The Alibi (22 page)

a matter of time before his father's alliance with Pettijohn

was uncovered.

Silently Hammond cursed his father for placing

him in this compromising position. Soon he might be

forced to choose between duty and family loyalty. At

the very least, Preston's dirty dealing could cost

Hammond the Pettijohn murder case. If it came to

that, Hammond would never forgive him.

He glanced at the hospital bed, where the artist

seemed to be making progress.

"Her hair. Was it long or short?"

"About here," Daniels said, indicating the top of

his shoulder.

"Bangs?"

"On her forehead, you mean? No."

"Straight or curly?"

"More curly, I guess. Fluffy." Again he used his

hands to illustrate.

"She was wearing it down, then?"

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know too much about hairstyles."

"Thumb through this magazine. See if there's a

picture in there that resembles her hair."

Daniels frowned and worriedly glanced at the

clock, but he did as instructed and began listlessly

turning the pages of the hair fashion magazine.

"What color was it?" the artist asked.

"Sorta red."

"She was a redhead?"

Hammond felt himself drawn forward by

Daniels's words, as though they were working handover-hand

on a rope, inexorably pulling him in.

"She wasn't a carrot-top."

"Dark red, then?"

"No. I guess you'd just say brown, but with lots of

red in it."

"Auburn?"

"That's it," he said, snapping his fingers. "I knew

there was a word for it, I just couldn't think of it.

Auburn."

Hammond swallowed a sip of coffee that had suddenly

turned bitter inside his mouth. He inched toward

the hospital bed with the reluctance of an

acrophobic approaching the rim of the Grand

Canyon.

Corporal Endicott made rapid pencil strokes

against the paper in her tablet. Scratch, scratch,

scratch. "How's that?" she said, showing Daniels her

work.

"Hey, that's pretty good. Except she had, you

know, strands around her face."

Hammond moved a few steps closer.

"Like this?"

Daniels told Endicott that she had nailed the hairstyle.

"Good. That just leaves the mouth," she said.

Setting aside the magazine, the artist flipped the

sketchbook open to another section. "Do you remember

anything distinctive about her mouth, Mr.

Daniels?"

"She was wearing lipstick," he mumbled as he

studied the myriad sketches of lips.

"So you noticed her lips?"

Raising his head, he darted an uneasy glance toward

the door, as though fearful that Mrs. Daniels

would be standing there eavesdropping. "Her mouth

looked kinda like this one." He pointed to one of the

standard sketches. "Except her lower lip was fuller."

Endicott consulted the drawing in the book, then

replicated it on her own sketch.

Watching, Daniels added, "When she glanced at

me, she sorta smiled."

"Did her teeth show?"

"No. A polite smile. You know, like people do

when they get into an elevator or something."

Like when eyes accidentally connect across a

dance floor.

Hammond couldn't work up enough courage to

look down at Endicott's handiwork, but in his mind's

eye he saw an alluring, closed-mouth smile that had

been deeply impressed on his memory.

"Anything resembling this?" Endicott turned her

pad toward Daniels to afford him a better look.

"Well, I'll be doggone," he said in awe. "That's

her."

And no more than a quick glance confirmed to

Hammond that indeed it was. It was her.

Smilow and Steffi had been engrossed in their

own conversation. Hearing Daniels's soft exclamation,

they rushed to the bedside. Hammond allowed

Steffi to elbow him aside because he didn't need to

see any more.

"It's not exact," Daniels told them, "but it's pretty

damn good."

"Any distinguishing marks or scars?"

A freckle.

"I think she had a molelike thing," Daniels said.

"It wasn't ugly. More like a freckle. Under her eye."

"Do you remember--" Steffi began.

"Which eye?" Smilow asked, finishing her

thought.

The right.

"Uh, let's see, I was facing her ... so that means it

would be ... her left. No, wait, her right. Definitely

her right," Daniels said, pleased that he could be so

helpful and provide this detail.

"Were you close enough to see the color of her

eyes?"

"No. 'Fraid not."

Green, flecked with brown. Widely spaced. Dark

lashes.

"How tall was she, Mr. Daniels?"

Five-six.

"Taller than you," he said, answering Steffi. "But

several inches shorter than Mr. Smilow here."

"I'm five-ten," he offered.

"So about five-six or -seven?" Steffi asked, doing

the math in her head.

"About that, I'd say."

"Weight?"

One hundred and fifteen.

"Not much."

"One thirty?" Smilow ventured.

"Less than that, I think."

"Do you happen to remember what she was wearing?"

Steffi wanted to know. "Slacks? Or shorts? A

dress?"

A skirt.

"Either shorts or a skirt. I'm sure because you

could, you know, see her legs." Daniels squirmed.

"Some kinda top. I don't remember the color or anything

like that."

White shirt. Brown knit tank top and matching

cardigan. Brown leather sandals. No stockings.

Beige lace brassiere that closed in front. Matching

panties.

Endicott began gathering up her supplies and

stuffing them into the overstuffed black bag. Smilow

took the sketch from her and then shook hands with

Mr. Daniels. "We have your number in Macon if we

need to contact you. Hopefully this will be sufficient.

Thank you so much."

"Same for me," Steffi said, smiling at the man before

following Smilow toward the door.

Having no voice, Hammond merely nodded a

goodbye to Mr. Daniels. Out in the hallway, Smilow

and Steffi profusely thanked the artist before she got

into the elevator.

They stayed behind to study the sketch and congratulate

themselves. "So that's our mystery

woman," Smilow remarked. "She doesn't look like a

murderess, does she?"

"What does a murderess look like?"

"Good point, Steffi."

She chuckled. "I see now why Mr. Daniels didn't

want his wife around when he described our suspect.

In spite of the pressure in his bowels, I think he was lusting in his heart. He remembered every minute detail,

even down to the freckle beneath the chick's

right eye."

"You've got to admit, it's a memorable face."

"Which doesn't mean squat when you're talking

guilt or innocence. Pretty women can kill with just as

much alacrity as ugly ones. Right, Hammond?" Steffi

turned to him. "Jeez, what's with you?"

He must have looked as nauseous as he felt. "Bad

cup of coffee," he said, crushing the empty Styrofoam

cup he'd been holding clenched in his hand.

"Well, Smilow, go get her." Steffi tapped the drawing

with her fingernail. "We've got the face."

"It would help if we knew her name."

Dr. Alex Ladd.

CHAPTER

14

the temporary headquarters of the judicial building

was located in North Charleston. It was an unattractive

two-story structure situated in an industrial

district. Its nearest neighbors were a convenience

store and a day-old bakery shop. This out-of-the-way

location was serving until an extensive renovation of

the stately old building downtown was completed. It

had been already in need of attention when Hurricane

Hugo rendered the building unsafe and unusable,

forcing the move.

It was only a ten-minute drive from downtown.

Hammond wouldn't remember making the drive that

morning. He parked and went inside. He responded

by rote to the guard who manned the metal detector

at the entrance. Turning left, he went into the County

Solicitor's Office and passed the receptionist's desk

without slowing up. He brusquely asked her to hold

all calls.

"You already have--"

"I'll take care of everything later."

He soundly closed his private office door behind

him. Tossing his suit jacket and briefcase on top of

the paperwork waiting for his attention on his desk,

he threw himself into the high-backed leather chair

and pressed the heels of his hands against his eye

sockets.

It simply couldn't be. This had to be a dream.

Shortly, he would wake up startled and alarmed and

breathing heavily, his sheets damp with sweat. After

orienting himself to familiar surroundings, he would

realize with relief that he had been in a deep sleep and

that this nightmare wasn't a reality.

But it was. He wasn't dreaming it, he was living it.

Impossible as it seemed, the sketch artist had drawn

Dr. Alex Ladd, who had shared Hammond's bed

within hours after she was seen at the site of a murder.

Coincidence? Highly unlikely.

She must have some connection to Lute Pettijohn.

Hammond wasn't sure he wanted to know

what that connection was. In fact, he was dead certain

he didn't want to know.

He dragged his hands down his face, then, propping

his elbows on his desk, he stared into near space

and tried to arrange his chaotic thoughts into some

semblance of order.

First, without a doubt, Corporal Endicott had

sketched the face of the woman he had slept with Saturday

night. Even if he hadn't seen her as recently as

last night, he wasn't likely to forget her face that

soon. It had attracted him from the start. He had spent

hours late Saturday night and early Sunday morning

studying, admiring, caressing, and kissing it.

"Where did this come from?" He touched a spot

beneath her right eye.

"My blemish?"

"It's a beauty mark."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"When I was younger I hated it. Now I must admit

I've grown rather fond of it."

"I can see how that could happen.I could grow

fond of it myself." He kissed it once, then a second

time, touching it lightly with the tip of his tongue.

"Hmm. It's a shame."

"What?"

"That I don't have more spots."

He had come to know her face intimately. The

artist's sketch was a two-dimensional, black and

white drawing. Given those limitations, it couldn't

possibly capture the essence of the woman behind the

face, but it had been such a close representation that

there was no doubt Dr. Ladd had been seen near a

murder victim's room shortly before placing herself

in the path of someone from the county solicitor's office,

specifically one Hammond Cross, who had himself

been in Pettijohn's company that afternoon.

"Jesus." Plowing his fingers through his hair and

holding his head between his hands, he almost surrendered

to the disbelief and despair that assailed

him. What the hell was he going to do?

Well, he couldn't collapse from within, which is

what he felt like doing. What a luxury it would be to

slink away from this office, leave Charleston, leave

the state, run away and hide, let this mess erupt on its

own, and spare himself having to withstand the incendiary

lava flow of scandal that would inevitably

follow.

But he was made of sterner stuff than that. He had

been born with an indomitable sense of responsibility,

and his parents had nourished that trait every day

of his life. He could no more fathom running away

from this than he could imagine sprouting wings.

So he forced himself to confront a second point

that seemed unarguable--withholding her name from

him hadn't been the flirtation he had mistaken it for.

They had been together at the fair for at least an hour

before he even thought to ask her name. They'd

laughed because it had taken them that long to get

around to what was usually the first order of business

when two people meet and must make their own introductions.

"Names aren't really that important, are they? Not

when the meeting is this amiable."

He agreed. "Yeah, what's in a name?" He proceeded

to quote what he could remember of the passage

from Romeo and Juliet.

"That's good! Have you ever thought of writing it

down?"

"In fact I have, but it would never sell"

From there it had become a running joke--his asking

her name, her declining to tell him. Like a sap he

had thought they were playing out the fantasy of

making love to an anonymous stranger. Nameless

ness had been an enticement, part of the adventure,

integral to the allure. He had seen no harm in it.

What was disturbing but likely was that Alex Ladd

had known his name all along. Theirs hadn't been a

random meeting. It wasn't happenstance that she had

arrived at that dance pavilion shortly after him. Their