by Sandra Brown
“In a home with very traditional values.”
“And clearly defined roles,” she added. “He’s a native Charlestonian, southern to the marrow. He was weaned on mint juleps and chivalry.”
Mason contemplated that for a moment. “You’re afraid he might go soft if it came down to asking for the death penalty for a woman such as Dr. Ladd.”
“It’s only a guess.” She lowered her eyes as though relieved that a terrible task was now behind her.
Covertly she watched her boss tug thoughtfully on his lower lip. Several moments passed. Her theory, and the reluctant manner in which she had vocalized it, had been perfect. She failed to tell him that Hammond had gone to the crime scene last night. Mason might regard that as a favorable sign. Steffi wasn’t certain how she regarded it. Ordinarily Hammond let the detectives do their job without his interference, so this turnabout struck her as odd. It was something to think about, but later.
Right now, she was anxious to hear Mason’s response to what she had told him. Saying anything more would be overkill, so she sat quietly and gave him plenty of time to cogitate.
“I disagree.”
“What?” Her head came up with an almost audible snap. So confident had she been that she’d successfully made her point, his disagreement was totally unexpected.
“Everything you’ve said about Hammond’s upbringing is correct. The Crosses drilled manners into that boy. I’m sure those lessons included a code of behavior toward women—all women—that harkens back to the days of knights in armor. But his parents, Preston in particular, also instilled in him an unshakable sense of responsibility. I believe that would override the other.”
“Then how do you explain this ennui?”
Mason shrugged. “Other cases. A full court calendar. A toothache. Something in his private life. There could be any number of reasons for his distraction. But we’re only a few days distant from the murder. The investigation is still in the preliminary stage. Smilow admits that he doesn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest.” He smiled and his boom returned. “I’m confident that when Smilow does charge Dr. Ladd—or whomever—with this crime, Hammond will step to the plate, bat in hand, and if I know the boy, he’ll knock a home run.”
Although Steffi felt like gnashing her teeth, she expelled a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you see it that way. I was reluctant to bring this to your attention.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Clearly dismissing her, he stood up and retrieved his jacket from a coat tree.
Following him to the door of his office, Steffi pressed on. There was more he needed to hear. “I was afraid you would become dissatisfied with Hammond’s performance and assign the case to someone else. Then I would no longer be working on it, either, and I would hate that because I’m finding the case absolutely fascinating. I’m anxious for the police to give us a suspect. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into the trial preparation.”
Amused by her enthusiasm, Mason chuckled. “Then you’ll be happy to hear what Smilow’s been up to this morning.”
* * *
“My time is almost up—”
A groan of protest went up from the medical students who had filled the hall to standing-room-only capacity to hear Alex’s lecture.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I appreciate your attention. Before we’re forced to dismiss, I want to comment on how vital it is that the patient suffering panic attacks not be dismissed as a hypochondriac. Sadly, that’s too often the case. Family members can—understandably—become intolerant of the patient’s chronic complaints.
“The symptoms are sometimes so bizarre, they seem ridiculous and are frequently believed to be imaginary. So, even as the patient is receiving treatment and learning ways in which to cope with acute anxiety disorder, his family should also be instructed on how to deal with this phenomenon.
“Now I really must let you go, or your other instructors will have my head. Thank you for your attention.”
They applauded enthusiastically before they began filing out. Several came up to speak with her, shake her hand, and tell her how interesting and informative her talk had been. One even presented her a copy of an article she had authored and asked her to autograph it.
Her host didn’t come forward until the last student departed. Dr. Douglas Mann was on the faculty at Medical University of South Carolina. He and Alex had met in med school and had been friends ever since. He was tall and lanky, as bald as a billiard ball, an excellent basketball player, and a confirmed bachelor for reasons he had never shared with Alex.
“Maybe I should charter a fan club,” he remarked as he joined her.
“I’m just relieved I held their attention.”
“Are you kidding? They were hanging on to every word. You’ve made me the hero of the hour,” he told her with a broad smile. “I love having famous friends.”
She laughed at what she considered to be a misplaced compliment. “They were easy. A good audience. Were we that bright when we were their age?”
“Who knew? We were stoned.”
“You were stoned.”
“Oh, yeah.” He shrugged bony shoulders. “That’s right, you were no fun. All work, no play.”
“Excuse me. Dr. Ladd?”
Alex turned to find herself face-to-face with Bobby Trimble. Her heart lurched.
Reaching for her hand, he pumped it enthusiastically. “Dr. Robert Trimble. Montgomery, Alabama. I’m on vacation here in Charleston, but I saw a notice about your lecture this morning and just had to come and meet you.”
Doug, unaware of her discomfiture, introduced himself and shook Bobby’s hand. “Colleagues are always welcome at our lectures.”
“Thanks.” Back to Alex, Bobby said, “Your studies on anxiety have been of particular interest to me. I’m curious as to what made you focus on that particular syndrome. Something in your own experience, perhaps?” He winked. “Afraid past sins will catch up with you?”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Dr. Trimble,” she said frostily. “I have patients scheduled.”
“I apologize for detaining you. It’s been a pleasure.”
Turning abruptly, she headed for the exit. Doug mumbled a hasty goodbye to Bobby, then rushed to catch up with her. “One ardent fan too many, huh? Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she replied brightly. But she wasn’t all right. She was anything but all right. Bobby’s unexpected appearance was his way of letting her know that he could intrude at any time. Easily. There wasn’t an area of her life that he couldn’t penetrate if he wanted to.
“Alex?” Doug asked if she would join him for a late breakfast. “By way of thanks, the least I can do is buy you a plate of shrimp and grits.”
“That sounds delicious, Doug, but I have to pass.” She couldn’t have swallowed a bite of food if her life depended on it. Seeing Bobby in what she had considered a safe realm had left her terribly shaken and upset, as was most certainly his intention. “I’ve got a patient scheduled in fifteen minutes. I’ll barely get there in time as it is.”
“We’re on our way.”
Doug had insisted on picking her up that morning and driving her to the MUSC Medical Center because parking spaces near the sprawling complex were scarce. On the way downtown, he thanked her again.
“No need. I enjoyed it.” Until Bobby ruined it, she thought.
“Anytime I can return a favor, I owe you one,” he said earnestly.
“I’ll remember that.”
Trying to hide her agitation, she kept the conversation light. They exchanged gossip about friends and colleagues they had in common. She inquired about the AIDS research paper he was working on. He asked if anything new and exciting was going on in her life.
If she told him, he wouldn’t believe her. Or maybe he would, she amended when they turned onto her street.
“What the hell?” Doug exclaimed. “You must’ve had a burglary.”
She knew instantly, with a sinking sense of dread,
that the police car parked in front of her house had nothing to do with a burglary. Two uniformed policemen were flanking her front door like sentinels. A plainclothesman was peering into the front windows. Smilow was talking with her patient, who apparently had arrived early for her appointment.
Doug pulled his car to a stop and was about to get out when Alex forestalled him. “Don’t get involved in this, Doug.”
“Involved in what? What the hell’s going on?”
“I’ll fill you in later.”
“But—”
“Please. I’ll call you.”
She squeezed his arm, then got out and hastily went through her gate and up her walkway, noting as she went that the scene being played out at her front door had attracted the attention of several passersby. A tourist was taking photographs of her house, which was nothing out of the ordinary. The street was featured on all the walking tours. While similar in design, each house on her block boasted at least one distinctive feature of historical significance. This morning, her house was set apart from the others by the police car parked in front.
“Dr. Ladd!” Her patient rushed forward. “What’s going on? I got here just as these policemen arrived.”
Alex glared at Smilow over the shoulder of the woman in distress. “I’m terribly sorry, Evelyn, but I’ll have to reschedule your appointment.”
Placing her arm around the woman’s shoulders, she turned her about and walked her to her car. It took several minutes for Alex to reassure her that everything was all right and that her appointment would be rescheduled for the earliest possible time.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked kindly.
“Are you, Dr. Ladd?”
“I’m fine. I promise. I’ll call you later today. Don’t worry.”
Not until she drove away did Alex turn back. This time, as she strode up her walkway, she had Smilow in her sights.
“What the hell are you doing here? I had a patient and—”
“And I have a search warrant.”
He produced the document from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
Alex looked toward the three other officers loitering on her porch before her eyes swung back to Smilow. “I see my last patient at three o’clock. Can this wait until after that session?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’m calling Frank Perkins.”
“Be my guest. But we don’t need his permission to come inside. We don’t even need yours.”
Without further ado, he motioned his men forward.
Perhaps the thing Alex found most offensive was the plastic gloves they pulled on before entering her home, as though it and she were contaminants that needed to be guarded against.
* * *
First she cried.
Waking up and finding herself in the worst nightmare a single woman can fathom—at least a single middle school teacher from suburban Indianapolis—Ellen Rogers sat up in bed, clutched the sheet to her throat, and sobbed her heart out.
Hungover. Naked. Violated. Abandoned.
Reliving the events of last night, it first had seemed that she had dropped into one of her own fantasies, in which a good-looking stranger had chosen her over the younger, prettier, thinner girls in the nightclub. He had made the initial move. He had chosen her to dance with and buy drinks for. The attraction had been instantaneous and mutual, just as she had always imagined it would be when “it” finally happened to her.
Furthermore, he wasn’t vapid and shallow. He had a story. His was a tale of love and loss that had wrenched her heart. He had loved his wife to distraction. When she became ill, he had dedicated himself to her care until she finally succumbed. Despite the hardship it had imposed on him and his business, he had done all the cooking and cleaning and laundry. He had performed personal tasks for his wife, even the most unpleasant ones. On the rare occasions that she was able to go out, he had applied her makeup.
Such sacrifice! That was what love was all about. This was a man worth knowing. This was a man worthy of all the love Ellen had been storing up for years and wished desperately to share.
He had also been a fantastic lover.
Even with her experience being limited to an older male cousin who had once forced a French kiss on her, a sweetheart who had talked of love through two awkward couplings in his car before jilting her, and a married teacher with whom she had carried on an exciting but unconsummated flirtation until he was transferred to another school, she had recognized that Eddie—that was his name—was exceptional in bed. He had done things to her that she had only read about in the novels she collected in labeled boxes in her basement. He had exhausted her with his passion.
But now, the rosy glow of romance was dimmed by the dark terrors accompanying one-night stands with total strangers. Pregnancy. (Hey, it could happen to women in their forties.) STDs. AIDS.
Any one of those consequences would dash her dream of marrying one day. Her shot at matrimony had been growing slimmer with each passing year, but last night’s indiscretion had made it a truly impossible dream. What man would want her now? Not a decent man. Not now that she had a past.
Her situation couldn’t get much worse.
But it did.
She’d been robbed, too.
She discovered that when she finally left the bed to go into the bathroom to assess the damage. She realized that her handbag wasn’t in the chair where she had dropped it the night before. She remembered distinctly. It wasn’t something she was likely to forget because that had been the first time a man had ever come up behind her and started grinding his… you know… against her. He had reached around her and put his hand inside her dress to caress her breasts. Bones virtually melting, she had dropped her purse on the chair. She was certain of that.
Nevertheless, she searched the room frantically, berating herself for not heeding the television commercials that strongly urged never to leave home without traveler’s checks.
Whether it was that blistering self-incrimination or recollections of the ease with which glib Eddie had convinced her of all his lies, Ellen Rogers suddenly stopped her futile searching for the handbag and stood stock-still in the center of the hotel room. Still mother-naked, she placed her hands on her hips, stepped out of her decorous self, and swore like a sailor.
She no longer felt sorry for herself. She was pissed.
Chapter 23
It was almost noon by the time Hammond reached the judicial building. On his way past the receptionist’s desk, he asked her to bring him a cup of coffee. He wasn’t happy to see Steffi lying in wait for him inside his office.
To his further annoyance, she took one look at him and said, “Rough night?”
He hadn’t returned home until nearly dawn. Once he fell asleep, he had slept hard for several hours. When he finally woke up, he cursed the time he read on his bedside clock. He didn’t need Steffi to point out how late a start he was getting on the day.
“What happened to your thumb?”
It had taken two Band-Aids to cover the gash. “I cut myself shaving.”
“Hairy thumbs?”
“What’s up, Steffi?”
“Smilow’s got some more evidence on its way up to SLED. He’s hoping for a hair match.”
He hid his inward knee-jerk reaction by calmly going about his business—setting his briefcase on his desk, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it up, flipping through a stack of mail and phone messages. Studying one, he asked absently, “Which case?”
Extremely perturbed, Steffi folded her arms across her waist. “The Lute Pettijohn murder case, Hammond.”
He sat down behind his desk and thanked the receptionist when she brought in a cup of coffee. “Want one, Steffi?”
“No, thanks.” None too gently she closed the door behind the departing receptionist. “Now that you’re settled and have your coffee, may we please discuss this latest development?”
“Smilow found a hair in Pettijohn’s hotel suite?”
“Correct.�
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“And he’s having it matched to…?”
“To one he took from Alex Ladd’s hairbrush this morning during the search.”
That jolted him. “Search?”
“He obtained a warrant first thing this morning. They’ve already conducted the search.”
“I didn’t even know he was going for a warrant. Did you?”
“Not until a while ago.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I saw no reason to until we had something.”
“It’s my case, Steffi.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell not acting like it is,” she said, raising her voice.
“How am I acting?”
“You figure it out. For starters you might ask yourself why you’re dragging in here so late. Don’t get mad at me because you weren’t here when things started rolling.”
They glared at each other across his desk. He was angry over being excluded from the tight loop that she had formed with Smilow. They were practically joined at the hip over this case. But, as much as he hated to admit it, her arguments were valid. He was angry at himself and at the situation, and he was taking it out on her.
“Anything else?” he asked in a more civil tone.
“He got the cloves, too.”
“Cloves? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Remember the fleck of something removed from Pettijohn’s sleeve?”
“Vaguely.”
She explained that the speck had been identified as clove, and that Alex Ladd had clove-spiked oranges in a bowl in her entryway. “They scent the rooms like a natural potpourri. Plus, they found a wad of money in her home safe. Thousands of dollars.”
“Which is supposed to prove what?”
“I don’t know what it proves yet, Hammond. But you must admit it’s unorthodox and suspicious for someone to keep that much cash in a home safe.”
Throat tight, he asked, “What about the weapon?”
“Unfortunately, that didn’t turn up.”
His telephone beeped, and the receptionist informed him that Detective Smilow was on the line.