by Sandra Brown
“Then you don’t know her very well.”
“I came to realize that. Almost too late. Thanks for all you did.”
“You’re welcome.” Smilow glanced toward Davee and caught her looking at him. Unless Hammond’s eyes were deceiving him, the detective actually blushed. Quickly he returned his attention back to Hammond. “This is for you.” He extended a manila envelope toward Hammond.
“What is it?”
“A lab report. Steffi gave it to me this morning. It matches your blood to that found on Dr. Ladd’s sheets.” Hammond’s lips parted, but Smilow shook his head sternly. “Don’t say anything. Just take it and destroy it. Without this, any allegations Steffi makes about you sleeping with a suspect will be unsubstantiated. Of course, since Dr. Ladd turned out not to be the culprit, it’s really only a technicality.”
Hammond looked at the deceptively innocuous envelope. If he accepted it, he would be as guilty as Smilow had been in the State v. Vincent Anthony Barlow case. Barlow was guilty as sin of murdering his seventeen-year-old girlfriend and the fetus she was carrying, but Smilow had fudged some exculpatory evidence which Hammond was obligated by law to disclose.
It wasn’t until after he had won a conviction that he learned of Smilow’s alleged mishandling of the case. He could never prove that Smilow had deliberately excluded the mitigating evidence in his discovery, so an investigation into malfeasance was never conducted. Barlow, now serving a life sentence, had filed an appeal. It had been granted. The young man would get another trial, to which he was entitled no matter how guilty he was.
But Hammond had never forgiven Smilow for making him an unwitting participant in this miscarriage of justice.
“Don’t be a Boy Scout,” the detective said now in an undertone. “Haven’t you earned all the badges you need?”
“It’s wrong.”
Smilow lowered his voice even more. “We don’t like each other, and we both know why. We operate differently, but we’re working the same side. I need a tough prosecutor and trial attorney like you over there in the solicitor’s office, not a glad-handing politician like Mason. You’ll do far more good by serving this county as the top law officer than you would by making a confession of sexual misconduct, which nobody gives a damn about anyway. Think about it, Hammond.”
“Hammond?”
He was being summoned back up onto the dais so they could begin. Without turning, he said, “Coming.”
“Sometimes we have to bend the rules to do a better job,” Smilow said, staring hard at him.
It was a persuasive argument. Hammond took the envelope.
* * *
Mason was drawing his speech to a close. The reporters’ eyes were beginning to glaze. Some of the cameramen had lowered their cameras from their shoulders. The account of Steffi’s attempt on Hammond’s life and subsequent arrest had held them spellbound, but this portion of Mason’s address had caused their interest to wane.
“While it pains me that someone in our office is presently in police custody, soon to be charged with a serious crime, I’m equally proud that Special Assistant County Solicitor Hammond Cross was instrumental in her capture. He demonstrated extraordinary bravery today. That’s only one of the reasons why I’m endorsing him as my successor.”
That received a thunderous round of applause. Hammond stared at Mason’s profile while his mentor extolled his talent, dedication, and integrity. The envelope with the incriminating lab report was resting on his knees. He imagined it to be radiating an angry red aura that belied Mason’s accolades.
“I won’t bore you any longer,” Mason boomed in the good-natured, straightforward manner that had endeared him to the media. “Allow me to introduce the hero of the hour.” He turned and motioned for Hammond to join him.
The cameramen repositioned their video recorders on their shoulders. The newspaper reporters perked up and almost in unison clicked their ballpoints.
Hammond laid the envelope on the slanted tray of the lectern. He cleared his throat. After thanking Mason for his remarks, as well as for the confidence he had placed in him, he said, “This has been a remarkable week. In many ways it seems like much more time than that has passed since I learned that Lute Pettijohn had been murdered.
“Actually, I don’t consider myself a hero, or derive any pleasure from knowing that my colleague, Steffi Mundell, is to be charged with that murder. I believe the evidence against her is compelling. As one familiar with the case—”
Loretta Boothe rushed into the room.
Hammond’s heart lurched; his speech faltered and died.
Only those standing near the door noticed her at first. But when Hammond stopped speaking, all heads turned to see who had caused the interruption. Impervious to the stir she had created, Loretta was frantically motioning him toward her.
With all the other events unfolding so rapidly today, he hadn’t had time to call and tell her that Alex was no longer a suspect, therefore her whereabouts last Saturday evening were irrelevant.
But Loretta was here, with one of the brawny marines from the fair in tow, and there was no way he could avoid her. “Excuse me a moment.”
Despite the murmur of puzzlement that rippled through the crowd, he stepped off the dais and made his way to the back of the room. As he went, he thought of all the people the next few moments would inevitably embarrass. Monroe Mason. Smilow. Frank Perkins. Himself. Alex. When he passed her, his glance silently apologized for what was about to happen.
“You wanted to speak to me, Loretta?”
She didn’t even try to mask her irritation. “For almost twenty-four hours.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Well, so have I.” She stepped back through the door and spoke to someone who had been left standing out in the hallway. “Come on in here.”
Hammond waited expectantly, wondering how he was going to explain himself when the marine gaped at him and declared, “He’s the one! He’s the one that was dancing with Alex Ladd.”
But it wasn’t a fresh recruit who came through the door. Instead, looking self-conscious and miserable, a slight black man with wire-rimmed spectacles stepped into the room.
Hammond released a short laugh of pure astonishment. “Smitty?” he exclaimed, realizing that he didn’t even know the man’s last name.
“How’re you doing, Mr. Cross? I told her we shouldn’t interrupt, but she wouldn’t pay me any mind.”
Hammond looked from the shoeshine man to Loretta. “I thought you went to the fair,” he heard himself say stupidly. “That’s what your messages said.”
“I did. I bumped into Smitty there. He was sitting in the pavilion all by himself, listening to the music. We started chatting and the subject of the Pettijohn case came up. He’s moved his business to the Charles Towne Plaza.”
“I saw him there today.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you, Mr. Cross. I guess I was feeling sort of ashamed.”
“For what?”
“For not telling you about Steffi Mundell’s switcheroo last Saturday,” Loretta cut in. “First he sees her in jogging getup, then in one of the hotel robes, then in jogging clothes again. All very strange.”
“I didn’t make much of it, Mr. Cross, until I saw her on the TV yesterday, and it reminded me.”
“He was reluctant to get anyone into trouble, so he didn’t say anything to anyone except Smilow.”
“Smilow?”
The detective, who had moved up beside Hammond, addressed Smitty. “When you referred to the lawyer you saw on TV, I thought you were talking about Mr. Cross.”
“No sir, the lady lawyer,” the older man explained. “I’m sorry if I caused y’all any trouble.”
Hammond laid his hand on Smitty’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming forward now. We’ll get your statement later.” To Loretta he said, “Thank you.”
She frowned, grumbling. “You got her without my help, but you still owe me a foot rub and a drink. A double.”
&
nbsp; Hammond turned back into the room. The cameras were whirring now. Lights nearly blinded him as he made his way back to the dais. He could have skipped like a kid. The bands of tension around his chest had been snipped loose. He was breathing normally.
Nobody knew about him and Alex. There wasn’t going to be any surprise witness who had seen Alex and him together last Saturday. Nobody knew except her. Frank Perkins. Rory Smilow. Davee.
Well… and him.
He knew.
Suddenly he didn’t feel like skipping anymore.
He resumed his place behind the lectern. As he did so, Monroe Mason gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. He glanced at his father. Preston, for once, was nodding his wholehearted approval. He would agree with Smilow. Let it drop. Accept the job. Do good work and the misbehavior would be justified.
He was a shoo-in. He would win the election in a landslide. He probably wouldn’t even have an opponent. But was the job, any job, worth sacrificing his self-respect?
Wouldn’t he rather tell the truth and have it cost him the election than keep a secret? The longer the secret was kept, the dirtier it would become. He didn’t want the memory of his first night with Alex to be sullied by secrecy.
His gaze fastened on hers, and he knew in an instant, by the soft expression in her eyes, that she knew exactly what he was thinking. She was the only one who knew what he was thinking. She was the only one who would understand why he was thinking it. She gave him an intensely private, extremely intimate smile of encouragement.
In that moment, he loved her more than he had ever thought it possible to love.
“Before I proceed… I want to address an individual whose life has been unforgivably upended this week. Dr. Alex Ladd cooperated with the Charleston Police Department and my office at the sacrifice of her practice, her time, and most importantly her dignity. She has endured immeasurable embarrassment. I apologize to her on behalf of this county.
“I also owe her a personal apology. Because… because I knew from the start that she had not murdered Lute Pettijohn. She admits to seeing him that afternoon, but well before the time of his death. Certain material elements indicated that she might have had motive. But I knew, even while she was being subjected to humiliating interrogations, that she couldn’t have killed Lute Pettijohn. Because she had an alibi.”
Nobody knows. Really only a technicality. Why be a Boy Scout? You’ll do far more good… Nobody gives a damn anyway.
Hammond paused and took a deep breath, not of anxiety, but relief.
“I was her alibi.”
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Journalist Dawson Scott knows well the horrors of war.
But when he investigates a pair of domestic terrorists, his true ordeal begins…
Please turn this page for a preview of Deadline.
Prologue
Branch, Oregon—1976
The first hail of bullets was fired from the house shortly after daybreak at 6:57.
The gunfire erupted in response to the surrender demand issued by a team of law enforcement agents.
It was a gloomy morning. The sky was heavily overcast and there was dense fog. Despite the limited visibility, one of the fugitives inside the house got off a lucky shot that took out a deputy U.S. marshal whom everybody called Turk.
Gary Headly had met the marshal only the day before, shortly after the law enforcement team comprised of ATF and FBI agents, sheriff’s deputies, and U.S. marshals met for the first time to discuss the operation. They’d congregated around a map of the area known as Golden Branch, reviewing obstacles they might encounter. Headly remembered another marshal saying, “Hey, Turk, grab me a Coke while you’re over there, will ya?”
Headly didn’t learn Turk’s actual name until later, much later, when they were mopping up. The bullet struck half an inch above his Kevlar vest, tearing out most of his throat. He dropped without uttering a sound, dead before landing in the pile of wet leaves at his feet. There was nothing Headly could do for him except offer up a brief prayer and remain behind cover. To move was inviting death or injury, because, once the gunfire started, the open windows of the house spat bullets relentlessly.
The Rangers of Righteousness had an inexhaustible arsenal. Or so it seemed that wet and dreary morning. The second casualty was a redheaded, twenty-four-year-old deputy sheriff. A puff of his breath in the cold air gave away his position. Six shots were fired. Five found the target. Any one of three would have killed him.
The team had planned to take the group by surprise, serve their arrest warrants for a laundry list of felonies, and take them into custody, engaging in a firefight only if necessary. But the vehemence with which they were fired upon indicated that the criminals had taken a fight-to-the-death stance.
After all, they had nothing to lose except their lives. Capture meant imprisonment for life or the death penalty for each of the seven members of the domestic terrorist group. Collectively the six men and one woman had chalked up twelve murders and millions of dollars’ worth of destruction, most of it inflicted on federal government buildings or military installations. Despite the religious overtone of their name, they were wholly without conscience or constraint. Over the relatively short period of two years, they had made themselves notorious, a scourge to law enforcement agencies at every level.
Other such groups imitated the Rangers, but none had achieved their level of effectiveness. In the criminal community, they were revered for their audacity and unmatched violence. To many who harbored antigovernment sentiments, they had become folk heroes. They were sheltered and were provided with weapons and ammunition as well as with leaked classified information. This underground support allowed them to strike hard and fast and then to disappear and remain well hidden while they planned their next assault. In communiques sent to newspapers and television networks, they’d vowed never to be taken alive.
It had been a stroke of sheer luck that had brought the law down on them in Golden Branch.
One of their arms suppliers, who was well-known to the authorities for his criminal history, had been placed under surveillance for suspicion of an arms deal unrelated to the Rangers of Righteousness. He had made three trips to the abandoned house in Golden Branch over the course of that many weeks. A telephoto lens had caught him talking to a man later identified as Carl Wingert, leader of the Rangers.
When this was reported to the FBI, ATF, and U.S. Marshals Service, the agencies immediately sent personnel, who continued to monitor the illegal weapons dealer, and, upon his return from a visit to Golden Branch, he was arrested.
It took three days of persuasion, but, under advice of counsel, he made a deal with the authorities and gave up what he knew about the people holed up inside the abandoned house. He’d only met with Carl Wingert. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say who was sequestered with Wingert or how long they planned to harbor there.
Fearing that if they didn’t move swiftly, they’d miss their opportunity to capture one of the FBI’s Most Wanted, the federal agents enlisted help from the local authorities who also had outstanding warrants for members of the group and were more familiar with the rugged terrain. The team was assembled and the operation planned.
But it became immediately obvious to each member of the team that Wingert’s band had meant what they’d said about choosing death over
capture. The Rangers of Righteousness wanted to secure their place in history. There would be no laying down of arms, no hands raised, no peaceful surrender.
The lawmen were pinned down behind trees or vehicles, and all were vulnerable. Even a flicker of motion drew gunfire, and members of the Rangers had proven themselves to be excellent shots.
The team commander radioed the operations post, requesting that a helicopter be sent to provide them air cover, but that idea was nixed because of the inclement weather.
Special Ops teams from local, state, and federal agencies were mobilized, but they would be driving to Golden Branch, and the roads weren’t ideal even in good weather. The team was told to stand by and to fire only in self-defense while men in safe, warm offices debated changing the rules of engagement to include using deadly force.
“They’re playing patty-cake because one of them is a woman,” the commander groused. “And God forbid we violate these killers’ civil rights. Nobody admires or respects us, you know,” he muttered to Headly, who was the rookie of the team.
“We’re feds, and even before Watergate, ‘government’ had become a dirty word. The whole damn country is going to hell in a handbasket, and we’re out here freezing our balls off, waiting for some bureaucrat to tell us it’s okay to blast these murdering thugs to hell and back.”
He had a military background and a decidedly hawkish viewpoint, but nobody, especially not he, wanted a bloodbath that morning.
Nobody got what they wanted.
While the reinforcements were still en route, the Rangers amped up their firepower. An ATF agent took a bullet in the thigh, and from the way it was bleeding it was feared his femoral artery had suffered damage, the extent of which was unknown, but on any scale that was life-threatening.
The commander reported this with a spate of obscenities about their being picked off one by effing one unless…
