by Sandra Brown
Frank finished his drink in one swallow. The liquor brought tears to his eyes and caused him to cough behind his fist. After clearing his throat, he asked where all this had taken place. Alex talked him through the chain of events, beginning with their meeting in the dance pavilion and ending in his cabin. “I sneaked out the following morning before dawn, prepared never to see him again.”
Frank shook his head, which seemed to have become muddled either by a sudden infusion of alcohol or by conflicting facts he was finding difficult to sort out. “I don’t get it. You slept with him, but it wasn’t… you didn’t…”
“I was her insurance,” Hammond said. It was still hard for him to hear her admit that she had set him up, that their meeting wasn’t kismet or the romantic happenstance he wished it had been. But he had to get past that. Circumstances demanded that he focus on matters that were much more important. “If Alex found herself in need of an alibi, I was to be it. I was the perfect alibi, in fact. Because I couldn’t expose her without implicating myself.”
Frank gazed at him with unmitigated puzzlement. “Care to explain that?”
“Alex followed me to the fair from the Charles Towne Plaza, where I’d met with Lute Pettijohn.”
Frank stared at him for several beats before looking to Alex for confirmation. She gave a small nod. Frank got up to pour himself another drink.
While he was at it, Hammond took the opportunity to look at Alex. Her eyes were moist, but she wasn’t crying. He wanted to hold her. He also wanted to shake her until all the truths came tumbling out.
Or maybe not. Maybe he didn’t want to know that he had been as gullible as the horny young boys and dirty old men who had paid half-brother Bobby for her favors.
If he loved her, as he professed, he would have to get past that, too.
Frank returned to his chair. Twirling his refilled glass on the leather desk pad, he asked, “Who’s going to go first?”
“I had an appointment with Pettijohn on Saturday afternoon,” Hammond stated. “At his invitation. I didn’t want to go, but he had insisted that we meet, guaranteeing that it would be in my best interest.”
“For what purpose?”
“The A.G. had appointed me to investigate him. Pettijohn had got wind of it.”
“How?”
“More on that later. For now, suffice it to say that I was close to turning my findings over to a grand jury.”
“I assume Pettijohn wanted to make a deal.”
“Right.”
“What was he offering in exchange?”
“If I reported back to the A.G. that there was no case to be made, and let Lute carry on his business as usual, he promised to support me as Monroe Mason’s successor, including sizable contributions to my campaign. He also suggested that once I achieved the office, we would continue to have a mutually beneficial arrangement. A very cozy alliance which would have enabled him to continue breaking laws and me to look the other way.”
“I gather you turned him down.”
“Flat. That’s when he brought out the heavy artillery. My own father was one of his partners on the Speckle Island project. Lute produced documents proving it.”
“Where are those documents now?”
“I took them with me when I left.”
“They’re valid?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Frank was no dummy. He figured it out. “If you proceeded with your investigation of Lute, you’d be forced to bring criminal charges against your father, too.”
“That was the essence of Lute’s warning, yes.”
Alex’s face was soft with compassion. Frank said quietly, “I’m sorry, Hammond.”
He knew the commiseration was genuine, but he waved it aside. “I told Lute to go to hell, that I intended to uphold my duty. When I turned my back on him, he was screaming invectives and issuing threats. The temper tantrum might have brought on the stroke. I don’t know. I never turned around. I wasn’t in there for more than five minutes. Max.”
“What time was this?”
“We had a five o’clock appointment.”
“Did you see Alex?”
They shook their heads simultaneously. “Not until I got to the fair. I was so pissed off at Pettijohn, I was in quite a temper when I left the hotel. I didn’t notice anything.”
He paused to take a deep breath. “I had planned to go to my cabin for the night. On the spur of the moment I decided to stop at the fair for a while. I saw Alex in the dance pavilion and…” He looked from Frank to her, where she was seated on the love seat, listening intently. “It went from there.”
The room grew so silent that the ticking clock on Frank’s desk sounded ponderous. After a time, the lawyer spoke. “What did you hope to accomplish by coming here and telling me this?”
“It’s been weighing heavily on my conscience.”
“Well, I’m not a priest,” Frank said testily.
“No, you’re not.”
“And we’re on opposite sides of a murder trial.”
“I’m aware of that, too.”
“Then back to my original question: Why did you come here?”
Hammond said, “Because I know who killed Lute.”
Chapter 33
Davee languidly answered her telephone.
“Davee, you know who this is.” It wasn’t a question.
For lack of anything better to do, she had been stretched out on the chaise lounge in her bedroom, drinking vodka on the rocks and watching a black and white Joan Crawford film on a classic movie channel. The urgency behind the caller’s voice brought her up into a sitting position, which caused a wave of dizziness. She muted the television set.
“What—”
“Don’t say anything. Can you meet me?”
She checked the clock on the antique tea table beside the chaise. “Now?”
In her wild teenage years a call late at night would have spelled adventure. She would have sneaked out of the house to meet a boyfriend or a group of girls for some forbidden cruising until dawn, skinny-dipping at the beach, beer drinking, or pot smoking. Those escapades never failed to get her parents in an uproar. Getting caught and defying punishment had been part of the fun.
Even following her marriage to Lute, it wasn’t all that uncommon for her to carry on one-sided telephone conversations that led to late-night excursions. However, those had never caused a disturbance in the household. Either Lute was indifferent to her comings and goings or he was out on a lark of his own. They hadn’t been nearly as much fun.
Although this one didn’t promise to be fun, her curiosity was piqued. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk about it over the telephone, but it’s important. Do you know where the McDonald’s on Rivers Avenue is?”
“I can find it.”
“Near the intersection with Dorchester. As soon as you can get there.”
“But—”
Davee stared at the dead cordless phone in her hand for a few moments, then dropped it onto the chaise and stood up. She swayed slightly and put her hand on the table in order to regain her balance. Her equilibrium gradually returned and brought her reason with it.
This was nuts. She’d had a lot to drink. She shouldn’t drive. And, anyway, who the hell did he think he was to summon her to a McDonald’s in the middle of the freaking night? No explanation. No please or thank you. No worry that she wouldn’t acquiesce. Why couldn’t he come to her with whatever was so damned important? Whatever it was must surely relate to Lute’s murder investigation. Hadn’t she made it clear that she didn’t want to become involved in that any more than was absolutely necessary?
Nevertheless, she went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and gargled a mouthful of Scope. She slipped off her nightgown, then, without bothering with underwear, pulled on a pair of white pants and a matching T-shirt made of some clingy, synthetic microfiber knit that left little to the imagination—which served him right. She didn’t bother with shoe
s. Her hair was a mess of unbrushed curls. If anyone spied them together, her dishabille alone would raise eyebrows. She didn’t give a damn, of course, but this recklessness was uncharacteristic of him.
Sarah Birch was watching TV in her apartment off the kitchen. “I’m going out,” Davee informed her.
“This time o’ night?”
“I want some ice cream.”
“There’s a freezer full.”
“But none of the flavor I’m craving.”
The faithful housekeeper always knew when she was lying, but she never challenged her. That was just one of the reasons that Davee adored her. “I’ll be careful. Back in a while.”
“And if anybody asks me later…?”
“I was in bed fast asleep by nine.”
Knowing that all her secrets were safe with Sarah, she went into the garage and climbed into her BMW. The residential streets were dark and sleepy. There was little traffic on the freeway and commercial boulevards as well. Although it went against her natural inclination as well as the automobile’s, she kept the BMW within the speed limit. Two DUIs had been dismissed by a judge who owed Lute a favor. A third would be pushing her luck.
The McDonald’s was lit up like a Las Vegas casino. Even at this late hour there were a dozen cars in the parking lot, belonging to the teenagers who were clustered around the tables inside.
Davee pulled into a shadowed parking space on the far side of the lot, lowered the driver’s-side window, then turned off the engine. In front of her was a row of scruffy bushes serving as a hedge between the McDonald’s parking lot and that of another fast food restaurant that had failed. The building was boarded up. Behind her was the empty drive-through lane. On either side of her, nothing but darkness.
He wasn’t there yet and that miffed her. Responding to his urgency, she had dropped everything—including a perfectly good highball—and had come running. She flipped down the sun visor, slid the cover off the lighted mirror, and checked her reflection.
He opened the passenger door and got in. “You look good, Davee. You always do.”
Rory Smilow closed the car door quickly to extinguish the dome light. Reaching above the steering wheel, he slid the closure back across the vanity mirror, eliminating that light, too.
His compliment spread through Davee like a sip of warm, very expensive liqueur, although she tried not to show the intoxicating effect it had on her. Instead, she spoke crossly. “What’s up with the cloak and dagger stuff, Rory? Running low on clues these days?”
“Just the opposite. I have too many. None of them add up.”
Her comment had been intended as a joke, but of course he had taken her seriously. Disappointingly, he was getting right down to business, just as he had the night he came to inform her that her husband was dead. He had behaved exactly as protocol demanded. Professionally. Courteously. Detached.
Never in a thousand years would Steffi Mundell ever have guessed that they had been lovers who had once knocked out the glass door of his shower while making love. That a picnic in a public park had ended with him sitting against a tree while she rode him. That one weekend they had subsisted on peanut butter and sex from after classes on Friday afternoon until classes began on Monday morning.
His behavior the day Lute died had betrayed none of the romantic craziness in which they had once engaged. It had broken Davee’s heart that he could maintain such goddamn detachment when with every glance she had wanted to gobble him up. His control was admirable. Or pitiable. So little passion must make for a very lonely and sterile life.
Trying to harden her heart against him, she said, “Mark it up to a lapse in good judgment, but here I am. Now, what do you want?”
“To ask you some questions about Lute’s murder.”
“I thought you had the case sewed up. I saw on the news—”
“Right, right. Hammond’s taking it to the grand jury next week.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Before today, when you saw the news story, had you ever heard of Dr. Alex Ladd?”
“No, but Lute had a lot of girlfriends. Many of them I knew, but not all, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think she was a girlfriend.”
“Really?”
Turning toward him, she pulled her foot up into the car seat, settling her heel against her bottom and resting her chin on her knee. It was a provocative, unladylike pose that drew his gaze downward, where it remained for several seconds before returning to her face.
“If you’re coming to me for answers, Rory, you must truly be desperate.”
“You are my last resort.”
“Then too bad for you, because I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I seriously doubt that, Davee.”
“I’m not lying to you about this Ladd woman. I never—”
“It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head impatiently. “It’s something… something else.”
“Do you think you’re after the wrong person?”
He didn’t respond, but his features tensed.
“Ah, that’s it, isn’t it? And for you, uncertainty is a fate worse than death, isn’t it? You of the cold heart and iron resolve.” She smiled. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, darlin’, but this little tête-à-tête has been a waste of time for both of us. I don’t know who killed Lute. I promise.”
“Did you speak to him that day?”
“When he left the house that morning, he told me he was going to play golf. The next time I even thought about him was when you and that Mundell bitch showed up to inform me that he was dead. His last words to me were apparently a lie, which more or less summarizes our marriage. He was a terrible husband, a so-so lover, and a despicable human being. Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass who did the deed.”
“We caught your housekeeper in a lie.”
“To protect me.”
“If you’re innocent, why did you need protecting?”
“Good point. But if I had said that I spent that Saturday afternoon riding horseback nekkid down Broad Street, Sarah would have agreed. You know that.”
“You weren’t confined to your bedroom all day with a headache?”
She laughed and ran her fingers through her hair, combing out some of the tangled curls. “In a manner of speaking. I was in bed all day with my masseur, who turned out to be not only a headache, but a boring pain in the butt. Sarah didn’t want to sully my good reputation by telling you the truth.”
Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. Turning his head away from her, he stared through the windshield toward the row of straggling shrubbery. His jaw was knotted with tension. Davee didn’t know if that was a good sign or bad.
“Am I a suspect again, Rory?”
“No. You wouldn’t have killed Lute.”
“Why don’t you think so?”
His eyes came back to hers. “Because you enjoyed tormenting me by being married to him.”
So he knew why she had married Lute. He had noticed, and, furthermore, he had cared. For all his seeming indifference, there was blood in his veins after all, and at least a portion of it had been heated by jealousy.
Her heart fluttered with excitement, but she kept her features schooled and her inflection at a minimum. “And what’s more…?”
“And what’s more, you wouldn’t have put yourself out. Knowing that you could have gotten away with murder, why bother?”
“In other words,” she said, “I’m too rich to be convicted.”
“Exactly.”
“And a divorce is only marginally less trouble than a murder trial.”
“In your instance, a divorce is probably more trouble.”
Enjoying herself, she said, “Besides, as I told Hammond, the prison uniforms—”
“When did you talk to Hammond?” he asked, cutting her off.
“I talk to him often. We’re old friends.”
“I’m well aware of that. Did you know he was with Lute the day he was killed? At about the tim
e he was killed?”
No longer relaxed, Davee was instantly on guard and wondering how far Rory would go to pay her back for the torment she had caused him. Would he charge her with obstruction of justice for withholding evidence? She had turned over to Hammond the handwritten notation from Lute, indicating his appointments on Saturday. The information could be totally insignificant. Or it could be key to the solution of Rory’s murder mystery.
Whichever, it was the investigator’s job, not the widow’s, to determine what bearing it had on the case. Even if Hammond’s meeting with Lute didn’t factor into the murder itself, it could compromise him as the prosecuting attorney. The second appointment had never taken place, if indeed that second notation had indicated a later appointment. There’d been no name with it, and by the time specified, Lute was already dead.
Davee was trapped between being caught for wrongdoing and fierce loyalty to an old friend. “Did Hammond tell you that?”
“He was seen in the hotel.”
She laughed, but not very convincingly. “That’s it? That’s the basis of your assumption that he was with Lute, that he was seen in the same building? Maybe you need to take a vacation, Rory. You’ve lost your edge.”
“Insults, Davee?”
“The conclusion you’ve reached is an insult to my intelligence as well as yours. Two men were in the same large public place at approximately the same time. What makes you think there’s a connection?”
“Because for all the times we’ve talked about the hotel last Saturday afternoon, never once has Hammond mentioned that he was there.”
“Why should he? Why make a big deal out of a coincidence?”
“If it was a coincidence, there would be no reason for him not to mention it.”
“Maybe he was having a Saturday afternoon rendezvous. Maybe he likes the dining room’s crab cakes. Maybe he took a shortcut through the lobby just to get out of the heat. There could be a hundred reasons why he was there.”
He leaned across the console, coming closer to her than he had been in years. “If Hammond met with Lute, I need to know it.”
