The Alibi

by Sandra Brown

  “Why, Davee? What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid that Rory killed Lute, and that he might kill someone else to cover it up.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled softly. “Thanks, Davee.”

  “For what?”

  “For caring about me. I love you for it. I love you even more for caring about Alex. I hope you become best friends.” He slid out of the booth, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Hammond?” she cried after him as he rushed from the booth.

  “I’m on top of it,” he called back to her. “I promise.”

  He jogged from the restaurant to his car. As he drove toward the hotel, he dialed Alex’s home number.

  * * *

  The lock on the kitchen door was still broken. It was careless of her not to have had it repaired by now. As he remembered from before, the kitchen was cozy and neat, although the faucet in the sink had developed a drip.

  He was moving past the telephone when it rang, startling him. She answered it in another room on the second ring. Her voice drifted down the hallway toward him.

  “Hammond, are you all right?”

  She was in her office, her back to the door opening into the hall. He could smell the clove-spiked oranges in the bowl on the console table. She was seated in an armchair with what appeared to be patients’ files stacked on the end table at her elbow. One folder lay open in her lap along with a palm-size tape recorder. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows. Her hair attracted it like a magnet.

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.… What about Sergeant Basset?… So, you were right. In a way I feel sorry for him. There’s no telling what threats were used to get him to cooperate.… Yes, I will. Please call me as soon as you can.”

  She ended her call and set the cordless phone on the table. Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned toward him suddenly. The open file folder slid off her lap onto the floor, scattering its contents across the Oriental rug. The recorder landed at her feet with a thud. Clearly, she had thought she was alone.

  Her voice a near gasp, she said, “Detective Smilow, you startled me.”

  * * *

  Smitty had someone in his chair when Hammond walked past on his way to the elevators. “Hi, Smitty. Have you seen Detective Smilow today?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Cross. I surely haven’t.”

  Usually gregarious, Smitty didn’t look up and never broke his rhythm as he alternately whisked the brushes across the toe of his customer’s shoe. Hammond didn’t dwell on it. He was preoccupied with getting to the fifth-floor penthouse suite.

  The yellow tape still formed an X across the door. Having obtained a key from the manager last night, he stepped through the tape and went inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  The drapes were drawn, so the room was dim. He made a routine check of the parlor where the bloodstain in the carpet showed up almost black. As he understood it from the housekeeping staff, replacement carpet had been ordered.

  Standing over the stain, he tried to work up some feelings of remorse for Pettijohn’s death, but he couldn’t garner any. He’d been a bastard in life. Even in death, he was still wreaking havoc on people’s lives.

  Hammond moved into the bedroom and went straight to the closet. He gazed at the robe, hanging with the belt tied at the waist. It matched the one Lute had worn down to the spa. He had left his clothes here in the suite, showered in the spa, then exchanged the robe for his clothes when he returned.

  “I might never have thought of it if you hadn’t mentioned it that afternoon we had drinks in the lobby bar,” he said.

  Turning, he faced Steffi, who had thought she was sneaking up behind him. Actually he’d been expecting her.

  He continued, “Rhetorically you asked if I could imagine Lute strutting around in one of the spa robes. I couldn’t. I didn’t. Until last night. And when I imagined it, it caused me to wonder how you knew he had been strutting around in a spa robe that day. I then went on to wonder where the used robe was.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “What I surmise is that you wore that robe out of the suite over your clothes.”

  “Workout clothes. Which I had thought were a good idea. Who goes to a murder dressed like that? But the robe was even better.”

  “You dropped it at the spa.”

  “Along with the towel Pettijohn must have carried from the spa. I wrapped it turban-style around my head. Put on sunglasses. I was virtually unidentifiable. I dropped off the paraphernalia at the spa—there were a lot of people bringing robes and towels in from the gym and pool. No one paid me any attention. I ran a few miles, and by the time I got back, the body had been discovered and the investigation was under way.”

  “Very clever.”

  “I thought so,” she said with a cheeky smile.

  He nodded down at the revolver she had aimed at him. “Is that it?”

  “Of course not. Do you think I would be so stupid as to use the same gun twice? When I returned the one I used to shoot Pettijohn, I pilfered another. Just in case.”

  “As we speak, Basset is spilling his guts. He’s a repentant man with a guilty conscience.”

  “It’ll be my word against his. They’ll never trace these weapons to me. I didn’t sign the log and neither did he. Basset could be making up wicked stories about me because he holds a grudge.”

  “Smilow asked you to go easy on Basset’s daughter.”

  “And I did the first time. It’s not my fault she was busted again. Her hearing is scheduled in a few weeks.”

  “What did you promise Basset?”

  “That I’d be lenient in my recommendation to the judge.”

  “Or?”

  “Or sweet Amanda would get the book thrown at her. It was up to him.”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “When I’m forced.”

  “And you felt forced to kill Pettijohn?”

  “He double-crossed me!” she exclaimed in a shrill voice that Hammond had never heard before. Steffi had lost touch with reality.

  “I spied for him,” she was saying. “Counseled him on legal maneuvers that would snare his rivals but leave him inside the law. Barely, but inside nonetheless. He told me he was going to use the goods on Preston to ruin both of you. Get you out of there completely and install me in the top seat. But then he reneged.”

  Her eyes turned hard. “He saw a better use for Preston’s involvement, and that was to coerce you. He thought he could use that as leverage to get you to come around to his way of thinking. He thanked me for my time and trouble, but asked why he should settle for second best, when he could get the best lawyer on his side.”

  “So you came here that afternoon to kill him.”

  “I was out of options, Hammond. I had played by the rules and they weren’t working for me. Since joining the office, I had worked the hardest, strived the hardest, but you were going to get the job, just as you’d gotten the last one.

  “Pettijohn came along and offered me an advantage. For once, I would be the one with the edge. Then, when the reward was in sight, the son of a bitch yanked his support out from under me.

  “I had experienced disappointments before, but none that crushing. Every time I looked at him, I would be reminded of what a chump I’d been. A gullible female, which is probably how he saw me. I couldn’t tolerate being that susceptible and having him lord it over me. Something inside me snapped, I guess you could say. I simply couldn’t let him get away with it.

  “He broke the news to me over the telephone, but I insisted on a face-to-face meeting. I showed up a few minutes early for our appointment, and when I saw him sprawled on the floor, my first thought was that someone had robbed me of the pleasure.”

  “Alex, maybe.”

  “I didn’t know anything about Alex Ladd. Not until that Daniels character gave us her description—and I was sweating bullets when I faced him in that hospital room. I wa
s afraid he’d finger me to Smilow. I hadn’t seen him in the hotel, but I couldn’t be certain that he hadn’t seen me. Anyway, when he described Ladd, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. There was actually a suspect. And then when Trimble turned up, I started believing in guardian angels,” she said with a laugh.

  “You made the attempt on her life.”

  “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have trusted anyone else with the job.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Someone who drifted through the justice system a few months ago. I had him on an assault and battery. His lawyer pleaded him out. I thought that having someone like him on standby might prove useful one day—maybe I had a premonition that my alliance with Pettijohn might end badly.” She shrugged.

  “Anyway, I let the guy plead out of incarceration. But I kept track of him. He was willing to slit her throat for a measly hundred dollars. But he blew it. Skipped town with the fifty I gave him as a down payment. He didn’t even report in to me that night.”

  She slapped her forehead with her palm. “Silly me. I didn’t connect your mugger with my assassin until I discovered that Alex Ladd was alive and well.”

  “You were afraid she had seen you Saturday afternoon in Pettijohn’s suite.”

  “I thought it was a distinct possibility. From that first interrogation, I sensed she was holding something back, and was afraid that she had recognized me and was waiting for the perfect moment to spring her secret knowledge. I must admit I was rather taken aback to discover that the secret she was harboring was you. When did you meet her?”

  He refused to answer.

  “Oh, well.” She sighed softly. “You’re right. I suppose it doesn’t matter, although it shattered my ego to know that you could so easily move from my bed to hers. And, of course, I understand her attraction to you. It wasn’t hardship duty to sleep with you. I would have even if Pettijohn hadn’t suggested pillow talk as a good source of information.”

  She hefted the pistol. “I don’t hate you, Hammond, although I’d be less than honest if I said I didn’t resent your achievements and the ease with which you come by them. It’s just that, now I’ve come this far, you’re the last obstacle. I’m sorry.”

  “Steffi—”

  She fired the pistol into his chest.

  * * *

  Steffi turned and hurried across the parlor. She pulled open the door. On the other side of it stood Detective Mike Collins and two uniformed policemen, pistols drawn.

  “Hand over the weapon, Ms. Mundell,” Collins said. There was no underlying joke in his voice now. One of the policemen stepped forward and took the pistol from her loose grasp. “You okay?” Collins asked.

  Hammond was watching her face when she turned her head, her mouth going slack with astonishment. Kevlar had saved him, although he was going to have a bitch of a bruise to go along with the other injuries he had sustained this week.

  “You tricked me?”

  Collins was reciting her rights, but her attention was on Hammond.

  “I figured it out last night. Smilow and I had a conference before daylight. I told him everything. Everything. So we staged all this. I was pretending to gather evidence against him, but actually he and I have been working together today. He’s the one who suggested you might get worried when I shared leads with you, leads that pointed to you. He urged me to wear a wire. Also the vest. On both counts I’m glad I took his advice.”

  She was practically bristling with hatred. He found it hard to believe he’d ever been lovers with her. But it was with a degree of sadness that he said, “I knew you regarded me as your rival, Steffi, but I didn’t think you would try to kill me.”

  “You’ve always underestimated me, Hammond. You’ve never given me enough credit. You never thought I was as smart as you.”

  “Well, apparently you’re not.”

  “I’m smart enough to know about your affair with Alex Ladd,” she shouted. “Don’t even attempt denying it, because I’ve got proof of your being in her bed this week!”

  Hammond hitched his chin at Collins, who turned her around and nudged her through the open door. Turning her head, she yelled at him over her shoulder, “That’s what I’ll beat you with, Hammond. Your affair with this woman. Talk about poetic justice!”

  * * *

  There was a soft laugh of self-deprecation behind Alex’s voice. “I was expecting you, but I didn’t hear you come in, Detective.”

  “We don’t know who or when Steffi might strike. I checked the back of the house and came in through the rear door. That lock still isn’t fixed. You should have it repaired immediately.”

  “I’ve had more pressing matters on my mind this week.”

  “Hell of a week.”

  “To say the least.”

  He knelt to help her pick up the scattered papers. She thanked him as she gathered the materials back into the folder.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said. “Hammond told you about Basset?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty damn smart of Hammond to figure it out.”

  “But not long before you did. He told me that when he shared his suspicion with you early this morning, you admitted that it had crossed your mind that Steffi might be involved.”

  “It had, but I didn’t follow up. Frankly because I was so glad Pettijohn was dead.” He looked her in the eye. “Dr. Ladd, I never really thought you were the killer. I’m sorry about some of the questions.”

  She accepted the apology with a small nod. “It’s hard for us to back down once we’ve taken a stand. I was a viable suspect, and you didn’t want to be wrong.”

  “More than that. I didn’t want Hammond to be right.”

  An awkward silence fell between them. It was relieved when his cell phone chirped. “Smilow.”

  He listened. His face remained expressionless. “I’m on my way.” He disconnected. “Steffi shot Hammond. He’s okay,” he said quickly. “But he got her to admit on the wire that she killed Pettijohn. She’s in custody.”

  Alex didn’t realize how anxious she had been until pent-up tension ebbed out of her and she sank into a chair. “Hammond’s all right?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “So it’s over,” she said softly.

  “Not quite. He’s holding a press conference in half an hour. Can I offer you a lift?”

  Chapter 39

  Because the temporary Charleston County Judicial Building had such limited space, Monroe Mason had asked if his press conference could be held downtown in city hall. His request had been graciously granted.

  Out of respect for the man who had served the community so well for so long, many, who typically rushed headlong toward the weekend at five o’clock on Friday afternoon, had congregated to hear the formal announcement of his retirement.

  That’s what they had come to hear.

  They got more than they bargained for. A head start on the weekend didn’t seem such a sacrifice when rumors began to circulate about what had transpired in the same hotel suite where Lute Pettijohn had been found dead less than a week ago. One of the solicitor’s own staff had been arrested for the murder.

  The room was already crowded when Hammond entered behind Mason and the rank and file of the County Solicitor’s Office. Even Deputy Solicitor Wallis, looking gray and ravaged by chemotherapy, had found the strength to attend. Only Stefanie Mundell was absent as they took seats on the dais.

  The first row of spectator seats was occupied by reporters and cameramen. Behind them were three rows reserved for city, county, and state officials, invited clergymen, and assorted dignitaries. The remainder of the folding chairs were for guests.

  Among them were Hammond’s parents. His mother returned his hello nod with a cheerful little wave. Hammond also acknowledged his father, but Preston’s visage remained as stony as those gracing Mount Rushmore.

  That morning, Hammond had called Preston with the deal he had referenced to Bobby Trimble. It was this: He would recommend to
the attorney general that no charges be brought against his father if Preston would testify against Trimble.

  Of course that was tantamount to Preston’s admitting to his own knowledge of the terrorist activities that had taken place on Speckle Island. He had separated himself from the venture, but not in time to relieve him of culpability.

  “That’s the deal, Father. Take it or leave it.”

  “Don’t issue me an ultimatum.”

  “You admit your wrongdoing, or you go to jail denying it,” Hammond had stated with resolve. “Take the deal.”

  Hammond had given him seventy-two hours to think it over and discuss it with his solicitor. He was betting that his father would agree to his terms, an intuition strengthened when Preston’s hard stare wavered and he looked away first.

  Was it too much to hope that his father was experiencing a twinge of conscience? Although there would always be chasms they couldn’t cross, he hoped they could find reconciliation on some level. He wanted to be able to call him Dad again.

  Davee was also there, looking like a movie star. She blew him a kiss, but when a reporter poked a microphone at her and asked for a comment, Hammond saw her tell him to fuck off. In those words. But smiling sweetly.

  He was watching the rear door when Smilow escorted Alex in. Their gazes locked and held, gobbling up each other. They had spoken on their cell phones while en route, but that wasn’t as satisfactory as seeing for himself that she was, finally, safe. From prosecution. From Steffi. From Bobby.

  Smilow motioned her toward an empty chair next to one in which Frank Perkins was seated. The lawyer stood and hugged her warmly. Smilow relinquished her to Perkins, then moved down the outer aisle toward the dais. He motioned Hammond over. Nonplussed, Hammond excused himself and stepped down from the temporary platform.

  “Good work,” Smilow told him.

  Knowing the pride that the compliment must have cost the detective, Hammond said, “I just showed up and did what you advised me to do. If you hadn’t coordinated it, it wouldn’t have worked.” He paused a moment. “I still can’t believe she came after me. I would have expected a surrender and confession first.”