The Alibi (10 page)

when he had wanted to be at his suavest, he muttered,

"In the nick of time."

Surprising him, she rested her hands on his chest

and stroked it lightly. Hardly above a whisper, she

said, "For me, too."

Desire was manifested in a low moan as he cupped

her chin in his hand and tilted her head back for his

kiss. Passions sparked again. Ignited. Burned. Hotter

than before.

The whispers intensified the intimacy.

"You like this."

"Yes."

"Too hard?"

"No."

"I didn't realize."

"Neither did I."

"I'm sorry."

"It didn't matter."

"But if I hurt you--"

"You didn't. You won't."

"Do you mind if..."

"No."

"Jesus. Look at you. Beautiful. You're already--'

"Yes."

"So--"

"Oh..."

"Wet."

"I'm sorry, sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Well, I mean ... you ..."

"Don't be sorry."

"Let me touch you."

"No, let me touch you."

CHAPTER

7

with steffi driving, she and smilow reached

Roper Hospital in record time.

"How many did they say?" she asked as they

jogged across the emergency room parking lot toward

the building. She had missed the details when

she left the hotel conference room to retrieve her car.

She had picked up Smilow at the main entrance to

Charles Towne Plaza.

"Sixteen. Seven adults, nine children. They belong

to a touring church choir from Macon, Georgia. They

ate lunch early in the hotel restaurant before setting

out on an afternoon walking tour of downtown. They

returned a couple hours later, after the kids began getting

sick."

"Stomach cramps? Vomiting? Diarrhea?"

"All of the above."

"You don't forget food poisoning if you've ever

had it. I did once. Cream of mushroom soup from a

reputable deli."

"They traced this back to a marinara meat sauce

that was used on the pizza the kids ate. It was also on

the pasta special."

Almost at a run, they entered the hospital emergency room. For a Saturday night, the waiting room

was relatively calm, but there were a few patients. A

uniformed cop was guarding a man in handcuffs. The

man had a bloody bath towel wrapped around his

head like a turban. His eyes were closed and he was

moaning, while his wife provided laconic answers to

a nurse's standard questions regarding medical history.

A young mother and father were trying in vain

to pacify their crying infant. An elderly man was sitting

alone, sobbing into a handkerchief for no apparent

reason. A woman sat bent almost double in her

chair, her head nearly in her lap. She appeared to be

asleep.

It was a little early yet for the real emergencies to

start streaming in.

Neither Smilow nor Steffi paid any attention to the

people in the waiting room, but walked directly to the

admissions desk, where Smilow introduced himself

to the nurse, showed her his badge, and asked if the people transported from Charles Towne Plaza were

still in the emergency room or if they'd been admitted

to rooms.

"They're still here," the nurse told him.

"I need to see them right away."

"Well, I... Let me page the doctor. Have a seat."

Neither sat. Steffi paced. "What I don't get is how

your guys missed the discrepancy. Weren't they supposed

to check the number of guests registered

against the number they arrogated?"

"Cut them some slack, Steffi. People straggled in

over the course of hours, after being away from the

hotel for hours. We're talking hundreds of registered

guests in addition to employees changing shifts. It

would have been nearly impossible to get an accurate

head count."

"I know, I know," she said impatiently. "But after

midnight? When everyone is more or less tucked in?

I would have expected one of them to think of doing

another head count. Or were they too engrossed in

their movie?"

"They had their hands full," he said stiffly.

"Yeah, getting jack."

Smilow was the first to criticize if a criminal investigation

officer screwed up. It was something else

if the criticism came from an outsider. His lips turned

hard and thin with anger.

"Look, I'm sorry," Steffi said in a much mollified

tone. "I didn't mean to say that."

"Yeah, you did. But let me worry about evidence

gathering, okay?"

Steffi knew when to back off. It wouldn't be wise

to alienate Smilow. Despite the new widow's directive,

she had every intention of going to County Solicitor

Monroe Mason and asking to be named the

chief prosecutor of this case. When she did, she

needed the police department's support. Specifically

Smilow's.

She gave him a few moments to cool down before

saying, "I'm afraid that these people with food poisoning

won't know jack, either. They were brought to

the hospital earlier than the estimated time of Pettijohn's

murder."

"The symptoms didn't strike some of them until

later," he argued. "The hotel manager confessed to

sneaking them out as late as eight o'clock this

evening."

"Why didn't he tell you about it?"

"Bad P.R. He seemed to be more worried about the

food-poisoning outbreak and what it says about his

shiny new kitchen than he was about the discovery of

Pettijohn's body in the penthouse suite."

"You wanted to see me?"

Both turned. The doctor was young enough to

have acne, but the eyes behind his wire-framed

glasses looked old, tired, and sleep-deprived. His

green scrubs and white lab coat were wrinkled and

sweat-stained. His photo ID read rodney c. arnold.

Smilow flashed his badge again. "I need to question

the people brought in with food poisoning from

Charles Towne Plaza."

"Question them about what?"

"They could be material witnesses to a murder that

took place in the hotel this afternoon."

"The new hotel? You're kidding."

"I'm afraid not."

"This afternoon? Like yesterday?"

"Until the M.E. can give us a more definite time,

we're estimating the victim died anywhere between

four and six p.m."

The resident smiled grimly. "Detective, at that

time last evening these folks were either having acute

diarrhea or puking their guts up, or both. The only

thing they were eyewitness to was the bottom of the

commode bowl. If they were lucky enough to get to

a commode in time, which I heard some of them

weren't."

"I understand they were very sick--"

"Not were. Are."

Steffi stepped forward and identified herself. "Dr.

Arnold, I don't think you understand the importance

of our questioning these people. Some were occupying

rooms on the fifth floor where the murder took

place. One could have vital information and not even

be aware of it. The only way to find out is to question

them."

"Okay," he said with a shrug. "Check in with the

main admissions desk tomorrow. I'm sure some of

them will still be here, but by then they'll have been

assigned to rooms." He turned to go.

"Wait a minute," Steffi said. "We need to see them

now."

"Now?" Dr. Arnold divided an incredulous glance

between them. "Sorry. No can do. Some of these

folks are still in extreme gastrointestinal distress. Extreme.

Distress," he repeated, separating the words

for emphasis.

"We're giving them fluids through IVs. The ones

lucky enough to have passed the crisis are resting,

and after the ordeal their intestines have put them

through, they need it. Come back tomorrow. Possibly

early afternoon. Preferably evening. By then--"

"That's not soon enough."

"It'll have to be," the doctor stated. "Because no

body's talking to any of them tonight. Now please excuse

me. I've got patients waiting." With that he

turned and pushed through the doors separating the

lobby from the examination rooms.

"Dammit," Steffi swore. "Are you going to let him

get by with that?"

"You want me to storm the emergency room and

start hassling patients in extreme ... et cetera? Talk

about bad P.R." Returning to the desk nurse, Smilow

asked her to give Dr. Arnold his business card. "If

any of the patients begin feeling better, tell him to call

me. Any hour."

"I don't have any confidence in the doctor's willingness

to help," Steffi remarked when Smilow rejoined

her.

"Me either. He seems to enjoy being ruler of his

small domain."

Steffi looked at him with an arch smile. "To which

you can relate."

"And you can't?" he returned. "Don't you think I

know why you want this case so badly?"

Smilow was an excellent detective because of his

insight. But sometimes that perception made him uncomfortable

to be around. "Can we take five? I need

some caffeine." She moved to a vending machine and

fed coins into it. "Buy you a Coke?"

"No, thanks."

She peeled the tab off the top of the soft drink can.

"Well, look at it this way. If these Macon people are

that sick, you probably wouldn't have got anything

useful or reliable from them anyway. Afflicted with

food poisoning, how observant could they have been

yesterday afternoon? It won't hurt to come back tomorrow

and talk to them, but I think it'll wind up

being a dead end for you."

"Maybe." He sat down in a vacant chair, propped

his elbows on his knees, and tapped his lips with

steepled index fingers. Steffi sat down in the chair

next to him. He waved off an offer to take a sip of her

drink. "One of the rules of crime detection--somebody

saw something."

"You think people are withholding information?"

"No. They just don't know that what they saw is

important."

Both were quiet for a moment, each lost in his own

thoughts. Finally Steffi asked, "What do you think

happened in that penthouse suite?"

"I try not to develop a theory. Not this early on,

anyway. If I did, it could color the investigation. I'd

be looking for clues to support my guess, and overlooking

the clues that led to the actual solution."

"I thought all cops relied on hunches."

"Hunches, yeah. But hunches are based on clues.

They get stronger or weaker as you go along, depending

on the clues you gather, which either support

your hunch or dispel it." He leaned back and sighed

deeply, uncharacteristically letting his fatigue show.

"All I really have at this point is a man who many

would enjoy seeing dead."

"Including you."

His eyes turned hard. "I'd be lying if I said no. I

hated the bastard and made no secret of it. You, on the

other hand--"

"Me?"

"Pettijohn wielded a lot of influence in local politics.

The County Solicitor's Office is no exception.

With Mason about to retire--"

"That's not public knowledge yet."

"But it soon will be. With him declining to run for

reelection and his second in command battling

prostate cancer--"

"Wallis has been given about six weeks."

"So, come November, the office is up for grabs.

Pettijohn has been known to dangle carrots like that

in front of the ambitious and corruptible. Think what

a boon it would be for a swindler like him to have a

sweet young thing like you serving as D.A."

"I'm not sweet. As for young, forty is looming terribly

close."

"Strange that you should address that and not the

ambitious and corruptible part."

"I admit to the former and deny the latter. Besides,

if Pettijohn were the red carpet ushering me into the

solicitor's office, why would I kill him?"

"Good question," he said, studying her with one

eye closed.

"You're so full of shit, Smilow." Shaking her head,

she laughed. "I see what you're getting at, though.

Considering all of Pettijohn's machinations, the list

of suspects grows endless."

"Which doesn't make my job easy."

"Maybe you're trying too hard." She sipped her

drink thoughtfully. "What are the two most common

motivations for murder?"

He knew the answer, and it pointed to one person.

"Mrs. Pettijohn?"

"The shoe fits, doesn't it?" Steffi held up her index

finger. "She got fed up with her husband's flagrant

cheating. Even if she didn't love him, his womanizing

humiliated her."

"Her daddy did the same thing to her mother."

"Which could explain the second shot when the

first probably killed him." She raised her second finger.

"Tubs of money come her way if Lute Pettijohn

is dead. One of those motives would be sufficient.