The Alibi (15 page)

more than he did the law. Hammond disliked the necessary

politics associated with working for the county

government, but it was the part of the job that Mason

reveled in. "Davee had already given our chief of police

an earful, too. She told him she wanted Smilow

to find the killer and she wanted you to put him away.

So this is how we worked it out."

Hammond winced as he did when the dentist approached

with the anesthetizing shot and told him to

expect a slight sting.

"You and Smilow will lay your differences aside

until this thing's over. Got that?"

"We're both professionals." He was making no

promises where Rory Smilow was concerned, but a

cease-fire truce was an easy enough concession.

Then Mason added the second condition.

"And I'm putting Steffi in there to act as referee."

"What?" Trying to hide his anger and keep his

voice down, Hammond said, "That's a shitty deal

point, Monroe. I don't need a monitor."

That's the trade-off, Hammond, take it or leave

it"

Hammond could hear Steffi conversing on her cell

phone in the other room. "Have you told her about

this arrangement yet?" he asked.

"Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. You got

it straight, boy?"

"I've got it straight."

Even so, Monroe Mason shouted it one more time.

"Steffi's assisting you and acting as a buffer between

you and Smilow. Hopefully, she can keep one of you

from killing the other before we get Lute's murderer

tried and convicted."

CHAPTER

10

her lungs felt ready to burst. Muscles were on

fire. Joints were screaming for her to let up. But

rather than slowing down, she increased her pace,

running faster than she ever had, running harder than

was healthy. She had several hundred calories of carnival

food to burn off.

And a guilty conscience to try and outrun.

Sweat dripped into her eyes, causing them to blur

and sting. Her breathing was loud and harsh; her

mouth was dry. Heartbeats drummed in time to her

rapid footfalls. Even when she didn't think she could

go one step farther, she stubbornly pushed on. Surely

she had surpassed her previous best speed and level

of endurance.

Even so, she could never run away from what she

had done last night.

Running was her favorite form of aerobic exercise.

She ran several times a week. She frequently participated

in fund-raising races. She had helped organize

one to raise money for breast cancer research. This

evening, however, she wasn't doing it altruistically,

or for the fitness benefits derived from it, or to relieve

workday tension.

This evening's run was self-flagellation.

Of course, it was unreasonable to presume that

today's physical exertion would atone for yesterday's

transgressions. Atonement could only come to one

who was genuinely and deeply remorseful. While

she regretted that their meeting had been calculated,

not capricious; while it hadn't been the random encounter

that he believed it to be; while a twinge of

conscience had caused her to try and end it before

it culminated in lovemaking, she had no remorse that

it had evolved as it had.

Not for one moment did she regret the night she

had spent with him.

"On your left."

Courteously she edged to her right to allow the

other runner to go past. Pedestrian traffic on the Battery

was heavy this evening. It was a popular promenade,

appealing to joggers, in-line skaters, or those

out for a leisurely stroll.

This historically significant tip of the peninsula

where the Ashley and Cooper rivers converged and

emptied into the Atlantic was on every tourist's

agenda when visiting Charleston.

The Battery--comprised of White Point Gardens

and the seawall--bore battle scars from wars, woes,

and weather, as did all of Charleston. Once the site of

public hangings, later a strategic defense post, the

Battery's main function today was to provide scenery

and pleasure.

In the park across the street from the seawall, the

ancient and proud live oak trees which had defied vi

cious storms, even Hurricane Hugo, shaded monuments,

Confederate cannons, and couples pushing

baby strollers.

There had been no break from the oppressive heat

and humidity, but at least on the seawall overlooking

Charleston Harbor and Fort Sumter in the distance,

there was a breeze which made it almost balmy for

the people who were out to grab the remnants of a

beautiful dusk that spelled the end of the weekend.

Slowing to a more prudent pace, she decided it

was time to turn back. As she retraced her course,

each impact with the pavement drove a splinter of

pain up her shins and thighs into her lower back, but

at least it was manageable now. Her lungs still labored,

but the burning sensation in her muscles

abated.

Her conscience, however, continued to prick her.

Thoughts of him and their night together had been

launching surprise attacks on her all day. She hadn't

allowed herself to entertain these recollections for

long, because doing so seemed somehow to compound

the original offense, like an intruder who not

only invaded his victim's property, but also violated

his most personal belongings.

But she couldn't stave off the thoughts any longer.

As she wound down her workout, she invited them in

and let them linger. She tasted again the food they

had shared at the fair, smiled when she remembered his telling a silly joke, imagined his breath in her ear,

his fingertips against her skin.

He had been sleeping so soundly, he hadn't awak

ened when she slipped from the bed and dressed in

the dim room. At the bedroom door she had paused to

look back at him. He was lying on his back. One leg

had been thrust outside the covers; the sheet caught

him at his waist.

He had wonderful hands. They looked strong and

manly, but well tended. One had a loose grip on the

sheet. The other rested on her pillow. The fingers

were curled slightly inward toward his palm and until

moments ago had been nestled in her hair.

Watching his chest rise and fall with peaceful

breathing, she had struggled with the temptation to

wake him and confess everything. Would he have understood?

Would he have thanked her for being honest

with him? Maybe he would have told her that it

didn't matter, and drawn her back down beside him,

and kissed her again. Would he have thought more or

less of her for admitting what she had done?

What had he thought when he woke up and found

her gone?

No doubt he had panicked at first, thinking that

he'd been robbed. Straight out of bed, he had probably

checked to see if his wallet was still on the bureau.

Had he fanned out his credit cards like a poker

hand to make certain that none were missing? Had he

been surprised to find all his cash present and accounted

for? Had he then felt tremendous relief?

Following the relief, had he become puzzled by

her disappearance? Or angry? Probably angry. He

might have taken her sneaking out as an affront.

At the very least she hoped that, having awakened

and noticed her gone, he hadn't simply shrugged,

rolled over, and gone back to sleep. That was a sad

but distinct possibility which caused her to wonder

whether or not he had even thought of her today. Had

he replayed the entire evening in his head just as she

had, taking it from the instant their eyes had locked

across the dance floor until that last time . . . ?

His lips brushed kisses across her face. He whispered,

"Why does this feel so good?"

"It's supposed to feel good, isn't it?"

"Yes. But not like this. Not this good."

"It's..."

"What?" Angling his head back, his eyes probed

hers.

"It's almost better."

"Being still, you mean ? "

She closed her thighs around his hips, hugging

him tighter, securing him. "Like this. Just having

you..."

"Hmm." He buried his face in her neck. But after

a long moment, he groaned. "I'm sorry. I can't be

still."

Lifting her hips, she gasped, "Neither can I."

Suddenly, lest she stumble, she stopped running

and bent from the waist, resting her hands on her

knees as she sucked in the sultry, insufficient air. She

blinked salty sweat out of her eyes and tried to dry

them with the back of her hand, only to realize that it

was dripping, too.

She must stop thinking about it. Their evening together,

while being wildly romantic to her, probably

had been nothing out of the ordinary for him, regardless

of all the poetic things he had said.

Not that it mattered one way or the other, she reminded

herself. It made no difference what he

thought of her, or if he thought of her at all. They

could never see each other again.

After a time she regained her breath and her heart

rate slowed, then she jogged down the steps of the

seawall. More than the exhausting run, the certainty

of never seeing him again sapped her of energy. She

lived only a few blocks from the Battery, but walking

those seemed longer than the entire distance she had

run.

She was still lost in despondent thought as she unlatched

her front iron gate. The rude bleat of a car

horn startled her, and she spun around just as a Mercedes

convertible screeched to a halt at the curb.

The driver tipped down his sunglasses, looking at

her over the frames. "Good evening," Bobby Trimble

drawled. "I've been calling you all day and was about

to give you up for lost."

"What are you doing here?"

His chiding smile made her skin crawl.

"Get away from my house and leave me alone."

"It wouldn't be a good idea to get me riled. Especially

not now. Where have you been all day?"

She refused to answer.

He grinned, seemingly amused by her stubbornness.

"Never mind. Get in."

Leaning across the seat, he opened the passenger

door. As it swung open, she had to leap back to keep it from striking her shin. "If you think I'm going anywhere

with you, you're crazy."

He reached for the ignition key. "Fine, then I'll

come in."

"No!"

He chuckled. "I didn't think so." Patting the passenger

seat, he said, "Put your sweet little tush right

here. Right now."

She knew he wouldn't give up easily and go away.

Sooner or later she must confront this, so she might

just as well get it over with. She climbed into the car

and angrily slammed the door.

Hammond decided not to postpone offering his

condolences to Lute Pettijohn's widow. After concluding

his conversation with Mason and seeing

Steffi off, he showered and changed. Within minutes,

he was in his car and on his way to the Pettijohn mansion.

Waiting for the bell at the gate to be answered, he

mindlessly observed the people enjoying their Sunday

evening at the Battery. Two tourists across the

street in the park were taking photographs of the Pettijohns'

mansion, despite his presence in the foreground.

The usual number of joggers and walkers

showed up as moving silhouettes along the seawall.

He was let in by Sarah Birch. The housekeeper

asked him to wait in the foyer while she announced

him. Returning shortly, she said, "Miss Davee says

for you to come on up, Mr. Cross."

The massive woman led him upstairs, across the

gallery, and down a wide corridor, then through an

enormous bedroom into a bathroom that was unlike

any Hammond had ever seen. Beneath a stained-glass

skylight was a sunken whirlpool tub large enough for

a volleyball team. It was filled with water, but the jets

weren't on. Creamy magnolia blossoms as large as

dinner plates floated on the still surface.

What seemed to be acres of mirrored walls reflected

scented candles that flickered on elaborate

candlesticks scattered throughout the room. A silk-upholstered

chaise piled with decorative pillows

stood in one corner. The gold sink was as large as a

washtub. The fixtures were crystal, matching the

countless vanity jars and perfume bottles arrayed on

the counter.

Hammond realized now that the gossips were

probably conservative in their estimate of what Lute

had spent on the house's refurbishing. Although he

had been inside many times for various social functions,

this was the first time he had ever been upstairs.

He had heard rumors of its opulence, but he

hadn't expected anything quite this lavish.

Nor had he expected to find the recent widow

naked and cooing pleasurably as a beefy masseur

stroked the back of her thigh.

"You don't mind, do you, Hammond?" Davee Pettijohn

asked as the masseur draped a sheet over her to