The Alibi (21 page)

urge to go back and put his hands around the throat of

the bastard in the convertible.

One thing was certain: He had to assert himself or

explode. Now. Immediately. He had to establish that

there was something over which Hammond Cross

still had control.

"I want an artist there first thing in the morning."

"It's late, Hammond."

He knew what time it was. For hours he'd been sitting

in a sweltering automobile, entertaining sexual

fantasies. For his trouble, all he'd got was Dr. Ladd in the company of another man. "I know how late it

is."

"My point is, I don't know if I can get--"

"What's the guy's room number?"

"Mr. Daniels's room number? Uh ..."

"I want to talk to him myself."

"That really isn't necessary. Smilow and I questioned

him at length. Besides, I think he's being discharged

in the morning."

"Then you'd better set it up early. Seven-thirty.

And have the police sketch artist standing by."

MONDAY

CHAPTER

13

at seven-thirty the following morning, Hammond

entered the hospital carrying a copy of the Post and

Courier and his briefcase. He stopped at the information

desk to ask the room number, which he had

failed to get from Steffi. He also stopped at a vending

machine for a cup of coffee.

He was wearing a necktie, but in deference to the

hot day that was promised, he had left his suit jacket

in his car, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and unbuttoned

his collar button. His bearing was militant, his face as

dark as a thundercloud.

To Steffi's credit, the others were already assembled

when he arrived. She was there, along with Rory

Smilow, a frumpy woman in an ill-fitting police uniform,

and the man in the hospital bed. Steffi's eyes

were puffy, as though she hadn't slept well. After a

muttered round of greetings, she said, "Hammond,

you remember Corporal Mary Endicott. We've

worked with her before."

He dropped his briefcase and newspaper in a chair

in order to shake hands with the policewoman sketch

artist. "Corporal Endicott."

"Mr. Cross."

Steffi then introduced him to Mr. Daniels, a guest

of their city from Macon, Georgia, who was presently

nibbling at the bland food on his breakfast tray. "I'm

sorry your visit to Charleston hasn't been the best,

Mr. Daniels. Are you feeling better?"

"Good enough to get out of here. If possible, I'd

like to get this over with before my wife comes to

pick me up."

"How quickly we finish depends on how precise

your descriptions are. Corporal Endicott is excellent,

but she can only do as well as you can."

Daniels looked worried. "Would I have to testify

in court? I mean, if you catch this lady and she turns

out to be the one who killed that man, would I have

to point her out at the trial?"

"That's a possibility," Hammond told him.

The man sighed unhappily. "Well, if it comes to

that, I'll do my civic duty." He shrugged philosophically.

"Let's get on with it."

Hammond said, "First, I'd like to hear your story,

Mr. Daniels."

"He's related it to us several times," Smilow said.

"It really doesn't amount to much."

Beyond his perfunctory good morning, up to this

point Smilow had remained as silent and still as a

lizard sunning itself. Often Smilow's posture seemed

indolent, but to Hammond he gave off the impression

of a reptile lying in wait, constantly watching for an

opportunity to strike.

Hammond acknowledged that comparing Smilow

to a serpent was based solely on his unmitigated dis

like of the man. To say nothing of being unfair to serpents.

Smilow's gray suit was perfectly tailored and well

pressed. His white shirt was crisp enough to bounce

a quarter, his necktie tightly knotted. Not a hair was

out of place. His eyes were clear and alert. After the

rough night Hammond had spent tossing and turning,

he resented Smilow's bandbox appearance and unflappable

composure.

"It's your call, of course," he said politely. "This is

your investigation."

"That's right, it is."

"But as a courtesy--"

"You didn't show much courtesy to me when you

arranged this meeting without consulting me first.

You say it's my investigation, but on surface it appears

that it's yours. As usual, your actions belie your

words, Hammond."

Leave it to Smilow to pick a fight on a morning

when he was feeling truculent himself. "Look, I went

out of town the day Pettijohn was killed, so I'm playing

catch-up. I've read the newspaper accounts, but I

know you don't share all your leads with the media.

All I'm asking is that the details be filled in for me."

"When the time is right."

"What's wrong with now?"

"Okay, guys, King's X!" Steffi stepped between

them, forming a cross with her index fingers. "It

really doesn't matter who arranged this meeting, does

it? In fact, Hammond, Smilow had already called

Corporal Endicott by the time I reached her last night." The plump, matronly officer confirmed this

with a nod. "So technically Smilow had the idea first,

as he should since the case is his baby until he turns

it over to us. Right?

"And, Smilow, if Hammond also thought of the

artist, that only means that great minds think alike,

and this case can use all the great minds it can muster.

So let's get started and not detain these people any

longer than necessary. Mr. Daniels is in somewhat of

a hurry, and we've all got other work to do. Speaking

for myself, I wouldn't mind hearing his account once

more."

Smilow conceded with a curt semi-nod. Daniels

recounted his experience of Saturday afternoon.

When he concluded, Hammond asked him if he was

certain he had seen no one else.

"You mean once I reached the fifth floor? No, sir."

"You're sure?"

"Just that one lady and me were the only ones

around. But I couldn't have been in the hall more

than ... hmm .. . say, twenty, thirty seconds from the

time I got off the elevator."

"Did anyone share the car with you?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Daniels. I appreciate your repeating your story for my benefit."

Ignoring Smilow's I-told-you-so expression,

Hammond turned Daniels over to Mary Endicott.

Smilow excused himself to make some telephone

calls. Steffi hovered over the artist's shoulder and followed

the questions she was asking Daniels. Ham

mond carried his lukewarm coffee to the window and

stared out over a day that was much too sunny to

match his mood.

Eventually Steffi sidled up to him. "You're awfully

quiet."

"It was a short night. I couldn't fall asleep."

"Any particular reason for your insomnia?"

Catching the underlying meaning to her question,

he turned his head and looked down at her. "Just restless."

"You're cruel, Hammond."

"How so?"

"The least you could have done was get stinking

drunk last night and second-guess your decision to

break up with me."

He smiled, but his tone was serious. "It was the

only decision for us, Steffi. You know that as well as

I do."

"Particularly in light of Mason's decision."

"It was his decision, not mine."

"But I never stood a fighting chance of getting this

case. Mason favors you and makes no bones about it.

He always will. And you know that as well as I do."

"I was here first, Steffi. It's a matter of seniority."

"Yeah, right." Her droll tone contradicted her

words.

Before Hammond could respond to it, Smilow returned.

"This is interesting. One of my guys has been

nosing around the Pettijohns' neighborhood to see if

anyone had overheard Lute quarreling with a tradesman

or neighbor. Dead end there."

"I hope there's a to," Steffi said.

He nodded. "But Sarah Birch was at the supermarket

on Saturday afternoon. She asked the butcher

to butterfly some pork chops she wished to stuff for

Sunday dinner. He was busy, so it took him a while to

get to it. Rather than waiting, she did her other shopping.

The store was crowded. She didn't return to the

butcher for nearly an hour, he said. Which means she

lied about being at home with Mrs. Pettijohn all afternoon."

"If she would lie about something as insignificant

as going to the market, it stands to reason that she

might also tell a whopper."

"Only the lie isn't so insignificant," Smilow said.

"The time frame works. The butcher remembers delivering

the chops to Sarah Birch just before his shift

ended at six-thirty."

"Meaning that she was in the store anywhere from,

say, five until six-thirty," Steffi mused aloud. "About

the time Pettijohn was getting whacked. And the supermarket

is two blocks from the hotel! Damn! Can

it be this easy?"

"No," Smilow said with reluctance. "Mr. Daniels

said that the woman he saw in the hotel corridor

wasn't ethnic. Sarah Birch definitely is."

"She could be covering for Davee, though."

"Nor was the woman he saw blond," Smilow reminded

her. "Davee Pettijohn, by any description, is

a blonde."

"Are you kidding? She's the Queen of Clairol."

It didn't surprise Hammond that Davee's faithful

housekeeper would lie for her. But he was put off by

Steffi's catty comment and uneasy that his childhood

friend was seriously being considered a suspect with

an alibi that wasn't as ironclad as she had claimed.

"Davee wouldn't have killed Lute." The other two

turned to him. "What motive would she have?"

"Jealousy and money."

He shook his head in disagreement. "She has her

own lovers, Steffi. Why would she be jealous of

Lute's? And she has her own money. Probably more

than Lute."

"Well, I'm not ready to mark her off the list just

yet."

Leaving the other two to their speculations, Hammond

wandered toward the bed. A book of sketches

lay open on Daniels's lap, picturing what seemed an

endless variety of eye shapes. Hammond glanced

down at Endicott's rendering, but so far she was still

working to get the shape of the face correct.

"Maybe a little thinner through here," Mr. Daniels

said, stroking his own cheek. The artist made the suggested

adjustment. "Yeah, more like that."

When they progressed to eyebrows and eyes,

Hammond rejoined Steffi and Smilow. "What about

former business associates?" he asked the detective.

"Naturally they're being questioned," Smilow answered

with cool civility. "That is, those who don't

have prison as their alibi."

Unless the cases had fallen under federal jurisdiction,

Hammond had helped put some of those white-collar

criminals behind bars. Lute Pettijohn had bent

the rules often enough, frequently coming a hairbreadth

away from criminal wrongdoing. He flirted

with it, but never crossed the line.

"One of Pettijohn's most recent ventures involves

a sea island," Smilow told them.

Steffi scoffed. "What else is new?"

"This one's different. Speckle Island is about a

mile and a half offshore and is one of the few that has

escaped development."

"That's enough to give Pettijohn a hard-on," Steffi

remarked.

Smilow nodded. "He had set things in motion. His

name isn't on any of the partnership documents. At

least not the documents we've been able to find. But

be assured that we're checking it out." Looking at

Hammond, he added, "Thoroughly."

Hammond's heart sank like a lead ball inside his

chest. Smilow wasn't telling him anything about Pettijohn's

Speckle Island venture that he didn't already

know. He knew much more, more than he wanted to

know.

About six months ago, he had been asked by South

Carolina's attorney general to conduct a covert investigation

into Pettijohn's attempt to develop the island.

His discoveries had been alarming, but none as much

as seeing his own father's name listed among the investors.

Until he learned what connection, if any,

Speckle Island had to Pettijohn's murder, he was

keeping his knowledge of this under wraps. Just as

Smilow had rudely said to him, he would give the detective those details only when the time was right.

Steffi said, "One of those former associates might

have held a grudge so strong that it drove him to

commit murder."

"It's a viable possibility," Smilow said. "The problem

is, Lute operated in a circle of movers and shakers

that included government officials on every level.

His friends were men who wielded power of one kind

or another. That complicates my maneuverability, but

it doesn't keep me from digging."

If Smilow was digging, then Hammond knew the

name of Preston Cross was lying out there like a

buried treasure waiting to be disinterred. It was only