by Sandra Brown
“Don’t you mean all your ambitions?”
“—on a woman? After getting this far, how could you behave in such a—”
“Behave?” Hammond barked a scornful laugh. “You’ve got your nerve, confronting me about a behavior issue. What about your behavior, Father? What kind of moral measuring stick did you set as my example? Maybe I’ve readjusted mine to match yours. Although I would definitely draw the line at cross-burnings.”
His father blinked rapidly, and Hammond knew he had struck a chord.
“Are you Klan?”
“No! Hell, no.”
“But you knew about all that, didn’t you? You knew damn well what was happening on Speckle Island. Furthermore, you sanctioned it.”
“I got out.”
“Not entirely. Lute did. He got himself murdered, so he’s off the hook. But you’re still vulnerable. You’re getting careless, Dad. Your name is on those documents.”
“I’ve already made reparation for what happened on Speckle Island.”
Ah, his famous quick jab/uppercut. As usual, Hammond hadn’t seen it coming.
“I went to Speckle Island yesterday,” Preston told him calmly. “I met with the victims of Lute’s appalling terrorism, explained to them that I was mortified when I learned what he was doing, and that I separated myself from the partnership immediately. I gave each family a thousand dollars to cover any damage done to their property and, along with my heartfelt apology, made a substantial contribution to their community church. I also established a scholarship fund for their school.” He paused and gave Hammond a sympathetic smile. “Now, in light of this philanthropic gesture, do you really think a criminal case could be made against me? Try it, son, and see how abysmally you fail.”
Hammond felt dizzy and nauseated, and it wasn’t attributable to the heat or to his injuries. “You bought them off.”
Again that beatific smile. “With money taken out of petty cash.”
Hammond couldn’t remember a time when he wanted to hit someone more. He wanted to grind his fist against his father’s lips until they were bruised and bleeding, until they could no longer form that condescending smirk. Curbing the impulse, he lowered his voice and moved his face close to his father’s.
“Don’t be smug, Father. It’s going to cost you more than some petty cash to make this go away. You’re not off the hook yet. You are one corrupt son of a bitch. You define corruption. So do not come to me with lectures about behavior. Ever again.” Having said that, he turned and headed for the parking lot.
Preston grabbed his left arm and roughly pulled him around. “You know, I actually hope it comes to light. You and this gal. I hope somebody has got pictures of you between her legs. I hope they publish them in the newspaper and show them on TV. I’m glad you’re in this fix. It would serve you right, you goddamn little hypocrite. You and your self-righteous, do-gooding, Boy-Scouting attitude have sickened me for years,” he said, sneering the words.
He poked Hammond hard in the chest with his blunt index finger. “You’re as corruptible as the next man. Up till now you just hadn’t been tested yet. And was it greed that caused you to stumble off the straight and narrow path? No. The promise of power? No.” He snickered.
“It was a piece of tail. As far as I’m concerned, that’s where the real shame lies. You could have at least been corrupted by something a little harder to come by.”
The two men glared at each other, their animosity bubbling to the surface after simmering for years beneath thick layers of resentment. Hammond knew that nothing he said would make a dent in his father’s iron will, and suddenly he realized how little he cared. Why defend himself and Alex to a man he didn’t respect? He recognized Preston for what he was, and he didn’t like him. His father’s opinion of him, of anything, no longer mattered because there was no integrity or honor supporting it.
Hammond turned and walked away.
* * *
Smilow had to wait half an hour in the Charles Towne Plaza lobby before one of the shoeshine chairs became vacant. “Shine’s holding up just fine, Mr. Smilow.”
“Just buff them, then, Smitty.”
The older man launched into a discussion of the Atlanta Braves’ current slump.
Smilow cut him off. “Smitty, did you see this woman in the hotel the afternoon Mr. Pettijohn was killed?” He showed him the photograph of Alex Ladd that had appeared in the afternoon edition of the newspaper. He’d enlarged it to better define her features.
“Yes, sir, I did, Mr. Smilow. I saw her on the TV this afternoon, too. She’s the one y’all think murdered him.”
“Whether or not the grand jury indicts her next week will depend on the strength of our evidence. When you saw her, was she with anyone?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
He showed him Bobby Trimble’s mug shot.
“Only on the TV, same story, same picture as this one.”
“Never here in the hotel?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“You know me and faces, Mr. Smilow. I rarely forget one.”
The detective nodded absently as he replaced the photos in his breast pocket. “Did Dr. Ladd look angry or upset when you saw her?”
“Not in particular, but I didn’t study on her that long. I noticed her when she came in ’cause she’s got right nice hair, you know. Old as I am, I still like looking at pretty girls.”
“You see a lot of them coming through here.”
“Lots o’ ugly ones, too,” he said, chuckling. “Anyhow, this one was by herself and minding her own business. She went straight on through the lobby to the elevators. Then in a little while she came back down. Went into the bar over yonder. Little later, I saw her crossing back to the elevators.”
“Wait.” Smilow leaned down closer to the man buffing his shoes. “Are you saying she went upstairs twice?”
“I reckon.”
“How long did she stay the first time?”
“Five minutes, maybe.”
“And the second time?”
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t see her when she came back down.”
He gave Smilow’s shoes one last whisk. Smilow stepped down and spread his arms to let Smitty go over his coat with a lint brush. “Smitty, have you mentioned to anyone that I got a shoeshine that day?”
“It’s never come up, Mr. Smilow.”
“I’d rather you keep that between us, okay?” As he turned, he slipped Smitty a sizable tip.
“Sure enough, Mr. Smilow. Sure enough. Sorry about the other.”
“What other?”
“The lady. I’m sorry I didn’t see her come back down.”
“You were busy, I’m sure.”
The shoeshiner smiled. “Yes, sir. It was like Grand Central Station through here last Saturday. People coming and going at all times.” He scratched his head. “Funny, isn’t it? All of you being here that same day.”
“All of us?”
“You, that doctor lady, and the lawyer.”
Smilow’s mind acted like a steel trap that had just been tripped. “Lawyer?”
“From the D.A.’s office. The one on the TV.”
Chapter 31
Hammond waited in the corridor until he saw Harvey Knuckle leave his office at precisely five o’clock. The computer whiz conscientiously locked the door behind him, and when he turned around, Hammond was crowding him. “Hey, Harvey.”
“Mr. Cross!” he exclaimed, backing up against the office door. “What are you doing here?”
“I think you know.”
Knuckle’s prominent Adam’s apple slid up, then down the skinny column of his neck. His hard swallow was audible. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t the vaguest.”
“You lied to Loretta Boothe,” Hammond said, playing his hunch. “Didn’t you?”
Harvey tried to disguise his guilty nervousness with petulance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
> “What I’m talking about is five-to-ten for computer theft.”
“Huh?”
“I could get you on several counts without breaking a sweat, Harvey. That is unless you cooperate with me now. Who asked you to check out Dr. Alex Ladd?”
“Pardon?”
Hammond’s eyes practically nailed him to the office door behind him. “Okay. Fine. Get yourself a good defense lawyer.” He turned.
Harvey blurted, “Loretta did.”
Hammond came back around. “Who else?”
“Nobody.”
“Har-veee?”
“Nobody!”
“Okay.”
Harvey relaxed and wet his lips with a quick tongue, but his sickly smile folded when Hammond asked, “What about Pettijohn?”
“I don’t know—”
“Tell me what I want to know, Harvey.”
“I’m always willing to help you, Mr. Cross, you know that. But this time I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Records, Harvey,” he said with diminishing patience. “Who asked you to dig up Pettijohn’s records? Deeds. Plats. Partnership documents, things like that.”
“You did,” Harvey squeaked.
“I went through legal channels. I want to know who else was interested in his business dealings. Who asked you on the sly to go into his records?”
“What makes you think—”
Hammond took a step nearer and lowered his voice. “Whoever it was had to come to you for information, so don’t stall, and don’t try and bullshit me with that phony innocent, quizzical expression, or I’m liable to get angry. Prison can be tough on a guy like you, you know.” He paused to let the implied threat sink in. “Now, who was it?”
“T-two different people. At different times, though.”
“Recently?”
Harvey nodded his head so rapidly his teeth clicked together. “Within the last couple of months or thereabout.”
“Who were the two?”
“D-detective Smilow.”
Hammond kept his expression unreadable. “And who else?”
“You ought to know, Mr. Cross. She said she was asking on your behalf.”
* * *
A news junkie by habit, Loretta Boothe watched the early evening newscasts, flipping back and forth between channels and comparing their coverage of the Alex Ladd story.
She was dismayed to see Hammond facing TV cameras looking the worse for wear, his arm in a sling. When had he got hurt? And how? She had seen him just last night.
About the time the news ended and Wheel of Fortune began, her daughter Bev came through the living room dressed for work. “I made a macaroni casserole for my lunch, Mom. There’s plenty left in the fridge for your supper. Salad makings, too.”
“Thanks, honey. I’m not hungry just yet, but maybe later.”
Bev hesitated at the front door. “Are you okay?”
Loretta saw the worry in her daughter’s eyes, the wariness. The harmony between them was still tentative. Both wanted desperately for things to go well this time. Both feared that they wouldn’t. Promises had been made and broken too many times for either of them to trust Loretta’s most recent pledges. Everything depended on her staying sober. That was all she had to do. But that was a lot.
“I’m fine.” She gave Bev a reassuring smile. “You know that case I was working on? They’re taking it to the grand jury next week.”
“Based on information you provided?”
“Partially.”
“Wow. That’s great, Mom. You still have the knack.”
Bev’s compliment warmed her. “Thanks. But I guess this means I’m out of work again.”
“After this success, I’m sure you’ll get more.” Bev pulled open the door. “Have a good evening. See you in the morning.”
After Bev left, Loretta continued watching the game show, but only for lack of something better to do. The apartment felt claustrophobic this evening, although the rooms were no smaller today than they had been yesterday or the day before. The restlessness wasn’t environmental; it came from within.
She considered going out, but that would be risky. Her friends were other drunks. The hangout places she knew were rife with temptation to have just one drink. Even one would spell the end of her sobriety, and she would be right back where she had been before Hammond had retained her to work on the Pettijohn case.
She wished that job weren’t over. Not just because of the money. Although Bev made an adequate salary to support them, Loretta wished to contribute to the household account. It would be good for her self-esteem, and she needed the independence that came with earning her own income.
Also, as long as she was working, she wouldn’t notice her thirst. Idle time was a peril she needed to avoid. Having nothing constructive to do made her crave what she couldn’t have. With time on her hands, she began thinking about how trivial her life really was, how it really wouldn’t matter if she drank herself to death, how she might just as well make things easy on herself and everyone associated with her. A dangerous train of thought.
Now that she thought about it, Hammond hadn’t specifically told her he no longer needed her services. After she gave him the scoop on Dr. Alex Ladd, he had fled that bar like his britches were on fire. Although he had seemed somewhat downcast, he couldn’t wait to act upon the information she had provided, and his action must have paid off because now he was taking his murder case to the grand jury.
Contacting Harvey Knuckle today had probably been superfluous. Hammond had seemed rushed and not all that interested when she passed along her hunch that Harvey had lied to her this morning. But what the hell? It hadn’t hurt her to make that additional effort.
Despite Hammond’s injuries, whatever they were, his voice had been strong and full of his conviction when he addressed the reporters on the steps of police headquarters. He explained that Bobby Trimble’s appearance had been the turning point of the case.
“Based on the strength of his testimony, I feel confident that Dr. Ladd will be indicted.”
Conversely, Dr. Ladd’s solicitor, whom Loretta knew by reputation only, had told the media that this was the most egregious mistake ever made by the Charleston P.D. and Special Assistant County Solicitor Cross. He was confident that when all the facts were known, Dr. Ladd would be vindicated and that the powers-that-be would owe her a public apology. Already he was considering filing a defamation suit.
Loretta recognized lawyerese when she heard it, although Frank Perkins’s statements had been particularly impassioned. Either he was an excellent orator or he was genuinely convinced of his client’s innocence. Maybe Hammond did have the wrong suspect.
If so, he would be made to look like a fool in the most important case of his career thus far.
He had alluded to Alex Ladd’s unsubstantiated alibi, but he hadn’t been specific. Something about… what was it?
“Little Bo Peep Show,” Loretta said mechanically, solving the Before and After puzzle on Wheel of Fortune with the t’s, the p’s, and the w still missing.
A fair on the outskirts of Beaufort. That was it.
Suddenly on her feet, she went into the kitchen where Bev stacked newspapers before conscientiously bundling them for recycling. Luckily tomorrow was pickup day, so a week’s worth was there. Loretta plowed through them until she located last Saturday’s edition.
She pulled out the entertainment section and quickly leafed through it until she found what she had hoped to. The quarter-page advertisement for the fair provided the time, place, directions, admission fees, attractions to be enjoyed, and—wait!
“Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evening through the month of August,” she read out loud.
Within minutes she was in her car and on her way out of the city, driving toward Beaufort. She didn’t know what she would do when she got there. Follow her nose, she supposed. But if she could—by a stroke of luck or an outright miracle—shoot a hole in Alex Ladd’s alibi, Hammond would fore
ver be in her debt. Or, if the psychologist’s alibi held up, at least he would be forewarned. He wouldn’t be unpleasantly surprised in the courtroom. Either way, he would owe her. Big time.
Until he officially dismissed her, she was technically still on retainer. If she came through for him on this, he would be undyingly grateful and wonder what he had ever done without her. He might even recommend her for a permanent position in the D.A.’s office.
If nothing else, he would appreciate her for seizing the initiative and acting on her own razor-sharp instincts, which not even oceans of booze had dulled. He would be so proud!
* * *
“Sergeant Basset?”
The uniformed officer tipped down the corner of the newspaper he was reading. When he saw Hammond standing on the opposite side of his desk, he shot to his feet. “Hey, Solicitor. I have that printout you requested right here.”
The CPD’s evidence warehouse was Sergeant Glenn Basset’s domain. He was short, plump, and self-effacing. A bushy mustache compensated for his bald head. Lacking aggressiveness, he had been a poor patrolman, but was perfectly suited for the desk job he now held. He was a nice guy, not one to complain, satisfied with his rank, an affable fellow, friendly toward everyone, enemy to none.
Hammond had called ahead with his request, which the sergeant was flattered to grant. “You didn’t give me much notice, but it was only a matter of pulling up the past month’s records and printing them out. I could go back further—”
“Not yet.” Hammond scanned the sheet, hoping a name would jump out at him. It didn’t. “Do you have a minute, Sergeant?”
Sensing that Hammond wished to speak to him privately, he addressed a clerk working at a desk nearby. “Diane, can you keep an eye on things for a minute?”
Without removing her eyes from her computer terminal, she said, “Take your time.”
The portly officer motioned Hammond toward a small room where personnel took their breaks. He offered Hammond a cup of the viscous coffee standing in the cloudy Mr. Coffee carafe.
Hammond declined, then said, “This is a very delicate subject, Sergeant Basset. I regret having to ask.”
He regarded Hammond inquisitively. “Ask what?”
