by Sandra Brown
“I see what you mean,” she said thoughtfully, then shook her head. “But it’s still a stretch, Hammond. Just as we don’t have a weapon to prove that Alex Ladd shot Pettijohn, we don’t have one that proves Smilow did.”
He sighed, glanced down at the floor, then looked across the desk at her again. “There’s something else. Another motive, perhaps even more compelling than revenge for his sister’s suicide.”
“Well?”
“I can’t discuss it.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because someone else’s privacy would be violated.”
“Wasn’t it you who, not five minutes ago, made that flowery speech about our transcendent relationship and mutual trust?”
“It’s not that I mistrust you, Steffi. Someone else trusts me. I can’t betray that individual’s confidence. I won’t, not until and unless this information becomes a material element in the case.”
“The case?” she repeated with ridicule. “There is no case.”
“I think there is.”
“Do you actually intend to pursue this?”
“I know it won’t be easy. Smilow isn’t a favorite among CPD personnel, but he’s feared and respected. No doubt I’ll encounter some resistance.”
“ ‘Resistance’ is putting it mildly, Hammond. If you investigate one of their own, you’ll never have the cooperation of another city cop.”
“I’m aware of the obstacles. I realize what it’s going to cost me. But I’m determined to go through with it. Which should give you some indication of how firmly I believe that I’m right.”
Or how besotted you are with your new lover, she thought. “What about Alex Ladd and the case we’ve made against her? You can’t just throw it out, make it disappear.”
“No. If I did, Smilow would smell a rat. I plan to proceed. But even if the grand jury indicts her, we can’t win the case we have against her. We can’t,” he said stubbornly when he saw that she was about to object. “Trimble is a smarmy hustler. A jury will see right through his cheesy veneer. They’ll think his testimony is self-serving, and they’ll be right. They won’t believe him even if he occasionally tells the truth. Besides, how many times has Dr. Ladd earnestly denied that she did it?”
“Naturally she’s going to deny she did it. They all deny it.”
“But she’s different,” he muttered.
Even knowing about his affair with the psychologist, Steffi was dismayed by his unshakable determination to protect and defend her. She studied him for a moment, not even trying to hide her frustration. “That’s it? You’ve told me everything?”
“Honestly, no. I checked some things out last night, but the evidence isn’t concrete.”
“What kind of things?”
“I don’t want to discuss them now, Steffi. Not until I’m certain that I’m right. This is a precarious situation.”
“You’re damn right it is,” she said angrily. “If you won’t tell me everything, why tell me anything? What do you want from me?”
* * *
The last person Davee Pettijohn expected to come calling that morning was the woman suspected of making her a widow.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Sarah Birch had led Dr. Alex Ladd into the casual living room where Davee was having coffee. Even if the housekeeper hadn’t announced her by name, Davee would have recognized her. Her picture was on the front page of the morning newspaper, and Davee had seen last evening’s newscasts before her troubling, clandestine meeting with Smilow.
“I’m receiving you more out of curiosity than courtesy, Dr. Ladd,” she said candidly. “Have a seat. Would you like coffee?”
“Please.”
While waiting for Sarah Birch to return with an extra cup and saucer, the two women sat in silence and assessed one another. The TV cameras and newspaper photographs hadn’t done Alex Ladd justice, Davee decided.
After thanking the housekeeper for the coffee and taking a sip, Alex said, “I saw your husband last Saturday afternoon in his hotel suite.” She indicated the sections of the morning edition scattered about. “The newspaper write-ups subtly suggest that Mr. Pettijohn and I had a personal relationship.”
Davee smiled wryly. “Well, he had a reputation to uphold.”
“But I don’t. There’s absolutely no basis for that implication. Although you’ll probably think I’m lying if my half-brother ever testifies against me.”
“I read about him, too. In print Bobby Trimble comes across as a real asshole.”
“You flatter him.”
Davee laughed, but as she watched the other woman’s face, she realized that the topic wasn’t pleasant for her. “You had it rough as a kid?”
“I got past it.”
Davee nodded. “We all bear scars from childhood, I guess.”
“Some scars are just more visible than others,” Alex said by way of agreeing. “In my work, I’ve learned how clever people can be at hiding them. Even from themselves.”
Davee studied her for a moment longer. “You’re not what I expected. From the way you were portrayed in the news stories, I would have thought you were… coarser. Harder. Devious. Even wicked.” She laughed again. “I would have thought you were more like me.”
“I have my flaws. Plenty of them. But I swear that I met your husband only once. That was last Saturday. As it turns out, not long before he was killed. But I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t go to that hotel suite to sleep with him. It’s important to me that you know that.”
“I’m inclined to believe you,” Davee said. “First of all, you have nothing to gain by coming here and telling me that. Moreover, and I mean no offense by this, you’re not my dearly departed’s type.”
Alex smiled at that, but her curiosity was genuine when she asked, “Why wouldn’t I have been his type?”
“Physically you would have passed muster. Don’t be offended by this, either—Lute would screw any woman whose body was warm. Who knows? Sometimes that might not even have been a qualification.
“But he liked his women to be in awe of him. Submissive and stupid. Silent for the most part, except maybe during orgasm. You wouldn’t have appealed to him because you’re far too self-confident and bright.”
She refilled her coffee cup from a silver carafe, then dropped two sugar cubes into the cup so that they made soft splashes. “FYI, Dr. Ladd, some of the people accusing you of killing Lute don’t truly believe you did.”
Registering surprise, Alex blurted out, “You’ve spoken with Hammond?”
“No. It wasn’t…” A jolt of enlightenment halted Davee in midsentence. “ ‘Hammond’? You’re on a first-name basis with the man prosecuting your murder case?”
Clearly flustered, Alex set her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “I hope my coming here wasn’t too much of an imposition, Mrs. Pettijohn. I wasn’t sure you would even consent to see me. Thank you for the—”
Davee stopped the chatter by reaching across the space separating them and laying her hand on Alex’s arm. After a pause, Alex raised her head and stared back at Davee with quiet dignity. They communicated on a different level. Defenses were down. Two women seeing, understanding, accepting.
Peering deeply into the other woman’s eyes, Davee said softly, “You’re the one who is not just complicated but impossible.”
Alex opened her mouth to speak, but Davee forestalled her. “No, don’t tell me. It would be like reading the last page of a juicy novel. But I can’t wait to find out how the two of you managed to get yourselves into this mess. I hope the circumstances were absolutely decadent and delicious. Hammond deserves that.” Then she smiled ruefully. “Poor Hammond. This must be one hell of a dilemma for him.”
“Very much so.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“He may soon find himself in need of friends. Be his friend.”
“I am.”
“So he says.” Alex slid the strap of her handbag onto her shoulder. “I should go.”<
br />
Davee didn’t summon her housekeeper but walked Alex to the front door herself. “You haven’t commented on my house,” she observed as they crossed the front foyer. “Most people do the first time they come. What do you think?”
Alex gave a quick look around. “Honestly?”
“I asked.”
“You have some lovely things. But to my taste it’s a little overdone.”
“Are you kidding?” Davee chortled. “It’s gaudy as all get-out. Now that Lute is dead, I plan on detackying it.”
The two women smiled at each other. This was a rare thing for Davee—feeling a kinship with another woman. With characteristic straightforwardness, she said, “I don’t care whether you slept with Lute or not, I like you, Alex.”
“I like you, too.”
Alex was halfway down the front walk when Davee called out to her. “You were with Lute shortly before he was killed?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm. The killer might think that you’re holding something back. Something you saw or heard. Are you?” she asked bluntly.
“Shouldn’t we leave the questions to the police?”
She continued down the walk and let herself out through the front gate. Davee closed the door and turned. Sarah Birch had come up behind her.
“What is it, baby?” She reached out and smoothed away the worry lines creasing Davee’s forehead.
“Nothing, Sarah,” she murmured absently. “Nothing.”
Chapter 36
Very early that morning, before leaving for the office and his conversation with Steffi, Hammond had checked his voice mail. He returned only one message.
“Loretta, this is Hammond. I didn’t get your messages until this morning. Sorry I put you in a huff last night. I mistook your pages for a wrong number. Uh, listen, I appreciate what you did. But the fact is, I don’t want you to bring in this guy you talked to at the fair. Not now anyway. I have my reasons, believe me, and I’ll explain everything later. For now, keep him on ice. If it turns out I need him, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, just… I guess you can… what I’m saying is, you’re free to take on other work. If I need you further, I’ll be in touch. Thanks again. You’re the best. Goodbye. Oh, I’ll send you a check to cover yesterday and last night. You went above and beyond. ’Bye.”
Bev Boothe listened to the message twice, then stared at the telephone, her fingers tapping lightly on the number pad as she reflected on what to do with the message—save or delete?
What she would like to tell Mr. Cross to do with his message was anatomically impossible.
She was tired and cranky. Overnight someone had dented her car while it was parked in the hospital personnel parking lot. A dull lower backache took hold every morning following her twelve-hour shift.
Mostly, she was worried about her mother, whose bedroom was empty and undisturbed. Where had she been all night, and where was she now? Bev remembered that when she left for the hospital last evening, Loretta had seemed preoccupied and depressed.
This message indicated that she was out doing the county solicitor’s dirty work for him, at least for a portion of the night. The bastard didn’t sound very appreciative of her mother’s efforts.
Spitefully, Bev depressed the numeral three to delete the message.
Five minutes later, as she was stepping from the shower, she heard her mother call into her room. “Bev, just wanted to let you know that I’m home.”
Bev grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself. She tracked wet footprints down the hallway into her mother’s bedroom. Loretta was sitting on the side of her bed, easing off a pair of sandals that had cut vivid red stripes into her swollen feet.
“Mom, I was worried,” Bev exclaimed, trying not to sound surprised and relieved that her mother was sober, although she looked haggard and unkempt. “Where’ve you been?”
“It’s a long story that can wait until we’ve both put in a few hours of rack time. I’m exhausted. Did you check the voice mail when you came in? Were there any messages?”
Bev hesitated only a heartbeat. “No, Mom. None.”
“I can’t believe it,” Loretta muttered as she peeled off her dress. “I busted my ass, and Hammond pulls a disappearing act.”
Having stripped to her underwear, she pulled back the covers and lay down. She was almost asleep by the time her head hit the pillow.
Bev returned to her own room, slipped on a nightgown, set her alarm, readjusted the thermostat to a cooler temperature, and got into bed.
Loretta had come home sober this time. But what about the next? She was trying so hard to keep her tenuous hold on sobriety. She needed constant reinforcement and encouragement. She needed to feel useful and productive.
Bev’s last thought before drifting off to sleep was that if Mr. Hammond Cross was going to relieve her mother of the job she desperately needed for her present and future well-being, then he could damn well relieve her of it in person and not via the lousy voice mail.
* * *
“What’s that?”
Rory Smilow glanced up from the manila envelope that Steffi had just plunked down on top of a littered desk. As soon as Hammond left her office, she wasted no time driving to police headquarters. She found the detective in the large, open Criminal Investigation office.
She felt no compunction about informing Smilow of this latest development. Loyalty to her former lover never entered her mind. Nor did she let her pledge of confidentiality deter her. From here on, she was playing for keeps.
“It’s a lab report.” She retrieved the envelope, holding it flat against her chest as though cherishing it. “Can we talk in your office?”
Smilow came to his feet and nodded her in that direction. As they weaved their way through the maze of desks, Detective Mike Collins greeted Steffi in a singsong voice. “Good morning, Miss Mundell.”
“Up yours, Collins.”
Ignoring the laughter and catcalls, she preceded Smilow down the short hallway and into his private office. When the door closed behind them, he asked her what was up.
“Remember the bloodstains on Alex Ladd’s sheets?”
“She nicked her leg shaving.”
“No, she didn’t. Or maybe she did, but it wasn’t her who bled on the sheet. I had the blood typed and compared to another specimen. They match.”
“And this other specimen would be…?”
“Hammond’s.”
For the first time since she had met him, Smilow seemed completely unprepared for what he’d just heard. It left him speechless.
“The night he was mugged,” she explained, “he bled. Quite a lot, I think. I got to his place early the following morning to tell him that Trimble was in our jail. He was acting weird. I attributed his weirdness to the rough night he’d had and the medication he was taking.
“But it was more than that. I got this feeling that he was lying to cover up a shameful secret. Anyway, before we left, I impulsively sneaked a bloody washcloth out of his bathroom.”
“What prompted you to do that? And to test it against the stains on Ladd’s sheets?”
“The way he acts around her!” she cried softly, flinging her arms out to her sides. “Like it’s all he can do to keep from devouring her. You’ve sensed it, too, Smilow. I know you have.”
He ran his hand around the back of his neck and said the last thing Steffi would have expected. “Jesus, I’m embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?”
“I should have reached this conclusion myself. Long before now. You’re right, I did sense something between them. I just couldn’t lay my finger on what it was. It’s so unthinkable, I never even thought of sexual attraction.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Smilow. Women are more intuitive about these things.”
“And you had another advantage over me.”
“What?”
“I’ve never slept with Hammond.”
He grinned wryly, but Steffi didn’t find the statement humorous. “W
ell, it really doesn’t matter who sensed what when, or who first defined what is going on between them. The bottom line is that Hammond has been in bed with Alex Ladd since he was appointed prosecutor of the criminal case in which she’s a prime suspect.” She raised the envelope as though it were a scalp or some other battle trophy. “And we can prove it.”
“With evidence illegally obtained.”
“A technicality,” she said with a shrug. “For now, let’s look at the big picture. Hammond is in deep doo-doo. Remember that weak lie about who had busted the lock on her back door? I’m guessing it was Hammond. He broke into her house—”
“For what purpose? To lift the silver?”
She frowned at his making light of this. “They had met before. Before she became a suspect. Each pretended not to know the other. They had to get together to compare notes, so Hammond went to see her.… Let’s see, that would have been Tuesday night, after we’d caught her in several lies.
“He couldn’t go up to her front door and ring the bell, so he sneaked in. When he busted the lock, he cut his thumb. That’s what bled on her sheet. I remember he was wearing a bandage the next day.
“And I think she was with him the night he was mugged, too. He was evasive when I asked him about the doctor who had treated his wounds, and why he hadn’t gone to the emergency room. He fabricated some farfetched explanations.”
The detective was still looking at her with skepticism.
“I know him, Smilow,” she said insistently. “I practically lived with him. I know his habits. He’s relatively neat, but he’s a guy. He lets things go until he’s forced to straighten up, or he waits on his weekly maid to clean up after him. The morning after the mugging, when he was feeling like shit, do you know what he was worried about? Making up his bed. Now I understand why. He didn’t want me to notice that someone had slept beside him.”
“I don’t know, Steffi,” he said, his frown dubious. “As much as I’d like to see this Boy Scout brought down several pegs, I can’t believe Hammond Cross would do something this compromising. Have you confronted him about it?”