The Alibi

by Sandra Brown

  Disgusted, Alex turned and headed for the elevator. “Stay away from me until I notify you.”

  Softly he called after her, “Your shadow, Alex. Look around. I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Hammond switched on the bedside lamp, bathing the pastel striped walls with a warm glow. Looking around, he had to hand it to Lute Pettijohn—he had hired a good decorator for his Charles Towne Plaza and hadn’t skimped on amenities. At least not in the penthouse suite.

  The room was spacious and laid out to be user-friendly. Behind the doors of the French armoire was a twenty-seven-inch TV, larger than standard hotel/motel issue and equipped with a VCR. Inside the cabinet were also a CD player and a selection of disks, last week’s issue of TV Guide, and a remote control for the television. Nothing else.

  He moved into the bathroom. The towels appeared not to have been touched since the housekeeper had placed them on the decorative bars. A small silver basket on the marble dressing table still contained bottles of shampoo and other grooming products, a miniature sewing kit, a shoeshine cloth, a shower cap.

  He switched out the light and went back into the bedroom, his footsteps muted by the plush carpeting. The bedroom had its own minibar in addition to the one in the parlor. The contents had already been inventoried by the CSU. All the same, he gloved his hand with a handkerchief and opened the refrigerator. A quick inventory checked against the printed menu of stocked items revealed that none were missing. When he closed the door, the motor kicked on and it began to hum.

  He welcomed the sound. The suite, its luxurious decor and abundant amenities notwithstanding, was now a crime scene. Its eerie silence pressed in on him from all sides.

  He had left the Shady Rest Lounge with the intention of going home and putting an end to this terrible Monday. Instead, he had felt drawn here. He didn’t need to guess the reason for this compulsion. Loretta’s last comment had found a foothold in his mind and wouldn’t let go.

  Had Alex Ladd been here last Saturday? Had she witnessed something that she was reluctant to reveal because it might put her life at risk? He would rather believe that than entertain the idea of her being the murderer, although neither was a cheery prospect. Subconsciously he had come here in the hope of finding something that had been previously overlooked, something that would exonerate Alex Ladd and possibly implicate someone else. Irrationally, he felt compelled to protect a woman who had proved to be an elaborate and unconscionable liar.

  It hadn’t been easy to return to this suite of rooms where last Saturday he had met Lute and exchanged heated words. He hadn’t gone beyond the parlor, hadn’t really gone far beyond the threshold. He had said what he had come to say from just inside the door.

  Lute had been sitting on the sofa, sipping his drink, a picture of complacency as he warned Hammond that if he was bent on building a grand jury investigation around him, he must be prepared to prosecute his own father as well.

  “Of course,” Lute had added, smiling, “there is a way to avoid all this ugliness. If you agree to my way, everybody gets what he wants and goes home happy.”

  His proposal amounted to Hammond selling his soul to the devil. He had turned down the offer. Needless to say, Pettijohn hadn’t taken kindly to his declination.

  Disturbed by the memory, Hammond stepped to the closet, the only area of the bedroom he hadn’t inspected. Behind the tall, mirrored sliding doors was an empty safe and empty clothes hangers. Hanging with the belt still tied was a fluffy white terry-cloth robe. Matching slippers were still sealed inside their cellophane packaging. It seemed nothing had been disturbed.

  He slid the doors closed, and that’s when he saw an image reflected in the mirror.

  “Looking for something?”

  Hammond spun around. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

  “Obviously,” Smilow said. “You jumped like you’d been shot.” Throwing a glance over his shoulder at the bloodstains on the carpet in the parlor, he added, “Forgive the poor choice of words.”

  “Come now, Rory,” Hammond said, using sarcasm to conceal the chagrin he felt at having been caught snooping. “You’ve never been one to mince words.”

  “Right. I haven’t. So what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “What the fuck do you care?” Hammond fired back, matching the detective’s angry tone.

  “There’s tape across the door to keep people out.”

  “I’m entitled to visit the scene of the crime I’m going to prosecute.”

  “But protocol demands that you notify my office and have someone accompany you.”

  “I know the protocol.”

  “So?”

  “I was out,” Hammond said curtly. Smilow was right, but he didn’t want to lose face. “It’s late. I didn’t see the need to drag a cop over here. I didn’t touch anything.” He waved the handkerchief still in his hand. “I didn’t take anything. Besides, I thought you were finished with it.”

  “We are.”

  “So what are you doing here? Looking for evidence? Or planting some?”

  The two men glared at one another. Smilow was the first to get a grip on his temper. “I came here to think through some of the elements the autopsy turned up.”

  In spite of himself, Hammond was interested. “Like what?”

  Smilow turned back into the parlor and Hammond followed. The detective stood over the bloodstain on the floor. “The wounds. The trajectory of the bullets is hard to determine because of all the tissue damage they caused, but Madison’s best guess is that the muzzle of the pistol was aimed at him from above, at a distance probably no more than a foot or two.”

  “The killer couldn’t miss.”

  “He saw to it that he couldn’t.”

  “But he showed up not knowing that Lute had stroked out.”

  “He came to kill him, regardless.”

  “At close range.”

  “Indicating that Pettijohn knew his killer.”

  They contemplated the ugly dark stain on the carpet for a moment. “Something’s been bothering me,” Hammond said after a time. “I just now figured out what it is. Noise. How do you pop someone with a .38 without anyone hearing it?”

  “Only a few guests were in their rooms. Turn-down service wasn’t scheduled to begin until after six. The housekeepers weren’t in the corridor yet. The shooter could have used a sound suppressor of some sort, even a jerry-rigged one. Although Madison didn’t find any debris around the area or in the wounds to indicate that. My guess is that Pettijohn’s boast of virtually soundproof rooms wasn’t bogus like his state-of-the-art video security system.”

  “Another thought just occurred to me.” Smilow looked across at him and motioned for him to continue. “Whoever popped him not only knew Lute well, he also knew a lot about his hotel. It’s like the killer had made himself a scholar on everything Pettijohn did. Like he was obsessed with him.” He probed Smilow’s cold eyes. “Do you see what I’m getting at here?”

  Smilow held his stare for a ten count, but, refusing to be provoked, nodded toward the door to the suite. “After you, Solicitor.”

  Tuesday

  Chapter 19

  Lute Pettijohn’s will stipulated that he be cremated. As soon as Dr. John Madison released the body on Monday afternoon, it had been transported to the funeral home. The widow already had made the arrangements and taken care of the necessary paperwork. She declined to view the body before relinquishing it to the crematorium.

  A memorial service had been scheduled for Tuesday morning, which some regarded as inappropriately soon, especially in light of the circumstances of Pettijohn’s demise. However, considering the widow’s habitually improper conduct, no one was surprised by her nose-thumbing of time-honored ritual.

  The morning dawned hazy and hot. By ten o’clock, St. Philip’s Episcopal Church was packed to capacity. The famous and infamous were there, as were those who had come to gawk at the famous and infamous, including South Carolina’s venerable United St
ates senator and a movie star who lived in Beaufort.

  Some had never met Pettijohn, but deemed themselves important enough to attend an important man’s funeral. Almost without exception, most of those in attendance had disparaged the deceased when he was alive. Nevertheless, they filed into the church shaking their heads and mourning his tragic, untimely death. The altar was barely large enough to accommodate the plethora of floral arrangements.

  At exactly ten o’clock, the widow was escorted to the front pew. She was wearing black from head to toe, unrelieved by anything except her signature string of pearls. Her hair had been pulled back into an unadorned ponytail, over which she wore a wide-brimmed straw hat that obscured her face. Throughout the service she kept on dark, opaque sunglasses.

  “Is she hiding her eyes because they’re swollen from crying? Or because they’re not?”

  Steffi Mundell was seated next to Smilow. Her question caused him to frown. His head was bowed and he appeared actually to be listening to the opening prayer.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you had a religious streak.”

  She remained respectfully silent throughout the remainder of the service, even though she professed no religion. She wasn’t as interested in the afterlife as much as she was in the present one. She wished her ambitions to be realized here on earth. Stars in a heavenly crown weren’t her idea of achievement.

  So, tuning out the scripture readings and eulogies, she used the hour to mull over the pertinent aspects of the case, specifically how she could use them to her advantage.

  The case had been assigned to Hammond, but it was she, not him, who had placed a call to Solicitor Mason last evening. She had apologized for interrupting his dinner, but when she told him about Alex Ladd’s lie regarding her whereabouts Saturday night, he thanked her for keeping him apprised. She was satisfied that the call had earned her a few brownie points. Taking it one step further, she had assured their boss that Hammond probably would have given him this latest update sometime today… when he got around to it… intimating that Hammond wouldn’t have given it priority.

  After what seemed as long as the eternity the minister extolled, the memorial service concluded. As they stood, Steffi said, “Now, isn’t that sweet?” From everyone clustered around Davee Pettijohn to pay their respects, she singled out Hammond. The widow embraced him warmly. He kissed her cheek.

  “Old family friends,” Smilow remarked.

  “How good of friends?”

  “Why?”

  “He seems reluctant to consider her a viable suspect.”

  They continued to watch as Mr. and Mrs. Preston Cross also embraced Davee. Steffi had met the couple only once at a golf tournament. Hammond had introduced her to his parents not as his girlfriend but as his co-worker. She had admired Preston, seeing in him a strong, daunting personality. Amelia Cross, Hammond’s mother, was her husband’s direct counterpart, a small, sweet southern lady who probably had never expressed an independent opinion in her life. She probably had never formed an independent opinion in her life.

  “See?” Smilow said. “The Crosses are Davee’s surrogate family since she has none here.”

  “I guess.”

  Because of the crowd, it took them several minutes to get outside. “What have you got against Davee?” Smilow asked as they made their way toward his car. “Now that she’s no longer on your list of suspects.”

  “Who said that?” Steffi opened the passenger door and got in.

  Smilow settled behind the steering wheel. “I thought Alex Ladd was your suspect of choice.”

  “She is. But I’m not ruling out the merry widow, either. Can we have some A.C. please?” she asked, fanning her face. “Have you confronted Davee with her housekeeper’s lie?”

  “One of my men did. It seems that Sarah Birch’s trip to the supermarket that day had completely slipped their minds.”

  With exaggerated sincerity, Steffi said, “Oh, I’m sure that’s true.”

  They drove several blocks before Smilow surprised her by quietly saying, “We found a human hair.”

  “In the suite?”

  “On the sleeve of Pettijohn’s jacket.” He glanced at her and actually laughed at her expression. “Don’t get too excited. He could have picked it up off the furniture. It could belong to any guest who has previously been in that room, or any housekeeper, room service waiter. Anybody.”

  “But if it matches Alex Ladd’s—”

  “You’re back to her, I see.”

  “If it matches her hair—”

  “We don’t know yet that it does.”

  “We know she lied!” Steffi exclaimed.

  “There could be dozens of reasons for that.”

  “Now you sound like Hammond.”

  “The amateur sleuth.”

  Steffi listened as he told her about finding Hammond in the hotel suite the night before. “What was he doing there?”

  “Looking around.”

  “At what?”

  “At everything, I guess. A sly insinuation that I had missed something.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Somewhat sheepishly he said, “I might have missed something.”

  “Testosterone!” she scoffed. “What it does to otherwise reasonable Homo sapiens.” After a beat, she added, “For instance, look how it colors your opinion of Alex Ladd.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “If Alex Ladd wasn’t a noted doctor with a long list of credentials, if she weren’t so educated and attractive and articulate, so damn poised, if instead she was a tough girl with teased hair and tattoos on her tits, would you two be this reluctant to apply more pressure?”

  “I won’t even honor that question with an answer.”

  “Then why are you soft-pedaling?”

  “Because I can’t make an arrest based solely on a lie about her going to Hilton Head Island. I’ve got to have more than that, Steffi, and you know it. Specifically I’ve got to place her in that room. I need hard evidence.”

  “Like a weapon.”

  “Working on it.”

  Continuing to study his profile, a slow smile broke across her face. “Come on, Smilow, what gives? You’ve practically got yellow feathers sticking out of your mouth.”

  “You’ll find out the latest development when everybody else does.”

  “When will that be?”

  “This afternoon. I’ve asked Dr. Ladd to come in for further questioning. Against her solicitor’s advice, she has agreed.”

  “Without realizing she’s walking into a carefully laid trap.” Feeling buoyant again, Steffi laughed. “When you spring it, I can’t wait to see her face.”

  * * *

  Her face mirrored complete surprise, just as Hammond’s did.

  The way it came about was crazy.

  Hammond, Steffi, Smilow, and Frank Perkins were congregated outside Smilow’s office waiting for Alex to arrive. Steffi complained of leaving a file on the desk sergeant’s counter. Feeling claustrophobic, Hammond quickly offered to go downstairs and retrieve it for her.

  He left the Criminal Investigation Division on the second floor and went to the elevators. The doors slid open. The only occupant was Alex, obviously on her way to Smilow’s office. They looked at each other for one stunned second before Hammond stepped in and punched the button to go down.

  The doors closed, sealing them inside the small, confined space. He could smell her fragrance. He noted everything at once—hair, face, form. Her tousled hairstyle, soft makeup, and compact figure lent femininity to the tailored business suit she was wearing. The jacket was sleeveless. Her skin looked smooth and soft. Her skin was smooth and soft. On her arms. Breasts. Behind her knees. Everywhere.

  Her eyes were as busy as his, touching on every feature of his face, exactly as they had at the gas station seconds before he kissed her. That was part of her sexiness, that seemingly total absorption in whatever her eyes focused on. The intensity with which she looked at
him made him feel as though his face were the most captivating visage in the world.

  He began. “Saturday night—”

  “Please don’t ask me—”

  “Why did you lie about where you were?”

  “Would you rather I had told them the truth?”

  “What is the truth? Did that man see you standing outside Lute Pettijohn’s hotel suite?”

  “I can’t discuss this with you.”

  “The hell you can’t!”

  The doors opened on the first floor. No one was waiting for the elevator. Hammond stepped out, but kept his hand on the rubber bumper to keep the door from closing behind him. “Sarge, did Ms. Mundell leave a file down here?”

  “File? I haven’t seen anything, Mr. Cross,” he called back. “If I see it, I’ll have it run up.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stepping back into the elevator, he depressed the button for them to go back up. The doors closed.

  “The hell you can’t,” he repeated in a harsh whisper.

  “We’ve got a few precious seconds. Is this what you want to be talking about?”

  “No. Hell, no.” He took one step nearer and growled softly, “I want to be all over you.”

  She raised her hand to the base of her throat. “I can’t breathe.”

  “That’s what you said the second time you came. Or was it the third?”

  “Stop. Please stop.”

  “That’s one thing you didn’t say. Not the whole damn night. So why did you sneak out on me?”

  “For the same reason I had to lie about being with you.”

  “Pettijohn? I know you didn’t kill him. The time doesn’t fit. But in some way you’re culpable.”

  “I had to leave you that morning. And we can’t be caught talking privately now.”

  “If you weren’t somehow implicated,” he said, taking another step closer, “why would you need to establish an alibi by spending the night fucking me?”

  Anger sparked in her eyes. Her lips parted as though she were about to refute him. The elevator came to a stop. The doors opened. Steffi Mundell was waiting for it.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed softly when she saw the two of them together. She sliced her eyes over to Alex, then back to Hammond. “Uh, I was just coming to get you. I found it,” she said, absently raising her hand to show him the file she had mistakenly sent him to retrieve. “Sorry.”