The Alibi (23 page)

meeting had been planned. The remainder of the

evening had been orchestrated in order to either embarrass

or totally compromise him and/or the solicitor's

office.

To what extent remained to be seen. But even the

slightest extent could be calamitous for his burgeoning

career. Even a hint of scandal would be a stumbling

block. One of this magnitude would certainly

damage, if not destroy, his hopes of ever succeeding

Monroe Mason and distinguishing himself as the top-ranking

law enforcer of Charleston County.

Leaning over his desk, he buried his face in his

hands again. Too good to be true. A trite but sound

adage. During law school he and his friends had hung

out in a bar called Tanstaafl, an acronym for "There

ain't no such thing as a free lunch." His fantasy

evening with the most exciting woman he had ever

met not only came with strings attached, those strings

were probably going to form a noose that would ultimately

hang him.

What an idiot he had been not to recognize the

carefully baited trap for what it was. Ironically, he

didn't blame the person, or persons--if she was in

league with Pettijohn--who had trapped him as

much as he blamed himself for being so goddamn

callow.

With both eyes wide open, he had walked into the

oldest snare known to man. Sex was a trusty method

by which to compromise a man. Countless times

throughout recorded history, it had proven itself to be

timely, reliable, and effective. He wouldn't have

thought himself that gullible, but obviously he was.

Gullibility was forgivable. Obstruction of justice

wasn't.

Why hadn't he immediately admitted to Smilow

and Steffi that he recognized the woman in the

sketch?

Because she could be completely blameless. This

Daniels could be mistaken. If in truth he had seen

Alex Ladd in the hotel, the timing of his seeing her

would become critical. Hammond knew almost to the

minute when she had appeared in the dance pavilion.

Given the distance she would have driven to get

there, and taking the traffic congestion into consideration,

she couldn't have made it if she had left the

hotel... He did a quick calculation. Say, after five-thirty.

If the coroner pinpointed the time of death anytime

after that, she couldn't be the murderer.

Good argument, Hammond. In hindsight. A terrific

rationalization.

But the fact of the matter was, it had never entered

his mind to identify Alex Ladd.

From the heart-stopping instant he looked at the

drawing and knew with absolute certainty who the

subject was, he knew with equal certainty that he

wasn't going to reveal her name.

When he saw the face on the artist's sketch pad

and remembered it from the vantage point of his pillow,

he didn't weigh his options, didn't deliberate the

pros and cons of keeping silent. His secret had been

instantly sealed. At least for the time being, he was

going to protect her identity. Thereby, he had consciously

breached every rule of ethic he advocated.

His silence was a deliberate violation of the law he

had sworn to uphold, and an intentional attempt to

impede a homicide investigation. He couldn't even

guess at the severity of the consequences he might

pay.

All the same, he wasn't going to turn her over to

Smilow and Steffi.

The loud rap on his office door came a millisecond

before it opened. He was about to rebuke the secretary

for disturbing him after expressly asking not to

be bothered, but the harsh words were never spoken.

"Good morning, Hammond."

Fuck. This is all I need.

As always when in his father's presence, Hammond

put himself through something similar to a preflight

inspection. How did he look? Were all systems

and parts in optimum working condition? Were there

any malfunctions that required immediate correction?

Did he pass muster? He hoped his father wouldn't be

examining him too closely this morning.

"Hello, Dad." He stood and they formally shook hands across his desk. If his father had ever hugged

him, Hammond had been too young to recall it.

He gathered up his suit coat and hung it on a wall

hook, set his briefcase on the floor, and invited his

father to sit down in the only spare chair in the

cramped room.

Preston Cross was considerably stockier and

shorter than his son. But his lack of stature didn't reduce

the impact he made on people, whether in a

crowd or one-on-one. His ruddy complexion was

kept perpetually sunburned by outdoor activities that

included tennis, golf, and sailing. As though on command,

his hair had gone prematurely white when he

turned fifty. He wore it like an accessory to ensure he

was given the respect he demanded.

He had never known a day of illness, and actually

disdained poor health as a sign of weakness. He had

given up cigarettes a decade ago, but smoked cigars.

He drank no less than three tall bourbons a day. He

considered it a sacrilege not to have wine with dinner.

He always had a snifter of brandy before bedtime.

Despite these vices, he thrived.

In his mid-sixties, he was more robust and in better

shape than most men half his age. But it wasn't his

imposing physicality alone that created a powerful

aura. It was also his dynamic personality. He took his good looks as his due. He intimidated men who were

usually self-confident. Women adored him.

In both his professional and personal life he was

rarely second-guessed and never contradicted. Three

decades ago, he had combined several small medical

insurance companies into a large one that, under

his leadership, had grown huge, now boasting

twenty-one branches statewide. Officially, he was

semi-retired. Nevertheless, he was still CEO of the

company, and it was more than a titular position.

He monitored everything down to the price of bulk

pencils. Nothing escaped him.

He served on numerous boards and committees.

He and Mrs. Cross were on every invitation list that

mattered. He knew everyone who was anyone in the

southeastern United States. Preston Cross was well

connected.

While Hammond wished to love, admire, and respect

his father, he knew Preston had taken full advantage

of his God-given qualities to do ungodly

things.

Preston began his unannounced visit by saying, "I

came as soon as I heard."

The words ordinarily prefaced a condolence.

Hammond was filled with cold dread. How could his

father possibly have found out about his indiscretion

with Alex Ladd this soon? "What'd you hear?"

"That you'll be prosecuting Lute Pettijohn's murder

case."

Hammond tried to hide his relief. "That's right."

"It would have been nice to hear that kind of good

news directly from you, Hammond."

"No slight intended, Dad. I only spoke with

Mason last night."

Ignoring Hammond's explanation, his father continued.

"Instead, I had to hear it from a friend who at

tended a prayer breakfast with Mason this morning.

When he casually mentioned it to me later at the club,

he naturally assumed that I already knew. I was embarrassed

that I didn't."

"I went to my cabin on Saturday. I was told about

Pettijohn as soon as I returned last evening. Since

then, things have been happening so quickly I haven't

had a chance to absorb them all myself." An understatement

if ever there was one.

Preston brushed an invisible piece of lint off the

knife-blade crease of his trousers. "I'm sure you appreciate

what an incredible opportunity this is for

you."

"Yes, sir."

"The trial will generate a lot of publicity."

"I'm aware--"

"Which you should exploit, Hammond." With the

zeal of a fire-and-brimstone evangelist, Preston

raised his hand and closed it into a tight fist as though

grasping a handful of radio waves. "Use the media.

Get your name out there on a routine basis. Let the

voters know who you are. Self-promotion. That's the

key."

"Winning a conviction is the key," Hammond

countered. "I hope my performance in court will

speak for itself, and that I won't need to rely on

media hype."

Preston Cross waved his hand in a gesture of impatient

dismissal. "People don't care how you handle

the case, Hammond. Who really gives a damn

whether the killer goes to prison for life, or gets the

needle, or gets off scot-free?"

"I care," he said heatedly. "And the citizenry

should."

"Maybe at one time closer attention was paid to

how public officials performed. Now all folks care

about is how good they perform on TV." Preston

laughed. "If polled, I doubt most people would even

have a basic understanding of what a district attorney

does."

"Yet those same people are outraged over the

crime statistics."

"That's good. Appeal to that," Preston exclaimed.

"Talk a good talk and the public will be pacified." He

eased back in his chair. "Schmooze the reporters,

Hammond, and get on their good side. Always give

them a statement when they ask for one. Even if it's

bullshit, you'll be amazed to see how a little goes a

long way. They'll start giving you free air time." He

paused to wink. "Get yourself elected first, then you

can crusade to your heart's content."

"What if I can't get elected?"

"What's to stop you?"

"Speckle Island."

Hammond had dropped a bombshell, but Preston

didn't even flinch. "What's that?"

Hammond didn't even try to hide his disgust.

"You're good, Dad. You're very good. Deny it all you

want, but I know you're lying."

"Watch your tongue with me, Hammond."

"Watch my tongue?" Hammond angrily sprang from his chair and thrust his hands into his pockets.

"I'm not a child, Father. I'm a county prosecutor. And

you're a crook."

Bourbon-flushed blood rushed to the capillaries of

Preston's face. "Okay, you're so smart. What do you

think you know?"

"I know that if Detective Smilow or anyone else

discovers your name in conjunction with the Speckle

Island project, it could cost you a hefty fine, maybe

even jail time, and spell the end of my career. Unless

I prosecute my own father. Either way, your alliance

with Pettijohn has placed me in an untenable situation."

"Relax, Hammond. You've got nothing to worry

about. I'm out of Speckle Island."

Hammond didn't know whether to believe him or

not. His father's face was calm, implacable, giving

off no telltale signs of dishonesty. He was talented

that way. "Since when?" he asked.

"Weeks ago."

"Pettijohn didn't know that."

"Of course he did. He tried to talk me out of withdrawing.

I got out anyway, and took my money with

me. Pissed him off something fierce."

Hammond felt his face growing warm with embarrassment.

Pettijohn had told him last Saturday afternoon

that Preston was up to his neck in Speckle

Island. He had shown him signed documents on

which his father's signature was readily recognizable.

Had Pettijohn been playing with him? "One of

you is lying."

"When did you exchange confidences with Lute?"

Preston wanted to know.

Hammond ignored the question. "When you

pulled out, did you sell your partnership for a profit?"

"It wouldn't have been good business not to.

There was a buyer wanting to get in on the deal, and

ready to pay my price for my share."

The sour coffee in Hammond's stomach roiled. "It

doesn't matter whether you're out now or not. If you were ever connected to that project, you're tainted.

And by association, so am I."

"You're making far too much of this, Hammond."

"If it ever becomes public knowledge--"

"It won't."

"It might."

Preston shrugged. "Then I'll tell the truth."

"Which is?"

"That I was unaware of what Lute was doing out

there. When I found out, I disapproved and pulled

out."

"You've got it figured from all angles."

"That's right, I do. Always have."

Hammond glared at his father. Preston was practically

daring him to make a case out of it--literally.

But Hammond knew it would be futile to do so. Probably

even Lute Pettijohn had known that Preston

would have all his ducks in a row. He had used Preston's

temporary affiliation with the Speckle Island

project to manipulate Hammond.

"My advice to you, Hammond," Preston was saying,

"is to learn a valuable lesson from this. You can

get by with just about anything, as long as you leave

yourself a dependable escape hatch."

"That's your advice to your only son? Fuck integrity?"

"I didn't make the rules," he snapped. "And you

might not like them." Leaning forward in his chair, he