The Alibi (19 page)

unless she was way off base, that was by design.

Hammond was charismatic. Close friendships with

him were earned, but he was friendly and approachable.

Smilow was fastidious and impeccably

groomed, while Hammond's attractiveness was natural

and effortless. In college Smilow would have

been the one guy in class who aced the exam and ruined

the grading curve for everyone else. Hammond's

grades were excellent, too, but he also had been a

popular student leader and star athlete. Both were

overachievers, but one's accomplishments were hard-earned,

while to the other they came easily.

Steffi could identify more closely with Smilow.

She understood and could relate to his resentment of

Hammond, a resentment compounded by Hammond's

own attitude toward his advantages. He did

not exploit them. Moreover, he rejected them. Spurning

his trust fund, he lived on what he earned. His

condo was nice, but he could have afforded much

better. His only extravagances were his sailboat and

his cabin, but he never advertised that he owned either.

He would be much easier to hate if he flaunted his

privileges.

It would be interesting, to say nothing of useful, to

know the source of the antipathy between him and "Hmm. Do you know of any resorts he plans to

visit?"

"None. And a woman can usually tell."

"So can a man."

His tone conveyed more than the four words.

Steffi regarded him closely. "Why, Rory! It is even

remotely possible that Mr. Ice in Veins was once in lowe?"

"Excuse me?" They hadn't noticed the nurse's approach

until she spoke to them. "My patient. . ." She

hitched a thumb over her shoulder indicating Mr.

Daniels's room. "He wanted to know if you had left.

When I told him you were out here, he asked me to

tell you that he remembered something that might

help you."

Before she had finished speaking, they were on

their feet.

CHAPTER

12

hammond consulted the street address he had

jotted down and tucked into his shirt pocket before

leaving his place to visit Davee.

Uncertain that the telephone number for Dr.

Ladd's answering service was a Charleston exchange,

Hammond had anxiously run his finger down

a listing of physicians in the Yellow Pages until he

found one Dr. A. E. Ladd. He knew immediately he

had the right one because the after-hours number

listed matched the one he had called from the cabin

that morning.

Dr. Ladd was his only link to the woman he'd been

with last night. Of course, talking to him was out of

the question. Hammond's short-term goal was only to

locate his office and see what, if anything, he could

learn from it. Later he would try and figure out how

to go about approaching him.

Despite being preoccupied with his breakup with

Steffi, and his disturbing conversation with Davee,

and the Pettijohn murder and all that it implied,

thoughts of the woman he had followed from the

county fair and kissed at a gas station wouldn't leave

him alone.

It would be useless to try and ignore them. Hammond

Cross did not accept unanswered questions.

Even as a boy, he couldn't be pacified with pat answers.

He nagged his parents until they provided him

with an explanation that satisfied his curiosity.

He'd carried the trait into adulthood. That desire to

know not only the generalities, but the particulars,

benefitted him in his work. He dug and continued to

dig until he got to the truth, sometimes to the supreme

frustration of his colleagues. Sometimes even he was

frustrated by his doggedness.

Thoughts of her would persist until he learned

who she was and why, after the incredible night they

had spent together, she had walked out of his cabin

and, consequently, out of his life.

Locating Dr. Ladd was an attempt, albeit a juvenile,

pathetic, and desperate one, to find out something

about her. Specifically, whether or not she was

Mrs. Ladd. If so, that's where it must end. If not.. .

He didn't allow himself to consider the various if

nots.

Having grown up in Charleston, Hammond knew

the street's general location, and it was only blocks

away from Davee's mansion. He reached it within minutes.

It was a short and narrow lane, where the buildings

were shrouded in vines and history. It was one of several

such streets within easy walking distance of the

bustling commercial district, while seemingly a

world apart. Most of the structures in this area between

Broad Street and the Battery boasted historical

markers. Some house numbers ended with a 1/2, indicating

that an outbuilding to the main structure,

such as a coach house or detached kitchen, had

since been converted into a separate residence. Real

estate was at a premium. It was a pricey neighborhood.

The acronym for anyone living south of

Broad was S.O.B.

It wasn't surprising to Hammond that the doctor's

practice was located in a basically residential section.

Many noncommercial professionals had converted

older houses into businesses, often living in the top

stories, which had been a Charleston tradition for

centuries.

He left his car parked on a wider thoroughfare

and entered the cobblestone lane on foot. Darkness

had fallen. The weekend was over; people had retreated

inside. He was the only pedestrian out. The

street was shadowed and quiet, but overall friendly

and hospitable. Open window shutters revealed

lighted rooms that looked inviting. Without exception,

the properties were upscale and well maintained.

Apparently Dr. Ladd did very well.

The evening air was heavy and dense. It was as

tangible as a cotton flannel blanket wrapping around

him claustrophobically. In a matter of minutes his

shirt was sticking to him. Even a slow stroll was enervating,

especially when nervousness was also a factor.

He was forced to breathe deeply, drawing into his

nostrils exotic floral scents and the salty-seminal tan£ of seawater from off the harbor a few blocks away

He smelled the remnants of charcoal smoke on which

somebody had cooked Sunday supper. The aroma

made his mouth water, reminding him that he had

eaten nothing all day except the English muffin at his

cabin.

The walk gave him time to think about how he

was going to make contact with the doctor. What if he

simply went up to the door and rang the bell? If Dr.

Ladd answered, he could pretend that he obviously

had been given the wrong address, that he was looking

for someone else, apologize for disturbing him,

and leave.

If she answered the door ... what choice would he

have? The most troubling question would have been

answered. He would turn and walk away, never look

back, and get on with his life.

All these contingencies had been based on the

probability that she was married to the doctor. To

Hammond that was the logical explanation for her

placing a call to him furtively and then acting guilty

when caught red-handed. Because she appeared the

picture of health, and had certainly exhibited no visible

symptoms of illness, it never had occurred to him

that she might be a patient.

Not until he reached the house number. In the

small square of yard demarcated by an iron picket

fence stood a discreet white wooden signpost with

black cursive lettering.

Dr. A. E. Ladd was a psychologist.

Was she a patient? If so, it was slightly unsettling

that his lover had felt the need to consult her psy

chologist within moments of leaving his bed. He consoled

himself by acknowledging that it was now

commonplace to have a therapist. As confidants they

had replaced trusted spouses, older relatives, and

clergymen. He had friends and colleagues who kept

standing weekly appointments, if only to ease the

stress of contemporary life. Seeing a psychologist

carried no stigma and was certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

Actually, he felt tremendously relieved. Sleeping

with Dr. Ladd's patient was acceptable. What was unacceptable

was sleeping with his wife. But a cloud

moved across that small ray of hope. If she was his

patient, what then? It would be nearly impossible to

learn her identity.

Dr. Ladd wouldn't divulge information about his

patients. Even if Hammond stooped to use the solicitor's

office as his entree, the doctor would probably

stand on professional privilege and refuse to open his

files unless they were subpoenaed, and Hammond

would never take it that far. His professional standards

wouldn't allow it.

Besides, how could he ask for information about

her if he didn't even know her name?

From the opposite side of the street, Hammond

mulled over this dilemma while studying the neat

brick structure in which Dr. Ladd had his office. It

typified a unique architectural style--the single

house, so called because from the street it was only

one room wide, but was several rooms deep. This one

had two stories, with deep side porches, or piazzas,

running from front to back on both levels.

Behind an ornate gate, the front walkway extended

straight up the right side of the yard to a front

door painted Charleston Green--a near-black with

only a dollop of green mixed in. The door had a brass

knocker in its center, and like the front doors to most

single houses, opened not into the house itself, but

onto the piazza, from which one entered the house.

Fig vine had a tenacious hold on much of the facade,

but it had been neatly trimmed around the four

tall windows that offset the front door. Beneath each

of these windows was a window box overflowing

with ferns and white impatiens. No lights were on.

Just as Hammond was stepping off the curb to

cross the street for a closer look, the door of the house

behind him opened and an enormous gray and white

sheepdog bounded out, dragging his owner behind

him.

"Whoa, Winthrop!"

But Winthrop would not be restrained. He was raring

to go and straining against his leash as he reached

the end of the walkway and came up on his back legs,

throwing himself against the gate. Instinctively Hammond

took a couple steps back.

Laughing at his reaction, the dog owner pulled the

gate open and Winthrop bolted through. "Sorry about

that. Hope he didn't scare you. He doesn't bite, but

given the chance, he might lick you to death."

Hammond smiled. "No problem." Winthrop,

showing no interest in him, had hiked his leg and was

peeing against a fence post.

Hammond must have looked harmless but lost, because

the man said, "Can I help you?"

"Uh, actually I was trying to locate Dr. Ladd's office."

"You found it." The young man pointed his chin

toward the house across the street.

"Right, right."

The man gave him a politely quizzical look.

"Uh, I'm a salesman," he blurted. "Medical forms.

Stuff like that. The sign doesn't say what time the office

opens."

"About ten, I think. You could call Alex to confirm."

"Alex?"

"Dr. Ladd."

"Oh, sure. Yeah, I should've called, but... you

know .. .just thought I'd ... well, okay." Winthrop

was sniffing beneath a camellia bush. "Thanks. Take

it easy, Winthrop."

Hoping the neighbor would never connect the

inarticulate idiot to the assistant D.A. frequently seen

addressing reporters on TV, Hammond patted the

shaggy dog on the head, then set off down the sidewalk

in the direction from which he had come.

"Actually, you just missed her."

Hammond whipped back around. "Her?"

* * *

had two stories, with deep side porches, or piazzas,

running from front to back on both levels.

Behind an ornate gate, the front walkway extended

straight up the right side of the yard to a front

door painted Charleston Green--a near-black with

only a dollop of green mixed in. The door had a brass

knocker in its center, and like the front doors to most

single houses, opened not into the house itself, but

onto the piazza, from which one entered the house.

Fig vine had a tenacious hold on much of the facade,

but it had been neatly trimmed around the four

tall windows that offset the front door. Beneath each

of these windows was a window box overflowing

with ferns and white impatiens. No lights were on.

Just as Hammond was stepping off the curb to

cross the street for a closer look, the door of the house

behind him opened and an enormous gray and white

sheepdog bounded out, dragging his owner behind

him.

"Whoa,Winthrop!"

But Winthrop would not be restrained. He was raring

to go and straining against his leash as he reached