The Alibi (24 page)

punctuated his words by stabbing the air with a blunt

index finger. "But you've got to abide by them, or

those who aren't so high-minded will leave you

choking on their heel dust."

This was familiar territory. They'd tramped over it

a thousand times. When Hammond became old

enough to question his father's infallibility and to dispute

some of his principles, it soon became apparent

that they differed. A line had been drawn in the sand.

These were arguments that neither could win because

neither would concede an inch.

Now that Hammond had seen written proof of his

father's involvement in one of Pettijohn's more nefarious

schemes, he realized how vastly different

their viewpoints were. He didn't believe for an instant

that Preston was ever unaware of what was taking

place on that sea island. Conscience had played

no part in his decision to pull out when he did. He had

merely waited for an opportunity to make a profit on

his own investment.

Hammond saw the gulf between them yawning

wider. He saw no way to span it.

"I have a meeting in five minutes," he lied, coming

around the corner of his desk. "Tell Mom hi. I'll

try and call her later today."

"She and some of her friends are calling on Davee

this afternoon."

"I'm sure Davee will appreciate that," Hammond

said, remembering how Davee had scorned the whole

idea of receiving callers who would flock to her

house more out of curiosity than to pay their respects.

At the door, Preston turned. "I made no secret of

how I felt when you left the law firm."

"No, sir, you didn't. You made it abundantly clear

that you thought it was the wrong choice," Hammond

said stiffly. "But I stick by my decision. I like my job

here, on this side of the law. Beyond that, I'm good at

it."

"Under Monroe Mason's tutelage you've done

well. Exceptionally well."

"Thank you."

The compliment didn't warm Hammond because

he no longer valued his father's opinion. Furthermore,

Preston's praise always came with a qualifier

attached.

"I like the looks of all those A's, Hammond. But

that B-plus in chemistry is unacceptable."

"The runners you batted in on that triple won the

game. Too bad you couldn't have made it a grand

slam. That would have really been something!"

"Second in your law school class? That's wonderful,

son. Of course, it's not as good as placing first."

That had been the pattern since his childhood. His

father didn't break with tradition this morning.

"You now have a chance to validate your decision,

Hammond. You abandoned the promise of a full

partnership in a prestigious criminal law firm and

went into public service. That would make a whole

lot more sense if you were the boss." With false affection,

his hand landed on Hammond's shoulder like

a sack of cement. Already he had forgotten, or had

chosen to disregard, their recent argument.

"This is the case that could earn you your spurs,

son. Pettijohn's murder case is an open-door invitation

to the solicitor's office."

"What if your misdeeds cancel my chances,

Father?"

With obvious impatience he said, "That's not

going to happen."

"But if it does, considering your ambition for me,

wouldn't that be a cruel irony?"

Dr. Alex Ladd didn't see patients on Mondays.

She used that day to catch up on paperwork and

personal business. Today was a special Monday.

Today she was paying off Bobby Trimble and getting

rid of him, she hoped forever. That was the deal they

had struck last night. She would give him what he demanded,

and he would disappear.

However, she had learned through experience that

Bobby's promises were worthless.

As she unlocked the door to her office, she wondered

how many times in the future she would be

forced to go to her safe to extract cash. For the rest of

her life? That was a bleak prospect, but a valid one.

Now that Bobby had found her again, it was unlikely

he would leave her alone.

Her well-appointed office reminded her of all she

stood to lose if Bobby were to expose her. With her

patients' comfort uppermost in mind, she had selected

understated but expensive furnishings. Like

the other rooms of the house, it was a blend of traditional

styling with a few antique pieces used for accent.

The Oriental rug muted her footsteps. Sunlight

shone in through the windows that overlooked the

downstairs piazza and, beyond that, the walled garden,

which she kept beautifully maintained through

all four seasons. The blooming plants and flowers

that thrived in Charleston's semi-tropical climate

were at their peak. Basking in the humidity, they provided

patches of vibrant color in the cultivated beds.

She had been fortunate to find the house already

restored and renovated with modern conveniences. It

had needed only personal touches to make it hers. At

one time this front corner room had been the formal

parlor of the single house. The matching room adjacent

to it, originally a dining room, now functioned as

her living room. When she entertained, she took her

guests out. Meals at home were eaten in the kitchen,

which was the back room on the first floor. Upstairs

were two large bedroom suites. Each room in the

house opened onto one of the two shady piazzas. The

jasmine-covered wall surrounding the garden guaranteed

privacy.

Alex swung aside the framed painting that concealed her wall safe. Deftly she spun the dial on the

combination lock and when she heard the tumblers

line up, she cranked the handle down and pulled open

the heavy door.

Inside were several stacks of currency, banded together

according to denomination. Perhaps because

she had known want, even hunger, in her early years,

she was never without cash on hand. The habit was

childish and unreasonable, but one she forgave herself,

considering the basis of it. It wasn't sound economics

to keep the money in a safe where it earned

no interest. But it gave her a sense of security to

know that it was there, available should an emergency

arise. Such as now.

She counted out the agreed-upon amount and

placed the money in a zippered bag. Because of what

it represented, the sack felt inordinately heavy in her

hand.

Her hatred for Bobby Trimble was so intense it

frightened her. She didn't begrudge giving him the

money. Happily she would give him even more if it

meant that she never had to see him again. It wasn't

the amount that she resented, it was his intrusion into

the life she had built for herself.

Two weeks ago, he had materialized out of

nowhere. Unaware of what awaited her, she had

blithely answered her ringing doorbell to discover

him on her threshold.

For a moment she hadn't recognized him. The

changes were startling. His flashy, cheap clothes had

been replaced by flashy, expensive fashions. There

was a sprinkling of gray at his temples, which would

have made any other man appear distinguished. It

only made Bobby seem more sinister, as though his

youthful meanness had matured into pure evil.

The sardonic grin, however, was all too familiar. It

was a triumphant, gloating, suggestive smile that she

had spent years trying to eradicate from her recall.

When countless therapy sessions and seas of tears

hadn't rid her of it, she had begged God to remove it.

Now, only on rare occasions, it resurfaced in a bad

dream, from which she would awaken bathed in

sweat and shivering in terror. Because that smile was

representative of the control he had wielded over her.

"Bobby." Her voice had carried the hollow tone of

a death knell. His unheralded reappearance in her life

could only mean disaster, especially since the subtle

changes in him underscored the threat he embodied.

"You don't sound very glad to see me."

"How did you find me?"

"Well, it wasn't easy." His voice was also

changed. It was smoother, more refined, absent the

twang. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you've

been hiding from me all these years. As it turns out,

it was a fluke that brings me to your door. A twist of

fate."

She didn't know whether to believe him or not.

Fate could have played this cruel trick on her. On the

other hand, Bobby was resourceful. He might have

been tracking her relentlessly for years. Either way, it

didn't matter. He was here, exhuming her worst

memories and darkest fears from the deep places of

her soul where she had buried them.

"I want nothing to do with you."

Stacking his hands over his heart, he had pretended

her words were wounding. "After all we

meant to each other?"

"Because of what we meant to each other."

He found her far more poised and self-assertive

than she had been as a youth, and his face had turned

dark with anger. "Do you really want to start comparing

our past experiences? You want to match up

what happened to who? Remember, I was the one

who--"

"What do you want? Besides money. I know you

want money."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Dr. Ladd. You're not

the only one to make good. Since we last saw each

other, I've prospered, too."

He had boasted about his career as a nightclub

emcee. When she had heard all she could stomach

about his glory days at the Cock'n'Bull she said, "I

have a patient in fifteen minutes."

She had hoped to bring the reunion to a quick

close. Bobby, however, had been building up to a big

flash. As though playing a winning ace, he proudly

disclosed the scheme that had brought him to

Charleston.

Without question, he was stark, staring mad, and

she had told him so.

"Be careful, Alex," he said with terrifying soft

ness. "I'm not as nice as I used to be. And I'm much

smarter."

Fighting her fear, she said, "Then you don't need

me."

But his scheme did involve her. "In fact, you're

key to its success."

When he told her what he wanted her to do, she

had said, "You're delusional, Bobby. If you think I

would give you so much as the time of day, you're

sorely mistaken. Go away and don't come back."

But he had come back. The next day. And the day

after that. For a week he persisted, showing up at all

hours, interrupting her sessions with patients, leaving

repeat messages on her voice mail that grew increasingly

threatening. He had reattached himself to her

life like the parasite he was.

Finally she had agreed to meet with him. Thinking

that she had capitulated, his pleasure turned to rage

when she declined to participate. "You may have

more polish, Bobby. More refinement. But you

haven't changed. You're the same as you were when

hustling in the streets for pocket change. Scratch the

surface of this thin veneer, and you're still scum underneath."

Infuriated by the truth, he removed one of her

diplomas from the office wall and hurled it to the

floor, splintering the frame and shattering the glass.

"You listen to me," he said in a voice more like the

one she remembered. "You had better reconsider and

do me this little favor. Otherwise, I'll mess up your

life real good. Real good."

She realized then that he wasn't just a street hustler

any longer. Not only was he capable of damaging

her, he could destroy her.

So she had agreed to play her small role in his

ridiculous scheme--but only because she had already

devised a way to thwart it.

But, as with all Bobby's schemes, it had gone

awry.

Terribly awry.

She had been unable to implement her own plan.

Now it was imperative that she disassociate herself

from Bobby. If that meant paying him what he demanded,

it was a small sacrifice to make compared to

the enormity of what she could lose if their alliance

was exposed.

Feeling that this decision was justified, she closed

the wall safe, moved the painting back into place, and

left her office, relocking the door behind her. As

though on cue, her doorbell chimed. Bobby was right

on time. She slipped the zippered bag behind a vase

on the foyer table, stepped out onto the piazza, and

answered the street door.

But it wasn't Bobby on the threshold. Two uniformed

policemen stood on either side of a man with

pale eyes and a thin, unsmiling mouth. Alex's heart

plummeted, knowing already what had brought them

to her home. Once again, her life was about to be

pitched into chaos.

To conceal her anxiety, she smiled pleasantly.

"Can I help you?"