The Alibi (14 page)

it was you. We used to laugh about it."

"I guess it stopped being funny."

Left with nothing to say to that, she stood there

and fumed in silence.

He continued in a calmer voice. "In any case, I

went away this weekend to reassess our relationship

--"

"Without even talking about it first? It never occurred

to you to invite me to go away and reassess it

with you?"

"I didn't see the point."

"So your mind was made up even before you went

to your precious cabin in the woods to reassess," she

said, hissing the word.

"No, Steffi. My mind was not made up. While I

was away, I looked at it from every angle and always

reached the same conclusion."

"That you wanted to dump me."

"Not--"

"Dump? What word would you use?"

"This is precisely the kind of scene I hoped to

avoid," he said, finally shouting over her. "Because I

knew you would argue. I knew you would beat it to

death as though you were in court pleading your case

to a jury. You would refute everything I said simply

for the sake of argument and not give an inch, because

with you every goddamn thing comes down to

a contest. Well, this isn't a competition, Steffi. And it

isn't a trial. It's our lives."

"Oh, God, spare me the melodrama."

He snuffled a short laugh. "That's just it. I need a

little melodrama. Our relationship is totally devoid of

melodrama. Melodrama is human. It's--"

"Hammond, what in the hell are you talking

about?"

"Everything in life can't be summed up in a brief.

All the answers aren't found in law books." Frustrated

with his own inability to explain, he swore beneath

his breath before making another stab at it.

"You're brilliant, but you never stop. The arguing, the

besting, they're constant. Incessant. There's no down

time with you."

"Forgive the pun, but I didn't know that being with

me had been such a trial for you."

"Look," he said curtly. "I'll spare you the melodrama

if you'll spare me the phony wounded-party

act. You're angry, but you're not hurt."

"Will you stop telling me what I am and what I am

not? You don't know what I'm feeling."

"I know it isn't love. You don't love me. Do you?

Given a choice right now, what would you take: Your

career? Or me?"

"What?" she cried. "I can't believe that you would

issue such a ridiculous and juvenile ultimatum.

'Given a choice'? What kind of sexist bullshit is that?

Why must I make a choice? You don't have to

choose. Why can't I have you and my career?"

"You can. But in order for it to work, it takes two

people who are willing to make a few sacrifices. Two

people who love each other very much and are dedicated

to the relationship and one another's happiness.

What we do together," he said, pointing upstairs toward

the bedroom, "isn't love. It's recreation."

"Well, we've gotten to be damn good at keeping

each other entertained."

"I don't deny that. But entertainment is all it ever

was, and it's pointless to suspect it was something

else." He paused to catch his breath. She continued to

stare at him stormily.

He moved to the table, picked up his beer, and

took a long drink. Finally he looked over at her.

"Don't pretend that you disagree. I know you agree."

"We get along so well."

"We did. We do. We had some great times. No

one's to blame for this. There's no right side or wrong

side. It's simply a matter of our wanting different futures."

She thought on that for a moment. "I made no secret

of what I wanted, Hammond. If I had wanted

hearth and home, I would have stayed in my hometown,

obeyed my father, and married immediately

after high school--if not before--and started having

babies like my sisters did. I would have spared myself

their scorn and his sermons. I wouldn't have

struggled to get where I am. I've still got a long way

to go to get where I want to be. From the beginning

you knew what my priorities were."

"I admire you for them."

"Correction. What my priorities are."

"I hope you surpass all the goals you've set for

yourself. I mean that sincerely. It's just that your personal

goals leave no room for anything else. They're

incompatible with the commitment I want from a life

partner."

"You really want a Holly Homemaker?"

"God, no," he said, laughing and shaking his head.

He stared into near space for a moment, then said,

"I'm not sure what I want."

"You're just sure you don't want me."

Again, he knew that she was more miffed than

hurt. Nevertheless, no woman liked being rejected.

He respected her enough to let her down gently. "It's

not you, Steffi. It's me. I want to be with someone

who's at least willing to compromise on a few

points."

"I never compromise."

Softly, he said, "You're slipping. You just made

my case for me."

"No, I gave you that one."

"Thanks, I'll take it."

Then they smiled at each other, because beyond

their physical attraction they had always admired one

another's shrewdness. She said, "You're very smart,

Hammond. I like smart and admire intellect. You

have a sharp wit. You're tough when toughness is

called for. You can even be mean when you have to

be, and mean really gets me off. You're indisputably

good-looking."

"Please. I'm blushing."

"Don't be coy. You know you set hearts aflutter

and jump-start hormones."

"Thank you."

"You're generous and thoughtful in bed, never

taking more than you give in return. In short, all the

things I desire in a man."

He placed his hand over his heart. "It would take

much longer for me to enumerate all the qualities that

I admire in you."

"I'm not fishing for compliments. I'll leave that

kind of feminine wiliness to the Davee Pettijohns of

the world."

He chuckled.

"What I am leading to is ..." She drew in a deep

breath. "I don't suppose you'd consider carrying on

as we have been until--"

He stopped her with a firm shake of his head. "That

wouldn't be good, or fair, for either of us."

"There's no option B?"

"I think a clean break would be best, don't you?"

She smiled sourly. "It's a little late to be soliciting

my opinion, Hammond. But yes, I suppose if that's

the way you feel, I don't want you sleeping with me

out of pity."

He gave a full-blown laugh then. "The very last

thing you are is an object of pity."

Placated, she said, "You'll miss me, you know."

"Very much."

Curling the tip of her tongue up to the center of her

upper lip, she opened her blouse. It didn't surprise

him that her nipples were tight and dark with arousal.

Steffi's biggest turn-on was an argument. Nothing

stimulated her better than a shouting match. Typically

their rowdiest sex had followed a confrontation of

one sort or another. He realized now that she had

guaranteed herself an ultimate win for every dispute.

His climax had always been her victory. That, if nothing

else, validated his decision.

She flashed him a mischievous grin. "One last

time? For old times' sake? Or are you too high-minded

and principled to fuck a woman you've just

dumped?"

"Not exactly a romantic lead-in, Steffi."

"So now you want melodrama and romance?

What's got into you, Hammond?"

He was tempted to take her up on her offer, not because

he had any desire for her, but because sleeping

with her might help blur the clear and sweetly painful

memory of last night. To have another woman now

might ease the weighty sense of loss.

While still considering it, his telephone rang.

Steffi laughed without humor as she closed her

blouse and rebuttoned it. "You lucky bastard. Fortune

just continues to smile on you, Hammond. You've

been saved by the bell." She turned on her heel and

went into the living room to retrieve her things.

Hammond reached for the telephone. "Hello?"

"It's Monroe."

Not that County Solicitor Monroe Mason needed

to identify himself. He knew only one pitch of voice,

and that was booming. The man's vocal cords

seemed to have come equipped with a built-in mega

phone. Hammond immediately adjusted the volume

on the telephone receiver.

"Hey, Monroe, what gives? I spend one night

away from Charleston and all hell breaks loose."

"So you've heard?"

"Steffi told me."

"I understand she's already in the thick of it."

Hammond glanced into the living room, where

Steffi was stepping into her shoes and tucking in her

blouse. Hammond put his back to the door and lowered

his voice. "She seems to think she's got the

case."

"Do you want her to have it?"

Hammond realized that his shirt was sticking to

his torso. When had he begun to sweat? He rubbed

his forehead, and discovered that it was damp, too.

There was a reason for this uncustomary perspiration:

He had met with Lute Pettijohn yesterday afternoon

in his suite at the Charles Towne Plaza.

Monroe Mason should know that. Now was the

time to tell him.

But why make an issue of it?

It didn't relate to Pettijohn's murder. Their meeting

had been brief. It had occurred before the estimated

time of death. Shortly before, but

nevertheless ...

He saw no reason to tell Mason about it, any more

than he had deemed it necessary to tell Steffi when

she broke the startling news of the homicide to him.

There was nothing to be gained by informing them of

this coincidence, and much to be lost.

Wiping his forehead on his shirtsleeve, he said, "7

want the case."

His mentor chuckled. "Well, you've got it, boy."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. You had it even before you

asked."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Stop sucking up, Hammond. I didn't make the

decision independently. You got the case because the

Widow Pettijohn has been calling me every hour on

the hour since about ten o'clock last night."

"What for?"

"She's requested--make that demanded--that you

be the one to put her husband's killer on trial."

"I'm grateful for her--"

"Cut the bullshit, Hammond. I can smell it a mile

off. Hell, I'm so goddamn old, I think I invented it.

Where was I?"

"The widow."

"Oh, yeah. Lute's dead, but it appears that Davee's

going to take over where he left off when it comes to

throwing weight around. She can make noise in this

county. So, to spare our office a lot of grief and bad

press, I agreed to assign you to the case."

This case would impact his career as no other case

could. A high-profile murder victim. Media saturation.

It had all the elements that cause ambitious prosecutors

to salivate. Of course, he would feel better if

Mason had assigned it to him without Davee's intervention,

but he wasn't going to dwell on a minor de

tail like that. No matter how it had come about, the

case was his.

He wanted it, needed it, and he was definitely the

man for the job. He had tried five murder cases before

and won convictions in all except one, when the

accused had plea-bargained. From the day he had

joined the prosecuting side of the law, he had been

preparing himself for a case of this magnitude. He

had the appetite for it, and he had the know-how to

come out the winner. The Lute Pettijohn murder trial

was going to catapult his career right where he

wanted it to go ... the County Solicitor's Office.

Since he already had the case, the confidence of

his superior, and the backing of the widow, he reconsidered

telling Mason about his meeting with Pettijohn.

He hated to go into a project of this caliber with

even the slightest disadvantage. A negligible ambiguity

like this could become critically damaging if discovered

later rather than sooner.

"Monroe?"

"Don't thank me, boy. You're in for a lot of sleepless

nights."

"I welcome the challenge. It's something else.

I..."

"What?"

Following the small hesitation, he said, "Nothing.

Nothing, Monroe. I can't wait to get started."

"Fine, fine," he said, then launched into his next

point. "You'll be working with Rory Smilow. Is that

gonna be a problem?"

"No."

"Liar."

"We don't have to swap spit. All I want is a guarantee

that he'll cooperate with our office."

"He drew first blood."

"What does that mean?"

"I got a call from Chief Crane this afternoon.

Smilow lobbied for Steffi Mundell to prosecute the

case. But I told Crane about the widow's preference."

"And?"

He chuckled. Monroe Mason thrived on politics