The Alibi

by Sandra Brown

  Chapter 30

  “There’s press outside?” Frank Perkins asked with angry incredulity.

  “That’s what I was told,” Smilow replied blandly. “I thought you ought to be warned.”

  “Who leaked it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The solicitor snorted. “Sure you don’t.” He turned away and, taking Alex Ladd’s arm, escorted her toward the elevator.

  Steffi sidled up to Smilow, remarking, “I can’t wait for Thursday.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  She looked at the detective, surprised by his discouraged tone. “Don’t tell me Hammond’s pessimism is catching? I thought you’d be treating your detectives to cigars.”

  “Hammond’s points have merit,” he said thoughtfully. “First, he’s got to convince the grand jury that Alex Ladd is indictable. If they do hand down an indictment, he’s got to prove to a jury that she’s guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Our evidence is circumstantial, Steffi. Trimble’s testimony is tainted by Trimble himself. Not much for a prosecutor to work with.”

  “More evidence will turn up before the trial begins.”

  “If there is more.”

  “There’s bound to be more.”

  “Not if she didn’t do it.” Her eyes sharpened on him, but he pretended not to notice and turned away. “I’ve got a slew of work waiting on me.”

  Crestfallen by his remarks, she dawdled in the hallway until Hammond emerged from the men’s room. They got into the elevator together. “There’s press outside.”

  “I heard.”

  “Are you up for it?” she asked, giving the shoulder of his injured arm a concerned pat.

  On the ground floor, they could see through the glass doors the throng of reporters lying in wait on the front steps. “Doesn’t matter whether I am or not. I’ve got to do it.”

  Afterward, Steffi had to admit that he did it well. Although he downplayed his injuries, they made him seem dashing and courageous, a wounded soldier gearing up for battle.

  They said little on the drive back to the judicial building in North Charleston. As soon as they went inside, Hammond excused himself and closed his private office door behind him. Steffi, lost in thought, literally bumped into Monroe Mason as he came bustling around a blind corner. He had a tuxedo draped over his arm.

  “The boss is clearing out early,” she teased.

  Mason frowned. “My wife has committed us to one of those boring charity functions tonight. A banquet where everyone in attendance receives a reward. But who needs me around here, anyway? You’re all doing a fine job without any help from me. Dr. Ladd’s stepbrother provided Hammond with the missing link, huh? Now he’s got her motivation. Sounds solid.”

  “Trimble’s statement made all the difference.”

  “I’d put my money on our team.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, enough rhetoric,” he said, smiling good-naturedly. “What’s your gut feeling, Steffi? What kind of case have you got?”

  Recalling Smilow’s concerns, she said, “We’d like more hard evidence.”

  “Name a prosecutor who wouldn’t. Rarely do we catch the accused holding a smoking gun. Sometimes—more often than not—we have to make something of little or nothing at all. Hammond will get his indictment, and when the case gets to trial, he’ll bring in a guilty verdict. I have no misgivings about his abilities.”

  Although it pained the muscles of her face to do so, Steffi smiled. “Nor do I. If he doesn’t fall head over heels.”

  Mason was looking at his wristwatch, saying, “I must be on my way. I’m meeting my trainer for a quick workout and massage before I climb into this monkey suit. Cocktails are at five. Mrs. Mason made me swear I wouldn’t be late.”

  “Have a good time.”

  He frowned. “That’s a jibe, right?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s a jibe.” Laughing, she wished him a pleasant evening.

  He had almost reached the end of the hall when he stopped and turned back. “Steffi?”

  Her back was to him, so he didn’t see the triumphant smile that spread across her face. She collapsed it before turning around. “Yes?”

  “What were you implying with that remark?”

  “Remark?”

  “About Hammond falling head over heels.”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “I was joking. It’s nothing.”

  He retraced his steps back to her. “That’s the second time you’ve alluded to Hammond being infatuated with Dr. Ladd. I don’t consider that nothing. I certainly don’t think it’s a joking matter.”

  Steffi gnawed the inside of her cheek. “If I didn’t know him better…” she said, faltering. Then she shook her head firmly. “But I do. We all do. Hammond would never lose his objectivity.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well then… good night.”

  The county solicitor turned and made his way back down the hallway. Once he was out of sight, Steffi practically skipped into her office. She had planted the seed earlier in the week. Today she had nourished it. “Let’s see how fertile his mind is,” she said to herself as she sat down behind her desk and rifled through the stack of phone messages. The one she hoped for wasn’t among them. Irritably, she placed a call.

  “Lab. Anderson speaking.”

  “This is Steffi Mundell.”

  “Yeah?”

  Jim Anderson worked in the hospital lab and had a chip on his shoulder the size of Everest. Steffi knew this because she had had run-ins with him and his attitude before. She demanded accuracy combined with speed, which he seemed incapable of delivering. “Have you run that test yet?”

  “I told you I would call you as soon as I got to it.”

  “You haven’t done it yet?”

  “Have I called?”

  He didn’t even have the courtesy to apologize or offer an explanation. She said, “I need the result of that test for a very important case. It’s critical. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear to you this morning.”

  “You made it clear, all right. Just like I made it clear that I work for the hospital, not the police department, and not the D.A.’s office. I have other work piled up ahead of you that’s just as important.”

  “Nothing is as urgent as this.”

  “Get in line, Ms. Mundell. That’s how it works.”

  “Look, I don’t need DNA testing. Or HIV. Nothing fancy for now. Just a blood typing.”

  “I understand.”

  “All I need to know is if the blood on that washcloth matches the blood on the sheet Smilow took to you a few days ago.”

  “I got it the first time you told me.”

  “Well, how hard can it be?” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t you just have to look through a microscope or something?”

  “You’ll get it when I get to it.”

  Anderson hung up on her. “Son of a bitch,” she hissed as she slammed down her own telephone receiver. Nothing aggravated her more than incompetence, unless it was incompetence combined with unwarranted arrogance.

  Dammit, she needed that blood test! She was nursing a strong hunch, and her hunches were rarely wrong. Ever since this morning when the idea first took hold, it had consumed her thoughts until she was now obsessed by it.

  As impossible as it seemed, it made a weird kind of sense to her that there was something going on between Alex Ladd and Hammond, and that this “something” was sexual. Or at least romantic.

  She hadn’t dared to discuss her suspicion with Smilow. Probably he would dismiss it as absurd, in which case she would look like a fool at best, and a jealous ex-lover at worst.

  He would share her theory with his team of detectives, who would make her a laughingstock. Detective Mike Collins, and others who had a hard time accepting women in authority, never would take her seriously again. Everything she said or did would be undermined by their ridicule. That would be intolerable. Her reputation as a tough, savvy prosecutor had b
een too hard-won to jeopardize it by something so laughably feminine as envisioning romance where none existed.

  But it would be almost as bad if Smilow did give her hunch credence. He would take it and run with it. Unlike her, he had the resources and the muscle to do some serious sleuthing. He would tell assholes like Jim Anderson to hop, and the hospital lab tech would ask how high. Smilow would have the result of that blood test in no time flat. If the samples matched, Smilow would be credited with making the connection between Hammond and their suspect.

  If she was right, she didn’t want to share the credit with Smilow or anyone else. She wanted it all to herself. If Hammond were to be disgraced—dare she even wish for disbarment?—for impeding a murder investigation, she wanted to be the one to expose him. Singlehandedly. No more playing second fiddle, no more group projects for Steffi Mundell, thank you very much.

  It would be delicious fun to watch Hammond topple from his pedestal. It would be gratifying to be the one to topple him.

  His behavior today as he listened to Trimble’s recording had strengthened her suspicion. He had reacted like a jealous lover. It was clear that he saw Alex Ladd as a victim of her half-brother’s exploitation. Whenever possible, he had rushed to her defense, finding angles that suggested innocence. Not a good mind frame for a prosecutor to be in when trying to convince others of the accused’s guilt.

  Maybe he felt nothing more than pity for a girl’s lost innocence. Or sympathy for the professional about to be stripped of all credibility and respect. But whatever it was, there was something there. Definitely.

  “I know it,” Steffi whispered fiercely.

  She had been gifted with a keen perception. She could sniff out lies and spot motivations that hadn’t occurred to anyone else in the solicitor’s office. Those skills had served her well today. Her instincts had come alive and buzzed noisily whenever Hammond and Alex Ladd were near one another.

  But her surety went beyond her instincts as a prosecutor. She also sensed it with a woman’s intuition. As she watched them watch each other, the signs had become glaringly obvious. They avoided making direct eye contact, but whenever they did, there was an almost audible click.

  Alex Ladd had looked shattered when Trimble related the more prurient details of her past. Most of her verbal denials had been directed toward Hammond. While he, known for his amazing ability to focus and concentrate on the business at hand, had been unable to keep still. He fidgeted. His hands moved restlessly. He had acted like he had an itch he couldn’t scratch.

  Steffi recognized the signs. He had behaved like that when their affair first began. Sleeping with a colleague had made him uneasy. He had worried about the impropriety of it. She had teased him, telling him that if he didn’t relax when they were together in public, his jitters were going to give them away.

  But I’m not jealous, Steffi told herself now. I’m not jealous of him, and I’m certainly not jealous of her. I’m not.

  On the surface, she might look like the classic woman scorned. But it wasn’t jealousy that compelled her to get to the bottom of this. It was bigger than jealousy. Grander. Her future hinged on it.

  She would keep digging until she had an answer, even if her hunch proved to be wrong. One day, while Dr. Ladd was languishing in prison, she might tell Hammond about this crazy notion she had once entertained. They would have a good laugh over it.

  Or she might discover a scandalous secret that would damage Hammond Cross’s reputation beyond repair and destroy any chance of his becoming county solicitor.

  And if that happened, guess who was groomed and ready to seize the office?

  * * *

  The top-ranking homicide detective in the CPD was ready to submit that Alex Ladd had killed Lute Pettijohn. It was Hammond’s job to argue and prove the state’s case in a court of law. But the state’s case was against the woman with whom he had fallen in love. Moreover, he was a material witness in that case. Those were two powerfully motivating reasons for him to want to disprove the state’s allegation.

  But there was another reason even more powerful, compelling, and urgent. Alex’s life was at risk. The media had picked up the story of her house being searched yesterday. There had been an attempt on her life last night. That couldn’t have been a coincidence. The guy in the alley had probably been hired to silence Alex. Since that attempt had failed, there was sure to be another.

  Smilow and company had focused all their attention on Alex, leaving it up to him to find another viable suspect or suspects.

  To that end, he sealed himself inside his office with the case file Smilow had given him. Mentally he disconnected himself from the case. Discounting his personal investment in it, he focused only on the legal aspects and approached it exclusively from that standpoint.

  Who would want Lute Pettijohn dead?

  Business rivals? Certainly. But according to Smilow’s files, all those questioned had concrete alibis. Even his own father. Hammond had personally verified Preston’s alibi.

  Davee? Most certainly. But he believed that if she had killed him, she would have made no secret of it. It would have been a production. That was more her style.

  Relying on his powers of concentration and cognitive skills, he arranged and absorbed all the data the case file contained. To that information, he added facts that he knew but of which Smilow was unaware:

  Hammond himself had been with Lute Pettijohn shortly prior to his murder.

  The handwritten note Davee had given him indicated that Hammond wasn’t the only visitor Lute had scheduled last Saturday afternoon.

  Lute Pettijohn was under covert investigation by the Attorney General’s Office.

  * * *

  Alone, none of these facts seemed relevant. Together, however, they piqued his curiosity as a prosecutor and prompted him to ask questions… and for reasons beyond his wanting Alex to be innocent. Even had he not been emotionally involved with her, he never wanted to wrongfully convict an innocent person. No matter who the prime suspect was, these questions warranted further investigation.

  In his mind, applying these undisclosed facts, he replayed each conversation he had had about the case. With Smilow, Steffi, his father, Monroe Mason, Loretta. He removed Alex from the equation and pretended that she didn’t exist, that the suspect remained a mystery. That allowed him to listen to every question, declaration, and offhand remark with a new ear.

  Oddly enough, it was one of his own statements that snagged him, yanking him from this lazy stream of consciousness. “Your garden-variety bullets from your garden-variety pistol. There are hundreds of .38s in this city alone. Even in your own evidence warehouse, Smilow.”

  Suddenly he was imbued with renewed energy and a fierce determination to justify his own irrational behavior over the last few days. Everything—his career, his life, his own peace of mind—hinged on exonerating Alex and proving himself right.

  He glanced at his desk clock. If he hurried, he might have time to begin his own investigation this afternoon. Hastily gathering up the case file and stuffing it into his briefcase, he left his office. He had just cleared the main entrance of the building and stepped into the blast-furnace heat when he heard his name.

  “Hammond.”

  Only one voice was that imperative. Inwardly Hammond groaned as he turned. “Hello, Dad.”

  “Can we go back into your office and talk?”

  “As you see, I’m on my way out, and I’m in somewhat of a hurry to get downtown before the end of the business day. The Pettijohn case goes to the grand jury on Thursday.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  Preston Cross never took no for an answer. He steered Hammond toward a sliver of shade against the building’s flat facade. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Too much to explain now,” he replied impatiently. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait?”

  “Monroe Mason called me from his cell phone on his way to the gym this afternoon. He’s deeply troubled.�
�

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I dread even to think about the consequences if Monroe’s speculation is correct.”

  “Speculation?”

  “That you have developed an improper regard for that Dr. Ladd.”

  That Dr. Ladd. Whenever his father spoke disparagingly of someone, he always placed the generic pronoun in front of their name. The depersonalization was his subtle way of expressing his low opinion of the individual.

  Stalling, Hammond said, “You know, it’s really beginning to piss me off that every time Mason has a beef with me, he calls you. Why doesn’t he come to me directly?”

  “Because he’s an old friend. If he sees my son about to piss away his future, he respects me enough to warn me of it. I’m sure he hoped that I would intervene.”

  “Which you’re all too glad to do.”

  “You’re goddamn right I am!”

  His father’s face had turned red up to the roots of his white hair. There was spittle in the corner of his lips. He rarely lost his temper and considered emotional outbursts of any sort a weakness reserved for women and children. Removing a handkerchief from his back pants pocket, he blotted his perspiring forehead with the neat white square of Irish linen. More calmly he said, “Assure me that Monroe’s notion is totally groundless.”

  “Where did he get the idea?”

  “Firstly, from your lackadaisical approach to this case.”

  “I’d hardly call it that. I’ve been working my butt off. Granted, I’ve exercised caution—”

  “To a fault.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “And Mason’s, too, apparently.”

  “Then it’s up to him to chew my ass, not you.”

  “From the outset you’ve been dragging your heels. Your mentor and I would like to know why. Is it the suspect that’s made you gun-shy? Have you developed a fondness for this woman?”

  Hammond’s eyes stayed fixed on his father’s, but he remained stubbornly silent.

  Preston Cross’s features turned rigid with fury. “Jesus Christ, Hammond. I can’t believe it. Are you insane?”

  “No.”

  “A woman? You would sacrifice all your ambitions—”