadn't been in

Bobby's game plan. He was no saint, but he wanted

no part of a murder rap. If painting Alex guilty--and

who knew? maybe she was--would get him off the

hook, that's what he would do. But in the meantime,

he would be on a short leash. Until after her trial, his

ass belonged to Charleston County. No partying. No

women. No drugs. No fun.

Nor was he a hundred thousand dollars richer, as

he had expected to be. He had never collected the

blackmail money. It remained unknown whether or

not Alex had collected the cash from Pettijohn, but

that was a moot point. He didn't have it.

His future was looking bleak and uncertain, the

only surety being that he was going nowhere fast as

long as he remained cooped up in here.

Coming off his bunk, he pressed himself against

the bars. "What's taking so freaking long?"

His questions were ignored. The guards were impervious

to his demands.

"You don't understand. I'm not an ordinary prisoner,"

he told a guard as he ambled past his cell. "I'm

not supposed to be here."

"Wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that

one, Bobby."

Bobby whipped his head around. A newcomer, escorted by another guard, wore a lightweight summer

suit and necktie. He was clean-shaven, but he still

looked a little ragged, probably because of the sling

supporting his right arm. He introduced himself as

Hammond Cross.

"I've heard of you. D.A.'s office, right?"

"Special assistant solicitor for Charleston

County."

"I'm impressed," Bobby said, resuming his modulated

voice. "Frankly, I don't care if you're Tinker-bell,

so long as you came to escort me out of here."

"That was the deal, wasn't it?"

Cross was a smooth customer. Bobby immediately

resented the sophistication that came naturally to

him.

He motioned for the guard to open Bobby's cell,

but then he was ushered into a room reserved for prisoner/solicitor

conferences. "I don't consider this release,

Mr. Cross. I made a deal yesterday. Or have

you conveniently forgotten?"

"I'm aware of the deal, Bobby."

"Well, fine! Then do what you've got to do to set

wheels into motion."

"Not until we've talked."

"If I'm talking to you, I want a lawyer present."

"I'm a lawyer."

"But you're--"

"Sit down and shut up, Bobby."

He was fit, but not all that beefy, this Hammond

Cross. Besides that, he was the walking wounded.

Arrogantly, Bobby rolled his shoulders. "Harsh

words coming from a man with his arm in a sling."

Cross's eyes took on a glint almost as hard and

cold as Smilow's. While it didn't frighten Bobby, exactly,

it intimidated him enough to sit down. He

glared up at Cross. "Okay, I'm sitting. What?"

"You can't possibly appreciate how much I would

love to beat the shit out of you."

Bobby gaped at him, speechless.

Cross's lips had barely moved, and his voice was

soft, but the hostility behind his statement made the

hair on the back of Bobby's neck stand on end. That

and the fact that every muscle in Cross's body was

flexed as though about to split open his skin.

"Look, I don't know what your beef is, but I made

a deal."

"And I made another one," Cross said blandly.

"With one of the investors--make that a former investor --in the Speckle Island project."

He let that sink in a moment. Bobby tried hard not

to squirm in his chair.

"This individual is willing to testify against you in

exchange for clemency. We've got a laundry list of

charges for your activities on Speckle Island that are

irrelevant to the deal you made yesterday. It would

probably bore you for me to list them all, but taking

them in alphabetical order, arson would be first."