The Alibi (2 page)

it? He wasn't exactly committed, but he wasn't exactly uncommitted, either.

Suddenly she stood up, grabbed her cardigan, slung the strap of her small purse over her shoulder,

and turned to leave. Instantly the three men seated

with her were on their feet, crowding around her.

One, who appeared to be hammered, placed his arm

across her shoulders and lowered his face close to

hers. Hammond could see his lips moving; whatever

he was saying to her made his companions laugh uproariously.

She didn't think it was funny. She averted her

head, and it appeared to Hammond that she was trying

to extricate herself from an awkward situation

without causing a scene. She took the serviceman's

arm and removed it from around her neck and, smiling

stiffly, said something to him before once again

turning as though to leave.

Not to be put off, and goaded by his two friends,

the spurned one went after her. When he reached for

her arm and pulled her around again, Hammond

acted.

Later, he didn't remember crossing the dance floor,

although he must have practically plowed his way

through the couples now swaying to a slow dance, because

within seconds he was reaching between two of

the muscle-bound, hard-bellied marines, shoving the

persistent one aside, and hearing himself say, "Sorry

about that, honey. I ran into Norm Blanchard and you

know how that son-of-a-gun can talk. Lucky for me,

they're playing our song."

Curving his arm around her waist, he drew her out

with him onto the dance floor.

* * *

"You got my instructions?"

"Yes, sir, Detective. No one else comes in, no one

leaves. We've sealed off all the exits."

"That includes everybody. No exceptions."

"Yes, sir."

Having made his orders emphatic, Detective Rory

Smilow nodded to the uniformed officer and entered

the Charles Towne Plaza through the hotel's main

doors. The staircase had been touted by numerous design

magazines to be an architectural triumph. Already

it had become the signature feature of the new

complex. Epitomizing southern hospitality, two arms

of wide steps swept up from the lobby floor. They

seemed to be embracing the incredible crystal chandelier,

before merging forty feet above the lobby to

form the second-story gallery.

On both levels of the lobby policemen were mingling

with hotel guests and employees, all of whom

had heard by now that there had been what appeared

to be a murder on the fifth floor.

Nothing created this kind of expectant atmosphere

like a killing, Smilow thought as he assessed the

scene.

Sunburned, perspiring, camera-toting tourists

milled around, asking questions of anyone in authority,

talking among themselves, speculating on the

identity of the victim and what had provoked the

murder.

In his well-tailored suit and French cuff shirt,

Smilow was conspicuously overdressed. Despite the

sweltering heat outside, his clothing was fresh and

dry, not even moist. An irritated subordinate had once

asked beneath his breath if Smilow ever sweated.

"Hell, no," a fellow policeman had replied. "Everybody

knows that aliens don't have sweat glands."

Smilow moved purposefully toward the bank of

elevators. The officer he'd spoken with at the entrance

must have communicated his arrival because

another officer was standing in the elevator, holding

the door open for him. Without acknowledging the

courtesy, Smilow stepped in.

"Shine holding up, Mr. Smilow?"

Smilow turned. "Oh yeah, Smitty. Thanks."

The man everyone knew only by his first name operated

three shoeshine chairs in an alcove off the

hotel lobby. For decades he had been a fixture at another

hotel downtown. Recently he had been lured to

the Charles Towne Plaza, and his clientele had followed

him. Even from out-of-towners he received

excellent tips because Smitty knew more than the

hotel concierge about what to do, and where to go,

and where to find whatever you were looking for in

Charleston.

Rory Smilow was one of Smitty's regulars. Ordinarily

he would have paused to exchange pleasantries,

but he was in a hurry now and actually

resented being detained. Curtly he said, "Catch you

later, Smitty." The elevator doors slid closed.

He and the uniformed cop rode up to the top floor

in silence. Smilow never fraternized with fellow officers,

not even those of equal ranking, but certainly

not with those of lower rank. He never initiated con

versation unless it pertained to a case he was working

on. Men in the department who were fearless enough

to try chitchatting with him soon discovered that such

attempts were futile. His bearing discouraged comradeship.

Even his natty appearance was as effective

as concertina wire when it came to approachability.

When the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor,

Smilow experienced a thrill he recognized. He had

visited countless murder scenes, some rather tame

and unspectacular, others remarkably grisly. Some

were forgettable and routine. Others he would remember

forever, either because of the imaginative

flair of the killer, the strange surroundings in which

the body had been discovered, the bizarre method of

execution, the uniqueness of the weapon, or the age

and circumstance of the victim.

But his first visit to a crime scene never failed to

give him a rush of adrenaline, which he refused to be

ashamed of. This was what he had been born to do.

He relished his work.

When he stepped out of the elevator, the conversation

among the plainclothes officers in the hallway

subsided. Respectfully, or fearfully, they stepped

aside for him as he made his way to the open door of

the hotel suite where a man had died today.

He made note of the room number, then peered inside.

He was glad to see that the seven officers comprising

the Crime Scene Unit were already there,

going about their various duties.

Satisfied that they were doing a thorough job, he

turned back to the three detectives who'd been dis-

patched by the Criminal Investigation Division. One

who'd been smoking a cigarette hastily crushed it out

in a smoking stand. Smilow treated him to a cold, unblinking

stare. "I hope that sand didn't contain a crucial

piece of evidence, Collins."

The detective stuffed his hands into his pockets

like a third-grader who'd been reprimanded for not

washing after using the rest room.

"Listen up," Smilow said, addressing the group at

large. He never raised his voice. He never had to. "I

will not tolerate a single mistake. If there's any contamination

of this crime scene, if there's the slightest

breach of proper procedure, if the merest speck of evidence

is overlooked or compromised by someone's

carelessness, the offender's ass will be shredded. By

me. Personally."

He made eye contact with each man. Then he said,

"Okay, let's go." As they filed into the room they

pulled on plastic gloves. Each man had a specific

task; each went to it, treading lightly, touching nothing

that they weren't supposed to.

Smilow approached the two officers who had been

first on the scene. Without preamble, he asked, "Did

you touch him?"

"No, sir."

"Touch anything?"

"No, sir."

"The doorknob?"

"The door was standing open when we got here.

The maid who found him had left it open. The hotel

security guard might have touched it. We asked, he

said no, but. . ." He raised his shoulders in a shrug.

"Telephone?" Smilow asked.

"No, sir. I used my cellular. But again, the security

guy might have used it before we got here."

"Who have you talked to so far?"

"Only him. He's the one who called us."

"And what did he say?"

"That a chambermaid found the body." He indicated

the corpse. "Just like this. Face down, two gunshot

wounds in his back beneath the left shoulder

blade."

"Have you questioned the maid?"

"Tried. She's carryin' on so bad we didn't get

much out of her. Besides, she's foreign. Don't know

where she's from," the cop replied to Smilow's inquiring

raised eyebrow. "Can't tell by the accent. She

just keeps saying over and over, 'Dead man,' and

boo-hooing into her hankie. Scared her shitless."

"Did you feel for a pulse?"

The officer glanced at his partner, who spoke for

the first time. "I did. Just to make sure he was dead."

"So you did touch him."

"Well, yeah. But only for that."

"I take it you didn't feel one."

"A pulse?" The cop shook his head. "No. He was

dead. No doubt."

Up to this point, Smilow had ignored the body.

Now he moved toward it. "Anybody heard from the

ME.?"

"On his way."

The answer registered with Smilow, but he was intently

gazing at the dead man. Until he saw it with his

own eyes, he had been unable to believe that the reported

murder victim was none other than Lute Pettijohn.

A local celebrity of sorts, a man of renown,

Pettijohn was, among other things, CEO of the development

company that had converted the derelict

cotton warehouse into the spectacular new Charles

Towne Plaza.

He had also been Rory Smilow's brother-in-law.

chapter 2

she said, "thank you."

Hammond replied, "You're welcome."

"It was becoming a sticky situation."

"I'm just glad that my ruse worked. If it hadn't, I'd

have three of the few and the proud after me."

"I commend your bravery."

"Or stupidity. They could have whipped my ass."

She smiled at that, and when she did, Hammond

was doubly glad he had acted on his idiotic, chivalrous

impulse to rescue her. He had been attracted to

her the moment he spotted her, but seeing her from

across the dance floor was nothing compared to the

up-close and unrestricted view. She averted her eyes

from his intense stare to gaze at a nonspecific point

beyond his shoulder. She was cool under pressure.

No doubt of that.

"What about your friend?" she asked.

"My friend?"

"Mr. Blanchard. Norm, wasn't it?"

"Oh," he said, laughing softly. "Never heard of

him."

"Yep, and I have no idea where the name came

from. It just popped into my head."

"Very creative."

"I had to say something plausible. Something to

make it look like we were together. Familiar. Something

that would, at the very least, get you out on the

dance floor with me."

"You could have simply asked me to dance."

"Yeah, but that would have been boring. It also

would have left an opening for you to turn me down."

"Well, thank you again."

"You're welcome again." He shuffled her around

another couple. "Are you from around here?"

"Not originally."

"Southern accent."

"I grew up in Tennessee," she said. "Near

Nashville."

"Nice area."

"Yes."

"Pretty terrain."

"Hmm."

"Good music, too."

Brilliant conversation, Cross, he thought. Scintillating.

She didn't even honor the last inane statement

with a response, and he didn't blame her. If he kept

this up, she'd be out of here before the song ended.

He maneuvered them around another couple who

were executing an intricate turn, then, in a deadpan

voice, he asked the lamest of all lame pick-up lines.

"Do you come here often?"

She caught the joke and smiled the smile that

might reduce him to a total fool if he wasn't careful.

"Actually, I haven't been to a fair like this since I was

a teenager."

"Me, too. I remember going to one with some buddies.

We must've been about fifteen and were on a

quest to buy beer."

"Any success?"

"None."

"That was your last one?"

"No. I went to another with a date. I took her into

the House of Fright specifically for the purpose of

making out."

"And how successful was that?"

"It went about like the attempt to buy beer. God

knows I tried. But I always seemed to be with the one

girl who ..." His voice trailed off when he felt her

tense up.

"They don't give up easily, do they?"

Sure enough, the trio of troopers were standing

just beyond the edge of the dance floor, nursing fresh

beers and glowering at them.

"Well, if they were quick to surrender, our national

security would be at risk." Giving the young men a

smug smile, he tightened his arm around her waist

and waltzed past them.

"You don't have to protect me," she said. "I could

have handled the situation myself."

"I'm sure you could have. Fending off unwanted

male attention is a skill every attractive woman must acquire. But you're also a lady who was reluctant to