by Sandra Brown
Hammond came out of the bathroom, limped over to her and nudged her off his bed, then pulled the duvet up over the sheets.
“When did you get to be so prissy?” she asked.
“When did you get to be so nosy?”
“Don’t you think I’m entitled to a little nosiness? Hammond, the first thing I saw when I came in was a bagful of bloody towels. Call me sentimental, but it caused me to wonder if my colleague—not to mention my former boyfriend, for whom I still have an affectionate regard—had fallen victim to an ax murderer.”
He raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Who cleans up after himself?”
“Some of these guys are compulsive. But you’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m not, Steffi. You were concerned for my well-being. If the situation had been reversed, I would have reacted in a similar fashion. But as you can see, I am still breathing. Sore, bruised, and battered, but breathing. I’ll feel a lot better after a hot shower and a few cups of even hotter coffee.”
“My cue to leave?”
“Now you’re catching on.”
She looked at the bandage on his right forearm. “Who was the doctor?”
“You don’t know him. Old college friend. Owed me a favor.”
“What’s his name?”
“What difference does it make? You don’t know him.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Ask.”
“Why didn’t you want to file a crime report?”
“It wouldn’t have been worth the hassle. The mugger didn’t get anything.”
“He assaulted you with a deadly weapon.”
Looking supremely perturbed and addressing her as though she were a dimwit, he said, “It wouldn’t have done any good to report it. I couldn’t ID the guy. Honestly I don’t even know if he was white or black or Hispanic, tall or short, thin or fat, hairy or bald. It was dark. The incident was over in a flash, and all I really saw was that switchblade coming at me. That’s what made an impression on me, and that’s why I got the hell out of there.
“It would be a waste of time to recount the episode to the police because all they would do is file the report, and that would be that. They’ve got better things to do, and so do I.” With a grimace, he cradled his right arm in his left. “Now would you please leave so I can shower and dress?”
“Need any help?”
“Thanks, but I’ll manage.”
“Why don’t you take the day off? I could come by around noon, fix you some lunch, and tell you what we learn from this guy.”
Hammond opened his drawer of T-shirts. She had often teased him about his collection of nearly threadbare T-shirts, which he loved to wear around the house. He picked the top one from off the stack. It must have been a real favorite, she thought, because he smiled and lifted it to his face, breathing it in. “What guy?”
“I haven’t told you!” She slapped her forehead. “Seeing you like this made me forget what brought me over. As I was driving to work, Smilow called me on my cell. There’s a guy in our city jail.”
His fascination with the T-shirt was lost on her, but he was still fiddling with it. He remarked absently, “There are lots of guys in our city jail.”
“But only one claims to be Alex Ladd’s brother.”
Hammond whipped around. His face went chalk-white. Steffi supposed the sudden blanching was from pain. Turning so abruptly, he had banged the elbow of his injured right arm on the corner of the open drawer. He put his left arm out to stabilize himself.
“I think you’re crazy to even consider going into the office today, Hammond. Look at you. You can hardly stand up and you’re as white as a sheet. Your arm—”
“Forget my goddamn arm.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“Then stop mothering me.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine. What about this guy?”
“His name is Bobby Turnbull. No, that’s not it. Something like that.”
“What’s he in jail for?”
“Smilow didn’t get that far before I cut him off and came straight here.”
“What did he—”
“Hammond, honestly! Talk about third degree. All I know is that this Trimble—that’s it. Bobby Trimble. He was arrested last night and used his one telephone call to call Alex Ladd. She wasn’t at home. One of the cops over there at detention was sharp enough to pick up on the name, knew that she’d been connected to the Pettijohn murder, and notified Smilow.”
Hammond replaced the T-shirt in the drawer, then slammed it shut. “On second thought, don’t leave. It’ll be hard to drive with my arm in a sling, so I’ll hitch a ride with you. Give me five minutes.”
While he was getting ready, Steffi went downstairs to call Smilow and tell him why she was running late.
“Mugged?”
“That’s what he says.”
After a short pause, Smilow asked, “Do you have 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 discuss 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,” Steff
i 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 about how it pertained to the Pettijohn investigation.
Unfortunately, he’d been robbed of the opportunity. By the time Steffi had barged in, Alex was gone. He had blessed her for leaving early, and had considered them damn lucky for not being discovered in bed together, which would have damaged their credibility when making their independent confessions to Smilow.
Now this.
Bobby Trimble had appeared out of nowhere, at the worst possible time. Alex had no idea of the trap that had been laid for her. Hammond was powerless to warn her.
A pager beeped. All three of them checked. “Mine,” Hammond said.
Smilow pushed the telephone across his desk, nearer to Hammond.
