by Sandra Brown
“You’re sure she wasn’t stepping out of it, leaving it?”
“No, I’m not sure.” Daniels was beginning to sound querulous. “But that wasn’t the impression I got. There was nothing unusual about her or the situation. Honestly, if you folks hadn’t asked, I never would have thought of her again. You asked did I see anybody in the hallway yesterday afternoon, and that’s who I saw.”
Mrs. Daniels intervened again. Steffi and Smilow apologized for having to bother him, thanked him for the information, wished him a speedy recovery, and left.
Out in the hospital corridor, Smilow was glum. “Great. We have an eyewitness who saw a woman standing not too far away from him, but pretty far, who may or may not have been standing outside Pettijohn’s suite. She was neither old nor young. She was average height. ‘Sorta medium’ hair and ‘sorta thin.’ ”
“I’m disappointed but not surprised,” Steffi said. “I doubted he would remember anything given his preoccupation at the time.”
“Shit,” Smilow swore.
“Precisely.”
Then they looked at one another and laughed, and were still laughing when Mrs. Daniels emerged from her husband’s room. “He’s finally talked me into returning to the hotel. I haven’t been back since the ambulance brought us here. Are you going down?” she asked politely as the elevator arrived.
“Not just yet,” Steffi told her. “I’ve got other business to discuss with Detective Smilow.”
“Good luck with solving the mystery.”
They thanked her for her cooperation and willingness to help, then Steffi motioned Smilow toward the waiting room, which was presently empty. When they were seated in facing armchairs, he bluntly informed her that Hammond Cross would be prosecuting the Pettijohn case.
“Mason awarded it to his golden boy.”
Making no effort to mask her disappointment or resentment, she asked when he had learned this.
“Earlier this evening. Chief Crane called and told me because I had campaigned for you.”
“Thanks. For all the good it did me,” she said bitterly. “When was I supposed to be told of this development?”
“Tomorrow, I guess.”
Hammond hadn’t known about Pettijohn’s murder until she told him. It must have been Mason’s call he had received while she was still there. It was doubly galling that moments after ending their affair, he had beat her out of a career-making case.
Smilow said, “Davee Pettijohn pulled strings.”
“Just as she promised.”
“She said she never settles for second best. Apparently she thinks you are.”
“That’s not it. Not entirely, anyway. She would much rather have a man working on her behalf than another woman.”
“Good point. Better chemistry. Besides, her family and the Crosses have been friends for decades.”
“It’s not what you know, but who.”
After a moment of silent reflection, Steffi stood up and slipped the strap of her heavy valise over her shoulder. “Since I’m no longer—”
Smilow waved her back into her chair. “Mason threw you a bone. Act surprised when he gives you official notice in the morning.”
“What kind of bone?”
“You’re to assist Hammond.”
“No surprise there. A case like this requires at least two good heads.” Sensing there was more, she queried Smilow with a raised eyebrow. “And?”
“And it’s your responsibility to serve as a barrier between us and keep the interaction friendly. Failing that, you’re to try and prevent bloodshed.”
“Mason’s words to your chief?”
“I’m paraphrasing.” He smiled grimly. “But don’t worry overmuch. I doubt it’ll come to bloodshed.”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve seen you two on the verge of what appeared to be mortal combat. What’s that about, anyway?”
“We hate the sight of each other.”
“That much I know, Smilow. What brought it on?”
“Long story.”
“For another time?”
“Maybe.”
It frustrated her that he didn’t commit to telling her. She would like to know the circumstances behind his and Hammond’s virulent dislike for one another. They were entirely different personality types, of course. Smilow’s aloofness repelled people, and unless she was way off base, that was by design. Hammond was charismatic. Close friendships with him were earned, but he was friendly and approachable. Smilow was fastidious and impeccably groomed, while Hammond’s attractiveness was natural and effortless. In college Smilow would have been the one guy in class who aced the exam and ruined the grading curve for everyone else. Hammond’s grades were excellent, too, but he also had been a popular student leader and star athlete. Both were overachievers, but one’s accomplishments were hard-earned, while to the other they came easily.
Steffi could identify more closely with Smilow. She understood and could relate to his resentment of Hammond, a resentment compounded by Hammond’s own attitude toward his advantages. He did not exploit them. Moreover, he rejected them. Spurning his trust fund, he lived on what he earned. His condo was nice, but he could have afforded much better. His only extravagances were his sailboat and his cabin, but he never advertised that he owned either.
He would be much easier to hate if he flaunted his privileges.
It would be interesting, to say nothing of useful, to know the source of the antipathy between him and Smilow. They were on the same side of the law, working toward a common goal, and yet they seemed more disdainful of each other than they were of unredeemable criminals.
“Must be hard,” Smilow said, drawing her out of her musings.
“What?”
“Constantly competing with Hammond on a professional level, but sleeping with him at night. Or is it that competitive edge that makes the affair so exciting?”
For once Steffi was taken completely off guard. She stared at him with mute astonishment.
“You’re wondering how I know?” His smile was so cold it sent chills up her spine. “Process of elimination. He’s the only man around the judicial building who hasn’t boasted of getting there.” He looked pointedly at her lap. “I put two and two together, and your stunned reaction to my lucky guess just confirmed it.”
His smugness was insufferable, but she refused to act angry or upset, which would have pleased him immensely. Instead she kept her features expressionless and her voice cool. “Why so interested in my love life, Smilow? Jealous?”
He actually laughed. “Flirtation doesn’t flatter you, Steffi.”
“Go to hell.”
Unfazed, he continued. “Deductive reasoning is my business. I’m good at it.”
“What do you intend to do with this juicy tidbit of information?”
“Nothing,” he said with a negligent shrug. “It just amuses me that the golden boy has compromised his professional ethics. Is his armor beginning to tarnish? Just a little?”
“Sleeping with a colleague isn’t exactly a hanging offense. As transgressions go, it’s a hand-slapper.”
“True. But for Hammond Cross, it’s practically a mortal sin. Otherwise, why keep it a secret?”
“Well, you can stop your gloating. There’s no longer a secret to keep. The affair is over. True,” she said when he gave her a sharply suspicious look.
“As of when?”
She consulted her wristwatch. “Two hours and eighteen minutes ago.”
“Really? Before or after Mason gave him the case?”
“One had nothing to do with the other,” she said testily.
A corner of his thin lips twitched with a near smile. “You’re sure of that?”
“Positive. You might as well know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Detective. Hammond dumped me. Flat. End of discussion.”
“Why?”
“I got the standard ‘we’re moving in opposing directions’ speech, which usually translates to ‘been there, done th
at, and I’m ready to try a new vacation spot.’ ”
“Hmm. Do you know of any resorts he plans to visit?”
“None. And a woman can usually tell.”
“So can a man.”
His tone conveyed more than the four words. Steffi regarded him closely. “Why, Rory! Is it even remotely possible that Mr. Ice in Veins was once in l-o-v-e?”
“Excuse me?” They hadn’t noticed the nurse’s approach until she spoke to them. “My patient…” She hitched a thumb over her shoulder indicating Mr. Daniels’s room. “He wanted to know if you had left. When I told him you were out here, he asked me to tell you that he remembered something that might help you.”
Before she had finished speaking, they were on their feet.
Chapter 12
Hammond consulted the street address he had jotted down and tucked into his shirt pocket before leaving his place to visit Davee.
Uncertain that the telephone number for Dr. Ladd’s answering service was a Charleston exchange, Hammond had anxiously run his finger down a listing of physicians in the Yellow Pages until he found one Dr. A. E. Ladd. He knew immediately he had the right one because the after-hours number listed matched the one he had called from the cabin that morning.
Dr. Ladd was his only link to the woman he’d been with last night. Of course, talking to him was out of the question. Hammond’s short-term goal was only to locate his office and see what, if anything, he could learn from it. Later he would try and figure out how to go about approaching him.
Despite being preoccupied with his breakup with Steffi, and his disturbing conversation with Davee, and the Pettijohn murder and all that it implied, thoughts of the woman he had followed from the county fair and kissed at a gas station wouldn’t leave him alone.
It would be useless to try and ignore them. Hammond Cross did not accept unanswered questions. Even as a boy, he couldn’t be pacified with pat answers. He nagged his parents until they provided him with an explanation that satisfied his curiosity.
He’d carried the trait into adulthood. That desire to know not only the generalities, but the particulars, benefitted him in his work. He dug and continued to dig until he got to the truth, sometimes to the supreme frustration of his colleagues. Sometimes even he was frustrated by his doggedness.
Thoughts of her would persist until he learned who she was and why, after the incredible night they had spent together, she had walked out of his cabin and, consequently, out of his life.
Locating Dr. Ladd was an attempt, albeit a juvenile, pathetic, and desperate one, to find out something about her. Specifically, whether or not she was Mrs. Ladd. If so, that’s where it must end. If not…
He didn’t allow himself to consider the various if nots.
Having grown up in Charleston, Hammond knew the street’s general location, and it was only blocks away from Davee’s mansion. He reached it within minutes.
It was a short and narrow lane, where the buildings were shrouded in vines and history. It was one of several such streets within easy walking distance of the bustling commercial district, while seemingly a world apart. Most of the structures in this area between Broad Street and the Battery boasted historical markers. Some house numbers ended with a 1/2, indicating that an outbuilding to the main structure, such as a coach house or detached kitchen, had since been converted into a separate residence. Real estate was at a premium. It was a pricey neighborhood. The acronym for anyone living south of Broad was S.O.B.
It wasn’t surprising to Hammond that the doctor’s practice was located in a basically residential section. Many noncommercial professionals had converted older houses into businesses, often living in the top stories, which had been a Charleston tradition for centuries.
He left his car parked on a wider thoroughfare and entered the cobblestone lane on foot. Darkness had fallen. The weekend was over; people had retreated inside. He was the only pedestrian out. The street was shadowed and quiet, but overall friendly and hospitable. Open window shutters revealed lighted rooms that looked inviting. Without exception, the properties were upscale and well maintained. Apparently Dr. Ladd did very well.
The evening air was heavy and dense. It was as tangible as a cotton flannel blanket wrapping around him claustrophobically. In a matter of minutes his shirt was sticking to him. Even a slow stroll was enervating, especially when nervousness was also a factor.
He was forced to breathe deeply, drawing into his nostrils exotic floral scents and the salty-seminal tang of seawater from off the harbor a few blocks away. He smelled the remnants of charcoal smoke on which somebody had cooked Sunday supper. The aroma made his mouth water, reminding him that he had eaten nothing all day except the English muffin at his cabin.
The walk gave him time to think about how he was going to make contact with the doctor. What if he simply went up to the door and rang the bell? If Dr. Ladd answered, he could pretend that he obviously had been given the wrong address, that he was looking for someone else, apologize for disturbing him, and leave.
If she answered the door… what choice would he have? The most troubling question would have been answered. He would turn and walk away, never look back, and get on with his life.
All these contingencies had been based on the probability that she was married to the doctor. To Hammond that was the logical explanation for her placing a call to him furtively and then acting guilty when caught red-handed. Because she appeared the picture of health, and had certainly exhibited no visible symptoms of illness, it never had occurred to him that she might be a patient.
Not until he reached the house number. In the small square of yard demarcated by an iron picket fence stood a discreet white wooden signpost with black cursive lettering.
Dr. A. E. Ladd was a psychologist.
Was she a patient? If so, it was slightly unsettling that his lover had felt the need to consult her psychologist within moments of leaving his bed. He consoled himself by acknowledging that it was now commonplace to have a therapist. As confidants they had replaced trusted spouses, older relatives, and clergymen. He had friends and colleagues who kept standing weekly appointments, if only to ease the stress of contemporary life. Seeing a psychologist carried no stigma and was certainly nothing to be ashamed of.
Actually, he felt tremendously relieved. Sleeping with Dr. Ladd’s patient was acceptable. What was unacceptable was sleeping with his wife. But a cloud moved across that small ray of hope. If she was his patient, what then? It would be nearly impossible to learn her identity.
Dr. Ladd wouldn’t divulge information about his patients. Even if Hammond stooped to use the solicitor’s office as his entrée, the doctor would probably stand on professional privilege and refuse to open his files unless they were subpoenaed, and Hammond would never take it that far. His professional standards wouldn’t allow it.
Besides, how could he ask for information about her if he didn’t even know her name?
From the opposite side of the street, Hammond mulled over this dilemma while studying the neat brick structure in which Dr. Ladd had his office. It typified a unique architectural style—the single house, so called because from the street it was only one room wide, but was several rooms deep. This one had two stories, with deep side porches, or piazzas, running from front to back on both levels.
Behind an ornate gate, the front walkway extended straight up the right side of the yard to a front door painted Charleston Green—a near-black with only a dollop of green mixed in. The door had a brass knocker in its center, and like the front doors to most single houses, opened not into the house itself, but onto the piazza, from which one entered the house.
Fig vine had a tenacious hold on much of the facade, but it had been neatly trimmed around the four tall windows that offset the front door. Beneath each of these windows was a window box overflowing with ferns and white impatiens. No lights were on.
Just as Hammond was stepping off the curb to cross the street for a closer look, the door of the house behin
d him opened and an enormous gray and white sheepdog bounded out, dragging his owner behind him.
“Whoa, Winthrop!”
But Winthrop would not be restrained. He was raring to go and straining against his leash as he reached the end of the walkway and came up on his back legs, throwing himself against the gate. Instinctively Hammond took a couple steps back.
Laughing at his reaction, the dog owner pulled the gate open and Winthrop bolted through. “Sorry about that. Hope he didn’t scare you. He doesn’t bite, but given the chance, he might lick you to death.”
Hammond smiled. “No problem.” Winthrop, showing no interest in him, had hiked his leg and was peeing against a fence post.
Hammond must have looked harmless but lost, because the man said, “Can I help you?”
“Uh, actually I was trying to locate Dr. Ladd’s office.”
“You found it.” The young man pointed his chin toward the house across the street.
“Right, right.”
The man gave him a politely quizzical look.
“Uh, I’m a salesman,” he blurted. “Medical forms. Stuff like that. The sign doesn’t say what time the office opens.”
“About ten, I think. You could call Alex to confirm.”
“Alex?”
“Dr. Ladd.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah, I should’ve called, but… you know… just thought I’d… well, okay.” Winthrop was sniffing beneath a camellia bush. “Thanks. Take it easy, Winthrop.”
Hoping the neighbor would never connect the inarticulate idiot to the assistant D.A. frequently seen addressing reporters on TV, Hammond patted the shaggy dog on the head, then set off down the sidewalk in the direction from which he had come.
“Actually, you just missed her.”
Hammond whipped back around. “Her?”
* * *
Mr. Daniels avoided looking either Smilow or Steffi in the eye when they returned to his hospital room and took up positions on either side of his bed. To Smilow the patient seemed more uncomfortable now than he had fifteen minutes earlier, but it wasn’t gastrointestinal discomfort. It looked more like a bad case of guilty conscience.
