by Sandra Brown
“I was here first, Steffi. It’s a matter of seniority.”
“Yeah, right.” Her droll tone contradicted her words.
Before Hammond could respond to it, Smilow returned. “This is interesting. One of my guys has been nosing around the Pettijohns’ neighborhood to see if anyone had overheard Lute quarreling with a tradesman or neighbor. Dead end there.”
“I hope there’s a but,” Steffi said.
He nodded. “But Sarah Birch was at the supermarket on Saturday afternoon. She asked the butcher to butterfly some pork chops she wished to stuff for Sunday dinner. He was busy, so it took him a while to get to it. Rather than waiting, she did her other shopping. The store was crowded. She didn’t return to the butcher for nearly an hour, he said. Which means she lied about being at home with Mrs. Pettijohn all afternoon.”
“If she would lie about something as insignificant as going to the market, it stands to reason that she might also tell a whopper.”
“Only the lie isn’t so insignificant,” Smilow said. “The time frame works. The butcher remembers delivering the chops to Sarah Birch just before his shift ended at six-thirty.”
“Meaning that she was in the store anywhere from, say, five until six-thirty,” Steffi mused aloud. “About the time Pettijohn was getting whacked. And the supermarket is two blocks from the hotel! Damn! Can it be this easy?”
“No,” Smilow said with reluctance. “Mr. Daniels said that the woman he saw in the hotel corridor wasn’t ethnic. Sarah Birch definitely is.”
“She could be covering for Davee, though.”
“Nor was the woman he saw blond,” Smilow reminded her. “Davee Pettijohn, by any description, is a blonde.”
“Are you kidding? She’s the Queen of Clairol.”
It didn’t surprise Hammond that Davee’s faithful housekeeper would lie for her. But he was put off by Steffi’s catty comment and uneasy that his childhood friend was seriously being considered a suspect with an alibi that wasn’t as ironclad as she had claimed.
“Davee wouldn’t have killed Lute.” The other two turned to him. “What motive would she have?”
“Jealousy and money.”
He shook his head in disagreement. “She has her own lovers, Steffi. Why would she be jealous of Lute’s? And she has her own money. Probably more than Lute.”
“Well, I’m not ready to mark her off the list just yet.”
Leaving the other two to their speculations, Hammond wandered toward the bed. A book of sketches lay open on Daniels’s lap, picturing what seemed an endless variety of eye shapes. Hammond glanced down at Endicott’s rendering, but so far she was still working to get the shape of the face correct.
“Maybe a little thinner through here,” Mr. Daniels said, stroking his own cheek. The artist made the suggested adjustment. “Yeah, more like that.”
When they progressed to eyebrows and eyes, Hammond rejoined Steffi and Smilow. “What about former business associates?” he asked the detective.
“Naturally they’re being questioned,” Smilow answered with cool civility. “That is, those who don’t have prison as their alibi.”
Unless the cases had fallen under federal jurisdiction, Hammond had helped put some of those white-collar criminals behind bars. Lute Pettijohn had bent the rules often enough, frequently coming a hairbreadth away from criminal wrongdoing. He flirted with it, but never crossed the line.
“One of Pettijohn’s most recent ventures involves a sea island,” Smilow told them.
Steffi scoffed. “What else is new?”
“This one’s different. Speckle Island is about a mile and a half offshore and is one of the few that has escaped development.”
“That’s enough to give Pettijohn a hard-on,” Steffi remarked.
Smilow nodded. “He had set things in motion. His name isn’t on any of the partnership documents. At least not the documents we’ve been able to find. But be assured that we’re checking it out.” Looking at Hammond, he added, “Thoroughly.”
Hammond’s heart sank like a lead ball inside his chest. Smilow wasn’t telling him anything about Pettijohn’s Speckle Island venture that he didn’t already know. He knew much more, more than he wanted to know.
About six months ago, he had been asked by South Carolina’s attorney general to conduct a covert investigation into Pettijohn’s attempt to develop the island. His discoveries had been alarming, but none as much as seeing his own father’s name listed among the investors. Until he learned what connection, if any, Speckle Island had to Pettijohn’s murder, he was keeping his knowledge of this under wraps. Just as Smilow had rudely said to him, he would give the detective those details only when the time was right.
Steffi said, “One of those former associates might have held a grudge so strong that it drove him to commit murder.”
“It’s a viable possibility,” Smilow said. “The problem is, Lute operated in a circle of movers and shakers that included government officials on every level. His friends were men who wielded power of one kind or another. That complicates my maneuverability, but it doesn’t keep me from digging.”
If Smilow was digging, then Hammond knew the name of Preston Cross was lying out there like a buried treasure waiting to be disinterred. It was only a matter of time before his father’s alliance with Pettijohn was uncovered.
Silently Hammond cursed his father for placing him in this compromising position. Soon he might be forced to choose between duty and family loyalty. At the very least, Preston’s dirty dealing could cost Hammond the Pettijohn murder case. If it came to that, Hammond would never forgive him.
He glanced at the hospital bed, where the artist seemed to be making progress.
“Her hair. Was it long or short?”
“About here,” Daniels said, indicating the top of his shoulder.
“Bangs?”
“On her forehead, you mean? No.”
“Straight or curly?”
“More curly, I guess. Fluffy.” Again he used his hands to illustrate.
“She was wearing it down, then?”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know too much about hairstyles.”
“Thumb through this magazine. See if there’s a picture in there that resembles her hair.”
Daniels frowned and worriedly glanced at the clock, but he did as instructed and began listlessly turning the pages of the hair fashion magazine.
“What color was it?” the artist asked.
“Sorta red.”
“She was a redhead?”
Hammond felt himself drawn forward by Daniels’s words, as though they were working hand-over-hand on a rope, inexorably pulling him in.
“She wasn’t a carrot-top.”
“Dark red, then?”
“No. I guess you’d just say brown, but with lots of red in it.”
“Auburn?”
“That’s it,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I knew there was a word for it, I just couldn’t think of it. Auburn.”
Hammond swallowed a sip of coffee that had suddenly turned bitter inside his mouth. He inched toward the hospital bed with the reluctance of an acrophobic approaching the rim of the Grand Canyon.
Corporal Endicott made rapid pencil strokes against the paper in her tablet. Scratch, scratch, scratch. “How’s that?” she said, showing Daniels her work.
“Hey, that’s pretty good. Except she had, you know, strands around her face.”
Hammond moved a few steps closer.
“Like this?”
Daniels told Endicott that she had nailed the hairstyle. “Good. That just leaves the mouth,” she said. Setting aside the magazine, the artist flipped the sketchbook open to another section. “Do you remember anything distinctive about her mouth, Mr. Daniels?”
“She was wearing lipstick,” he mumbled as he studied the myriad sketches of lips.
“So you noticed her lips?”
Raising his head, he darted an uneasy glance toward the door, as though fearful that Mrs. Daniel
s would be standing there eavesdropping. “Her mouth looked kinda like this one.” He pointed to one of the standard sketches. “Except her lower lip was fuller.” Endicott consulted the drawing in the book, then replicated it on her own sketch.
Watching, Daniels added, “When she glanced at me, she sorta smiled.”
“Did her teeth show?”
“No. A polite smile. You know, like people do when they get into an elevator or something.”
Like when eyes accidentally connect across a dance floor.
Hammond couldn’t work up enough courage to look down at Endicott’s handiwork, but in his mind’s eye he saw an alluring, closed-mouth smile that had been deeply impressed on his memory.
“Anything resembling this?” Endicott turned her pad toward Daniels to afford him a better look.
“Well, I’ll be doggone,” he said in awe. “That’s her.”
And no more than a quick glance confirmed to Hammond that indeed it was. It was her.
Smilow and Steffi had been engrossed in their own conversation. Hearing Daniels’s soft exclamation, they rushed to the bedside. Hammond allowed Steffi to elbow him aside because he didn’t need to see any more.
“It’s not exact,” Daniels told them, “but it’s pretty damn good.”
“Any distinguishing marks or scars?”
A freckle.
“I think she had a molelike thing,” Daniels said. “It wasn’t ugly. More like a freckle. Under her eye.”
“Do you remember—” Steffi began.
“Which eye?” Smilow asked, finishing her thought.
The right.
“Uh, let’s see, I was facing her… so that means it would be… her left. No, wait, her right. Definitely her right,” Daniels said, pleased that he could be so helpful and provide this detail.
“Were you close enough to see the color of her eyes?”
“No. ’Fraid not.”
Green, flecked with brown. Widely spaced. Dark lashes.
“How tall was she, Mr. Daniels?”
Five-six.
“Taller than you,” he said, answering Steffi. “But several inches shorter than Mr. Smilow here.”
“I’m five-ten,” he offered.
“So about five-six or -seven?” Steffi asked, doing the math in her head.
“About that, I’d say.”
“Weight?”
One hundred and fifteen.
“Not much.”
“One thirty?” Smilow ventured.
“Less than that, I think.”
“Do you happen to remember what she was wearing?” Steffi wanted to know. “Slacks? Or shorts? A dress?”
A skirt.
“Either shorts or a skirt. I’m sure because you could, you know, see her legs.” Daniels squirmed. “Some kinda top. I don’t remember the color or anything like that.”
White skirt. Brown knit tank top and matching cardigan. Brown leather sandals. No stockings. Beige lace brassiere that closed in front. Matching panties.
Endicott began gathering up her supplies and stuffing them into the overstuffed black bag. Smilow took the sketch from her and then shook hands with Mr. Daniels. “We have your number in Macon if we need to contact you. Hopefully this will be sufficient. Thank you so much.”
“Same for me,” Steffi said, smiling at the man before following Smilow toward the door.
Having no voice, Hammond merely nodded a goodbye to Mr. Daniels. Out in the hallway, Smilow and Steffi profusely thanked the artist before she got into the elevator.
They stayed behind to study the sketch and congratulate themselves. “So that’s our mystery woman,” Smilow remarked. “She doesn’t look like a murderess, does she?”
“What does a murderess look like?”
“Good point, Steffi.”
She chuckled. “I see now why Mr. Daniels didn’t want his wife around when he described our suspect. In spite of the pressure in his bowels, I think he was lusting in his heart. He remembered every minute detail, even down to the freckle beneath the chick’s right eye.”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s a memorable face.”
“Which doesn’t mean squat when you’re talking guilt or innocence. Pretty women can kill with just as much alacrity as ugly ones. Right, Hammond?” Steffi turned to him. “Jeez, what’s with you?”
He must have looked as nauseous as he felt. “Bad cup of coffee,” he said, crushing the empty Styrofoam cup he’d been holding clenched in his hand.
“Well, Smilow, go get her.” Steffi tapped the drawing with her fingernail. “We’ve got the face.”
“It would help if we knew her name.”
Dr. Alex Ladd.
Chapter 14
The temporary headquarters of the judicial building was located in North Charleston. It was an unattractive two-story structure situated in an industrial district. Its nearest neighbors were a convenience store and a day-old bakery shop. This out-of-the-way location was serving until an extensive renovation of the stately old building downtown was completed. It had been already in need of attention when Hurricane Hugo rendered the building unsafe and unusable, forcing the move.
It was only a ten-minute drive from downtown. Hammond wouldn’t remember making the drive that morning. He parked and went inside. He responded by rote to the guard who manned the metal detector at the entrance. Turning left, he went into the County Solicitor’s Office and passed the receptionist’s desk without slowing up. He brusquely asked her to hold all calls.
“You already have—”
“I’ll take care of everything later.”
He soundly closed his private office door behind him. Tossing his suit jacket and briefcase on top of the paperwork waiting for his attention on his desk, he threw himself into the high-backed leather chair and pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets.
It simply couldn’t be. This had to be a dream. Shortly, he would wake up startled and alarmed and breathing heavily, his sheets damp with sweat. After orienting himself to familiar surroundings, he would realize with relief that he had been in a deep sleep and that this nightmare wasn’t a reality.
But it was. He wasn’t dreaming it, he was living it. Impossible as it seemed, the sketch artist had drawn Dr. Alex Ladd, who had shared Hammond’s bed within hours after she was seen at the site of a murder.
Coincidence? Highly unlikely.
She must have some connection to Lute Pettijohn. Hammond wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that connection was. In fact, he was dead certain he didn’t want to know.
He dragged his hands down his face, then, propping his elbows on his desk, he stared into near space and tried to arrange his chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order.
First, without a doubt, Corporal Endicott had sketched the face of the woman he had slept with Saturday night. Even if he hadn’t seen her as recently as last night, he wasn’t likely to forget her face that soon. It had attracted him from the start. He had spent hours late Saturday night and early Sunday morning studying, admiring, caressing, and kissing it.
“Where did this come from?” He touched a spot beneath her right eye.
“My blemish?”
“It’s a beauty mark.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“When I was younger I hated it. Now I must admit I’ve grown rather fond of it.”
“I can see how that could happen. I could grow fond of it myself.” He kissed it once, then a second time, touching it lightly with the tip of his tongue.
“Hmm. It’s a shame.”
“What?”
“That I don’t have more spots.”
He had come to know her face intimately. The artist’s sketch was a two-dimensional, black and white drawing. Given those limitations, it couldn’t possibly capture the essence of the woman behind the face, but it had been such a close representation that there was no doubt Dr. Ladd had been seen near a murder victim’s room shortly before placing herself in the path of s
omeone from the county solicitor’s office, specifically one Hammond Cross, who had himself been in Pettijohn’s company that afternoon.
“Jesus.” Plowing his fingers through his hair and holding his head between his hands, he almost surrendered to the disbelief and despair that assailed him. What the hell was he going to do?
Well, he couldn’t collapse from within, which is what he felt like doing. What a luxury it would be to slink away from this office, leave Charleston, leave the state, run away and hide, let this mess erupt on its own, and spare himself having to withstand the incendiary lava flow of scandal that would inevitably follow.
But he was made of sterner stuff than that. He had been born with an indomitable sense of responsibility, and his parents had nourished that trait every day of his life. He could no more fathom running away from this than he could imagine sprouting wings.
So he forced himself to confront a second point that seemed unarguable—withholding her name from him hadn’t been the flirtation he had mistaken it for. They had been together at the fair for at least an hour before he even thought to ask her name. They’d laughed because it had taken them that long to get around to what was usually the first order of business when two people meet and must make their own introductions.
“Names aren’t really that important, are they? Not when the meeting is this amiable.”
He agreed. “Yeah, what’s in a name?” He proceeded to quote what he could remember of the passage from Romeo and Juliet.
“That’s good! Have you ever thought of writing it down?”
“In fact I have, but it would never sell.”
From there it had become a running joke—his asking her name, her declining to tell him. Like a sap he had thought they were playing out the fantasy of making love to an anonymous stranger. Namelessness had been an enticement, part of the adventure, integral to the allure. He had seen no harm in it.
What was disturbing but likely was that Alex Ladd had known his name all along. Theirs hadn’t been a random meeting. It wasn’t happenstance that she had arrived at that dance pavilion shortly after him. Their meeting had been planned. The remainder of the evening had been orchestrated in order to either embarrass or totally compromise him and/or the solicitor’s office.