The Alibi (27 page)

to see you here." But she had registered no surprise

whatsoever. When she turned her head to speak

a greeting, she had known exactly whom she would

be addressing.

In fact, it appeared that she had been braced for the

introduction, just as he had been. She had almost

overplayed the aloofness, had turned away almost too

quickly to be polite.

There was no longer any question about it--their

meeting had been by design, and, for reasons that

were still unapparent, the time they had spent together

was as compromising to her as it was to him.

Frank Perkins spoke first. "Hammond, this is a

complete waste of my client's time."

"Very possibly it is, Frank, but I would like to

make that determination for myself. Detective

I Smilow seems to think that what Dr. Ladd can tell us

warrants my hearing it."

The lawyer consulted his client. "Do you mind

going through it again, Alex?"

"Not if it means that I can go home sooner rather

than later."

"We'll see."

That comment had come from Steffi, and it made

Hammond want to slap her. Turning the Q and A over

to Smilow, he propped himself against the closed

door, where he had an unrestricted view of Alex's

profile.

Smilow restarted the tape recorder and added

Hammond's name to those present. "Did you know

Lute Pettijohn, Dr. Ladd?"

She sighed as though she had already answered

that question a thousand times. "No, Detective, I did

not."

"What were you doing downtown Saturday afternoon?"

"I could argue that I live downtown, but in answer

to your question, I went window-shopping."

"Did you buy anything?"

"No."

"Go into any stores?"

"No."

"You didn't duck into any stores or chat with any

shopkeepers who could corroborate that you were

there for the purpose of shopping?"

A

"Unfortunately, no. I didn't see anything that

caught my eye."

"You just parked your car and walked around?"

"That's right."

"Wasn't it a little hot outside for a stroll?"

"Not for me. I like the heat."

Her eyes flickered toward Hammond, but he didn't

need that glance to stir his memory.

"Now that the sun has gone down, it's not so hot."

She smiled up at him, the lights of the spinning

carousel reflected in her eyes. "Actually, I like the

heat."

Hammond blinked Smilow back into focus.

"Did you go into the Charles Towne Plaza?"

"Yes. Around five o'clock. To get something to

drink. A soft drink. I'm certain that's where this Mr.

Daniels saw me. That's the only time and place he

could have seen me because I was never on the fifth

floor standing outside Mr. Pettijohn's room."

"He gave us a vivid account of you doing just that

at around five o'clock."

"He's wrong."

"You had a drink in the bar."

"Just off the lobby, yes. Unsweetened iced tea."

Steffi leaned toward Hammond and whispered.

"The waitress bears that out. But that only confirms

that at least two people saw her in the hotel."

He nodded, but he didn't comment because

Smilow was asking another question, and he was interested

in Alex's answer.

"What did you do after finishing your drink?"

"I walked back to the parking lot where I'd left my

car."

"What time was that?"

"Five-fifteen. No later than five-thirty."

Hammond's knees went weak with relief. John

Madison's initial guess had placed the time of death

later than that. So his silence was justified. Almost. If

she were entirely innocent, the victim of a mistake

made by a man suffering food poisoning, why hadn't

she reacted when he came in? Why had she pretended

they'd never met? He had his reasons for keeping

their meeting a secret. Obviously she did, too.

"I gave the parking lot attendant ten dollars, which

was the smallest bill I had," she was saying.

"That's a very generous tip."

"I thought asking for change would seem cheap.

The lot was full and he was busy, but he had been

very nice and polite."

"What did you do after retrieving your car?"

"I left Charleston."

"And went where?"

"To Hilton Head Island."

Hammond swallowed audibly. So much for truth-telling.

Why was she lying? To protect him? Or herself?

"Hilton Head."

"Yes."

"Did you stop anywhere along the way?"

"I stopped for gasoline." She lowered her eyes, but

only momentarily, and probably only Hammond noticed.

His heart was knocking hard against his ribs. That

kiss. The kiss. The kiss he would remember for the

rest of his life. None had ever been that good, or felt

so goddamn right, or been so goddamn wrong. That

kiss could ultimately change his life, ruin his career,

condemn him.

"Do you remember the name of the place?"

"No."

"Texaco? Exxon?"

She shrugged and shook her head.

"Location?"

"Somewhere along the highway," she replied impatiently.

"It wasn't in a town. Self-serve. Pay at the

window. There are dozens of them along that highway.

The cashier was watching a wrestling match on

TV. That's all I remember."

"Did you pay by credit card?"

"Cash."

"I see. With one of those large bills."

Hammond saw the trap and hoped that she did.

Most self-serve stations and convenience stores

didn't take bills larger than a twenty, especially

after dark.

"With a twenty, Mr. Smilow," she said, giving him

a retiring smile. "I bought twenty dollars' worth. I

didn't get change."

"Veddy, veddy cool."

Steffi had spoken beneath her breath, but Alex

heard her. She glanced in their direction, looking first

at Steffi, then at Hammond, and he vividly remembered holding her face between his hands and bringing

her mouth up to his.

"Don't say no. Don't say no."

Smilow's next question drew Alex's attention back

to him. Hammond exhaled without making it obvious

that he'd been holding his breath.

"What time did you arrive at Hilton Head?"

"That was the beauty of the day. I had no plans. I

wasn't on a schedule. I wasn't watching the clock,

and I didn't take a direct route, so I don't remember

what time it was when I actually got there."

"Approximately."

"Approximately . . . nine o'clock."

At approximately nine o'clock, they were eating

corn on the cob that had left her lips greasy with

melted butter. They had laughed over how messy it

was, and elected to forget their manners and shamelessly

lick their fingers.

"What did you do on Hilton Head?"

"I drove the length of the island down to Harbour

Town. I walked around, enjoyed the music from the

various open-air bars. Listened to the young man performing

for the children there under the large live

oak. Basically I strolled around the marina and out

onto the pier."

"Did you talk to anybody?"

"No."

"Eat in a restaurant?"

"No."

"You weren't hungry?"

"Apparently not."

"This is ridiculous!" Frank Perkins protested. "Dr.

Ladd admits to being in the hotel on Saturday, but so

were hundreds of other people. She's an attractive

lady. A man—this Daniels being no exception—is

likely to notice her even in a crowd."

Hammond was still watching her, so when her

eyes shifted to him, it was a repeat of that first glance

across the pavilion. He felt an instantaneous connection,

a sudden tug in his gut.

Perkins was still making his argument. "Alex says

she wasn't anywhere near Pettijohn's suite. You have

nothing that places her there. This is only a lame stab

in the dark because you've got nothing else. While I

sympathize with your ability to come up with a viable

suspect, I'm not going to allow my client to suffer the

consequences."

"Just a few more questions, Frank," Smilow said.

"Indulge me."

"Make them brief," the lawyer said curtly.

Smilow fixed the psychologist with a hard stare.

"I'd like to know where Dr. Ladd spent the night."

"At home."

Her answer seemed to surprise him. "Your home?"

"I berated myself for not making a reservation on

Hilton Head. Once I got there, I considered staying

over. I would have liked to, but I called several places

and everything was booked. So I drove back to

Charleston and slept in my own bed."

"Alone?"

"I'm not afraid to drive after dark."

"Did you sleep alone, Dr. Ladd?"

She stared at him coldly.

Frank Perkins said, "Tell him to go to hell, Alex. If

you don't, I will."

"You heard my solicitor's advice, Detective."

Smilow's mouth slanted upward in what passed

for a smile. "While you were at Harbour Town didn't

you speak to anyone?"

"I browsed in one of the art galleries, but I didn't

talk to anyone. I also bought an ice-cream cone at the

base of the lighthouse, but it's a walk-up place and

they were very busy. I couldn't pick out the young

woman who served me. She had so many customers

that night, I seriously doubt she would remember me,

either."

"So there's no one who can corroborate that you

were there?"

"I suppose not, no."

"From there you drove home. No stops?"

"No."

"What time did you get home?"

"The wee hours. I didn't notice. By then I was

very tired and sleepy."

"I've indulged all I'm going to." Frank Perkins assisted

her from her chair politely, but in such a way

that brooked no argument from either her or Smilow.

"Dr. Ladd deserves an apology for this. And if you so

much as breathe her name to the media in connection

with this case, you'll have not only an unsolved murder

to contend with, but a staggering lawsuit as well."

He nudged Alex toward the door, but before

everyone could shift positions and make room for

their departure, another detective opened the door. He

held a folder in his upraised hand. "You asked for this

as soon as it was available."

"Thanks," Smilow said, reaching for the folder.

"How'd it go?"

"Madison's persnickety. Says he apologizes for

the time it took."

"As long as he was thorough."

"It's all in there."

The detective withdrew. For the benefit of the others,

Smilow said, "That detective witnessed the autopsy.

This is Madison's report."

Steffi crowded up against Smilow as he removed

the documents from the envelope. She scanned them

along with him.

Without looking up from the report, Smilow

asked, "Dr. Ladd, do you own a weapon?"

"Lots of things could be used as a weapon, couldn't

they?"

"The reason I'm asking..." Smilow said as he

raised his head to look at her, "is because it was exactly

as we thought. Lute Pettijohn didn't die from

the blow to his head. He died of gunshot."

"Pettijohn was shot ?"

"I think it was genuine."

Steffi squeezed lime into the drink that had just

been brought to their table. "Come on, Hammond.

Get real."

"It was the first and only time that she showed any

emotion or spontaneity," he persisted. "I think her

surprise was authentic. Up to that time she didn't

even know how Pettijohn had died."

"I was surprised when I read that he had stroked

out."

That had been one startling fact to come out of

the autopsy. Lute Pettijohn had suffered a stroke. It

hadn't killed him, but John Madison deduced that the

stroke was massive enough to have caused his fall,

which resulted in the head wound. He also determined

that, had Pettijohn survived, he might have

suffered paralysis and other disabilities. It wasn't

until after Frank Perkins had escorted Alex Ladd

from Smilow's office that they read the report more

thoroughly and added this new information to the increasingly

complex mystery.

"Was the stroke caused by an event, do you

think?" Steffi wondered. "Or a medical condition he

was unaware of?"

"We'll need to find out if he was on medication for

an existing condition," Smilow said, sliding a napkin

beneath his club soda. "Not that it matters. The stroke

wasn't fatal, but the gunshots were. That's how he

died."

"Alex Ladd didn't know that," Hammond stated.

"Not until she heard it from us."

Thoughtfully Steffi sipped from her gin and tonic,

then she shook her head firmly and gave him a smart-aleck

smile. "Nope. She faked that astonishment.