by Sandra Brown
The BMW convertible whipped into the parking lot of a trendy luncheon restaurant. Bobby followed. He watched them as they made their way toward the entrance. They were dressed in short shorts that showed an inch of butt cheek and seeming miles of tanned legs. Their halter tops left little to the imagination. They were a walking, giggling, flirting reminder to Bobby of what he did best.
He made his way through the crowded restaurant and spotted them seated at a table on the patio beneath the shade of an umbrella, giving their drink order to a waitress. When she left, Bobby dropped into an empty chair at their table.
Their lips were glossy, framing very white, very straight teeth. Diamond studs glittered in their ears. They smelled of expensive perfume.
“I’m a vice cop,” he said in a sexy drawl. “Are you young ladies old enough to drink?”
They giggled.
“Don’t worry about us, officer.”
“We’re way past the age of consent.”
“Consent to do what?” he asked.
“We’re on vacation, so we’re open to just about anything.”
“And we do mean anything.”
He gave them a smile of naughty intent. “Is that right? And here I figured y’all for traveling missionaries.”
That brought on another round of giggles. The waitress arrived with two drinks. Bobby leaned back in his chair. “What are we drinking, ladies?”
He had scored.
* * *
The intrepid receptionist finally broke the invisible barrier into Hammond’s office. “That sketched suspect? She’s been identified as Dr. Alex Ladd. As we speak, she’s in Detective Smilow’s office undergoing questioning.”
His palms broke a cold sweat. “Did he arrest her?”
“Came in voluntarily is what Ms. Mundell said. But she has her solicitor with her. Are you on the way over there, or what?”
“Maybe later.”
The receptionist withdrew.
The ramifications of this news rebounded as quickly as echoes. Hammond was assailed by them. Smilow’s interrogation tactics could have wrung a confession from Mother Teresa. Hammond had no way of knowing how Alex Ladd might respond to them. Would she be hostile or cooperative? Would she have something to confess? When she saw him again, what might she reveal? What might he reveal?
To be on the safe side, he wanted to postpone an inevitable face-to-face meeting for as long as possible. Until he knew more about Alex Ladd, and learned the nature and extent of her involvement with Pettijohn, it was best for him to keep his distance from the case.
Ordinarily, that would have been doable. Except for rare exceptions, his office didn’t become directly involved until the detectives felt they had enough evidence to press formal charges, or for Hammond to make a case to the grand jury. Unlike Steffi, who didn’t know the meaning of finesse, he let the police department do its job until it was time for him to take over.
But this was one of those rare exceptions. His involvement was required, if for no other reason than politics. City and state officials, some of whom had been Pettijohn’s avowed enemies in life, others his cohorts, were using his murder as a political platform. Through the media, they were demanding a quick arrest and prosecution of his murderer.
Fanning public interest, an editorial in this morning’s paper had sounded a wake-up call to the sad truth that no one, not even a seemingly invulnerable individual like Lute Pettijohn, was safe from violence.
On the noon edition of the news, a reporter had conducted a man-on-the-street poll, asking people if they were confident that Pettijohn’s killer would be captured and justly punished.
The case was creating the media frenzy his father wished for.
What Hammond wished for was to avoid joining the fray for as long as possible. To that end, he spent another half hour creating busywork for himself.
Monroe Mason appeared immediately upon his return from lunch. “I hear Smilow’s already got a suspect.” His booming voice bounced off the walls of Hammond’s office like a racquetball.
“News travels fast.”
“So it’s true?”
“I just got the message a while ago.”
“Give me the condensed version.”
He explained about Daniels and the sketch. “A flyer with Endicott’s drawing and a written description was circulated around the area of the Charles Towne Plaza. Dr. Ladd was identified by a parking lot attendant.”
“I understand she’s a prominent psychologist.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Ever heard of her?”
“No.”
“Me either. My wife probably has. She knows everybody. You figure Pettijohn was a patient of hers?”
“At this point, Monroe, you know as much as I do.”
“See what you can find out.”
“I’ll keep you informed as the case progresses.”
“No, I mean this afternoon. Now.”
“Now? Smilow doesn’t like our butting in,” Hammond argued. “He especially dislikes my butting in. Steffi’s already there. If I go, too, he’ll resent the hell out of it. It’ll look like we’re checking up on him.”
“If he gets his ire up, Steffi will smooth it over. I’ve got to have something to tell all the reporters calling my office.”
“It can’t go on record that Dr. Ladd is a suspect, Monroe. We don’t know that she is. She’s only being questioned, for chrissake.”
“She was worried enough to bring Frank Perkins along with her.”
“Frank’s her lawyer?” Hammond knew him well, and he respected him. It was always a challenge to argue a case against him in court. She couldn’t have a more capable attorney. “Any sensible person would have her lawyer along when invited to the police station for questioning.”
Mason wasn’t deterred. “Let me know what she’s about.” With a thundering goodbye, he left, taking any choice Hammond had with him.
Reaching the police station, he went up to the second floor and depressed the buzzer on the locked double doors leading into the Criminal Investigation Division. They were opened for him by a policewoman. Knowing why he was there, she said, “They’re in Smilow’s office.”
“Why not the interrogation room?”
“I think it was occupied. Besides, Solicitor Mundell wanted to watch through the glass.”
Hammond was almost glad Alex wasn’t being questioned in that windowless cubicle that stank of stale coffee and guilty sweat. He couldn’t imagine her in the same room where he’d watched pedophiles and rapists and thieves and pimps and murderers become completely dismantled under the pressure of tough interrogation.
He rounded the corner into the short hallway where the homicide detectives had their offices. He had hoped it would be over and Alex would be gone by the time he arrived. No such luck. Steffi and Smilow were peering through the mirrored glass, looking like vultures waiting for their victim to draw a final breath.
He heard Steffi say, “She’s lying.”
“Of course she’s lying,” Smilow said. “I just don’t know which part is a lie.”
They didn’t notice Hammond until he spoke. “What’s up?”
Turning around, Steffi looked thoroughly put out. “Well, it’s about time. Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I couldn’t get away. What makes you think she’s lying?” He nodded toward the small window, so far too gutless to look through it.
“Normally, an innocent person is nervous and edgy,” Smilow said.
“Our lady doctor hardly blinks,” Steffi told him. “No hem-hawing. No throat clearing. No fidgeting. She answers each question directly.”
Hammond said, “I’m surprised Frank is letting her answer at all.”
“He doesn’t want her to. She insists. She has a mind of her own.”
Following Smilow’s thoughtful gaze, Hammond finally turned his head. He could see only a partial profile, but even that had a profound effect on him. His first impulse was to smooth back th
e strand of hair that had curled against her cheek. The second was to grab her and shake her angrily, demanding to know just what the hell she was up to and why she had dragged him into it.
“What do we know about her?” he asked.
Even Smilow appeared impressed as he rattled off a long list of credentials. “Besides being published twice in Psychology Today, she’s often asked to lecture, specifically on the study she conducted on panic attacks. She’s considered an expert on the subject. A few months ago, she talked a man off a window ledge.”
“I remember that,” Hammond said.
“It made the newspaper. The man’s wife credits Dr. Ladd with saving his life.” Referring to his notepad, Smilow added, “Her personal life is personal. All we know is that she’s single, no children. Frank is pissed. He says we’ve got the wrong person.”
“What else is he going to say?” Steffi remarked snidely.
Trying to appear impassive, Hammond said, “She seems like a woman who’s got it all together.”
“Oh, she’s together, all right,” Steffi said. “You couldn’t melt ice on her ass. Once you’ve talked to her, you’ll see what we mean. She’s so cool, she’s practically bloodless.”
How little you know, Steffi.
“Ready for the next go ’round?” She and Smilow moved toward the door.
Hammond hung back. “Do you want me to go in?” They turned, surprised.
“I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to get your first crack at the murderess,” Steffi said.
“It remains to be seen whether or not she’s a murderess,” he said testily. “But that’s not the point. The point is that since you’re here, we outnumber Smilow. I don’t want him to think that we’re monitoring him.”
“You can address me directly,” Smilow said.
“Okay,” Hammond said, looking at the detective. “Just so we’re clear, my coming over here was Mason’s idea, not mine.”
“I got the same lecture on peaceful coexistence from Chief Crane. I can tolerate you if you can tolerate me.”
“Fair enough.”
Steffi expelled a deep breath. “So ends round one of the pissing contest. Now can we please get down to business?”
Smilow held the door open for them. Hammond let Steffi precede him. Smilow entered behind him and closed the door, cramming too many people into such a small space. There was hardly enough room for Smilow to squeeze past Hammond on his way to his desk. “Are you sure you won’t have something to drink, Dr. Ladd?”
“No, thank you, Detective.”
To Hammond, hearing her voice was as stirring as if she had touched him. He could almost feel again her breath against his ear. His heart was a hard, dull thudding against his ribs. He could barely breathe. And, dammit, it was all he could do not to touch her.
Smilow made the superfluous introductions. “Dr. Ladd, this is Special Assistant Solicitor Hammond Cross. Mr. Cross, Dr. Alex Ladd.”
She turned her head. Hammond held his breath.
Chapter 16
“Special Assistant Solicitor Cross can tell you where I was and what I was doing Saturday evening, can’t you, Special Assistant Solicitor Cross?”
“I didn’t kill anybody on Saturday, but if I had, it would have been in self-defense. You see, Detective Smilow, Solicitor Cross lured me to his cabin in the woods and there he raped me repeatedly.”
“Solicitor Cross, how lovely to see you again. How long has it been? Oh, I remember. It was last Saturday night when we screwed our brains out.”
Alex Ladd said none of that. Nor did she say any of the other horrific things that Hammond had imagined her saying. She didn’t scream invectives, or denounce him in front of his colleagues, or wink suggestively, or give any other sign of recognition.
But when she turned toward him and their eyes connected, everything else around him seemed to vanish and all his focus belonged to her. Their eyes were engaged for only a second or two, but if the exchange had lasted an eternity, it couldn’t have been more puissant or meaningful.
He wanted to ask, What have you done to me? and mean it more ways than one. He had been thunderstruck on Saturday evening. He had thought, even hoped, that seeing her again, under bright fluorescent lighting and in a far less romantic surrounding, would have less of an impact on him. Just the opposite. His desire to reach for her was a physical ache.
All this shot through his mind in less time than it took to blink. Hoping his voice wouldn’t betray him, he said, “Dr. Ladd.”
“How do you do?”
Then she turned away. That routine acknowledgment dashed Hammond’s desperate hope that he actually had been a stranger to her on Saturday, and that their meeting at the fair had been purely accidental. If so, upon being introduced now, her green eyes would have widened and she would have blurted out something to the effect of, “Why, hello! I didn’t expect to see you here.” But she had registered no surprise whatsoever. When she turned her head to speak a greeting, she had known exactly whom she would be addressing.
In fact, it appeared that she had been braced for the introduction, just as he had been. She had almost overplayed the aloofness, had turned away almost too quickly to be polite.
There was no longer any question about it—their meeting had been by design, and, for reasons that were still unapparent, the time they had spent together was as compromising to her as it was to him.
Frank Perkins spoke first. “Hammond, this is a complete waste of my client’s time.”
“Very possibly it is, Frank, but I would like to make that determination for myself. Detective Smilow seems to think that what Dr. Ladd can tell us warrants my hearing it.”
The lawyer consulted his client. “Do you mind going through it again, Alex?”
“Not if it means that I can go home sooner rather than later.”
“We’ll see.”
That comment had come from Steffi, and it made Hammond want to slap her. Turning the Q and A over to Smilow, he propped himself against the closed door, where he had an unrestricted view of Alex’s profile.
Smilow restarted the tape recorder and added Hammond’s name to those present. “Did you know Lute Pettijohn, Dr. Ladd?”
She sighed as though she had already answered that question a thousand times. “No, Detective, I did not.”
“What were you doing downtown Saturday afternoon?”
“I could argue that I live downtown, but in answer to your question, I went window-shopping.”
“Did you buy anything?”
“No.”
“Go into any stores?”
“No.”
“You didn’t duck into any stores or chat with any shopkeepers who could corroborate that you were there for the purpose of shopping?”
“Unfortunately, no. I didn’t see anything that caught my eye.”
“You just parked your car and walked around?”
“That’s right.”
“Wasn’t it a little hot outside for a stroll?”
“Not for me. I like the heat.”
Her eyes flickered toward Hammond, but he didn’t need that glance to stir his memory.
“Now that the sun has gone down, it’s not so hot.”
She smiled up at him, the lights of the spinning carousel reflected in her eyes. “Actually, I like the heat.”
Hammond blinked Smilow back into focus.
“Did you go into the Charles Towne Plaza?”
“Yes. Around five o’clock. To get something to drink. A soft drink. I’m certain that’s where this Mr. Daniels saw me. That’s the only time and place he could have seen me because I was never on the fifth floor standing outside Mr. Pettijohn’s room.”
“He gave us a vivid account of you doing just that at around five o’clock.”
“He’s wrong.”
“You had a drink in the bar.”
“Just off the lobby, yes. Unsweetened iced tea.”
Steffi leaned toward Hammond and whispered. “The waitress bears th
at out. But that only confirms that at least two people saw her in the hotel.”
He nodded, but he didn’t comment because Smilow was asking another question, and he was interested in Alex’s answer.
“What did you do after finishing your drink?”
“I walked back to the parking lot where I’d left my car.”
“What time was that?”
“Five-fifteen. No later than five-thirty.”
Hammond’s knees went weak with relief. John Madison’s initial guess had placed the time of death later than that. So his silence was justified. Almost. If she were entirely innocent, the victim of a mistake made by a man suffering food poisoning, why hadn’t she reacted when he came in? Why had she pretended they’d never met? He had his reasons for keeping their meeting a secret. Obviously she did, too.
“I gave the parking lot attendant ten dollars, which was the smallest bill I had,” she was saying.
“That’s a very generous tip.”
“I thought asking for change would seem cheap. The lot was full and he was busy, but he had been very nice and polite.”
“What did you do after retrieving your car?”
“I left Charleston.”
“And went where?”
“To Hilton Head Island.”
Hammond swallowed audibly. So much for truth-telling. Why was she lying? To protect him? Or herself?
“Hilton Head.”
“Yes.”
“Did you stop anywhere along the way?”
“I stopped for gasoline.” She lowered her eyes, but only momentarily, and probably only Hammond noticed.
His heart was knocking hard against his ribs. That kiss. The kiss. The kiss he would remember for the rest of his life. None had ever been that good, or felt so goddamn right, or been so goddamn wrong. That kiss could ultimately change his life, ruin his career, condemn him.
“Do you remember the name of the place?”
“No.”
“Texaco? Exxon?”
She shrugged and shook her head.
“Location?”
“Somewhere along the highway,” she replied impatiently. “It wasn’t in a town. Self-serve. Pay at the window. There are dozens of them along that highway. The cashier was watching a wrestling match on TV. That’s all I remember.”