The Alibi (3 page)

cause a scene."

She gazed up at him. "Very perceptive."

"So, since it's a done deal, we had just as well

enjoy the dance, hadn't we?"

"I suppose."

But agreeing to continue the dance didn't reduce

her tension. She wasn't exactly taking hasty glances

over her shoulder, but Hammond sensed that she

wanted to.

Which left him wondering what she would do

when this dance ended. He expected a brush-off. A

polite one, but a brush-off just the same. Fortunately

the band was playing a sad, syrupy ballad. The

singer's voice was unrefined and tinny, but he knew

the words to all the verses. As far as Hammond was

concerned, the longer the dance lasted, the better.

His partner fit him well. The top of her head was

even with his chin. He hadn't breached the imaginary

boundary she had set between them the moment he

pulled her into his arms, although the thought of

holding her flush against him was tantalizing.

For the time being he was okay with this, with

having the inside of his forearm resting on the narrow

small of her back, her hand--absent a wedding

ring--resting on his shoulder, their feet staggered as

they moved in time to the slow dance.

Occasionally their thighs made glancing contact

and he experienced a fluttering of lust, but it was controllable.

He had a bird's-eye view down the scooped

neckline of her top but was gentleman enough not to

look. His imagination, however, was running rampant,

flitting here and there, ricocheting off the walls

of his mind like a horsefly made crazy by the heat.

"They're gone."

Her voice drew Hammond from his daze. When he

realized what she had said, he looked around and saw

that the marines were no longer there. In fact, the

song had ended, the musicians were laying down

their instruments, and the bandleader was asking

everybody to "stay right where you're at" and

promising they would return with more music after

taking a short break. Other couples were making their

way back to tables or heading for the bar.

She had lowered her arms to her sides. Hammond,

realizing that his arm was still around her, had no

choice but to release her. When he did, she stepped

back, away from him. "Well.. . never let it be said

that chivalry is dead."

He grinned. "But if dragon-slaying ever comes

back into vogue, forget it."

Smiling, she stuck out her hand. "I appreciate

what you did."

"My pleasure. Thanks for the dance." He shook

her hand. She turned to go. "Uh..." Hammond

plunged through the crowd behind her.

When they reached the perimeter of the raised

pavilion, he stepped to the ground, then took her hand

to assist her down, an unnecessary and courtly gesture

since it was no more than a foot and a half below.

He fell into step with her. "Can I buy you a beer?"

"No, thank you."

"The corn on the cob smells good."

She smiled, but shook her head no.

"A ride on the Ferris wheel?"

She didn't slow down, but she shot him a wounded

look. "Not the House of Fright?"

"Don't want to press my luck," he said, grinning

now because he sensed a thaw. But his optimism was

short-lived.

"Thanks, but I really need to go now."

"You just got here."

She stopped abruptly and turned to him. Tilting

her head back, she looked at him sharply. The setting

sun shot streaks of light through green irises. She

squinted slightly, screening her eyes with lashes

much darker than her hair. Wonderful eyes, he

thought. Direct and candid, but sexy. And right now,

piercingly inquisitive, wanting to know how he had

known when she arrived.

"I noticed you as soon as you entered the pavilion,"

he confessed.

She held his gaze for several beats, then self-consciously

lowered her head. The crowd eddied

around them. A group of young boys ran past, dodging

them by inches and kicking up a cloud of choking

dust that swirled around them. A toddler set up a howl

when her helium-filled balloon escaped her tiny fist

and floated toward the treetops. A pair of tattooed

teenage girls making a big production of lighting their

cigarettes sauntered past talking loudly and profanely.

They reacted to none of it. The cacophony of the fair seemed not to penetrate a private silence."I thought you noticed me, too."

Miraculously she had no difficulty hearing Hammond's

softly spoken words above the carnival noise.

She didn't look at him, but he saw her smile, heard

her light laugh of embarrassment.

"So you did? Notice me?"

She raised one shoulder in a small shrug of concession.

"Well, good," he said on a gust of breath that overstated

his relief. "In that case I don't see why we're

limiting our entire county fair experience to a single

dance. Not that it wasn't great. It was. It's been ages

since I enjoyed a dance that much."

She raised her head and gave him a retiring look.

"Hmm," he said. "I'm dorking out, right?"

"Totally."

He broke a wide grin just because she was so goddamn

attractive and because it was okay with her that

he was flirting like he hadn't flirted in twenty years.

"Then how's this? I'm sorta footloose this evening,

and I haven't been this unscheduled--"

"Is that a word?"

"It suffices."

"That's a fifty-cent word."

"All this to say that unless you have dinner

plans ... ?"

She indicated with a shake of her head that she

didn't.

"Why don't we enjoy the rest of the fair together?"

Rory Smilow, staring into Lute Pettijohn's dead

eyes, asked, "What killed him?"

The coroner, a slightly built, thoughtful man with

a sensitive face and soft-spoken manner, had earned

something extremely hard to come by--Smilow's respect.

Dr. John Madison was a southern black who had

earned authority and position in a consummately

southern city. Smilow held in high regard anyone

who accomplished that kind of personal achievement

in the face of adversity.

Meticulously Madison had studied the corpse as it

had been found, face down. It had been outlined, then

photographed from various angles. He had inspected

the victim's hands and fingers, particularly beneath

the nails. He had tested the wrists for rigidity. He had

used a tweezers to pull an unidentifiable particle from

Pettijohn's coat sleeve, then carefully placed the

speck in an evidence bag.

It wasn't until he had completed the initial examination

and asked assistance in turning the victim over

that they uncovered their first surprise--a nasty

wound on Pettijohn's temple at the hairline.

"Did the perp hit him, you think?" Smilow asked,

squatting down for a better look at the wound. "Or

was he shot first, and this happened when he fell?"

Madison adjusted his eyeglasses and said uneasily,

"If it's difficult for you to talk about this, we can discuss

it in detail later."

"You mean because he was once my brother-in-law?"

When the medical examiner gave a small nod,

Smilow said, "I never let my private life cross over

into my professional life, and vice versa. Tell me

what you think, John, and don't spare me any of the

gory details."

"I'll have to examine the wound more closely, of

course," Madison said, without further comment on

the relationship between the victim and the detective.

"However, my first guess would be that he sustained

this head wound before he died, not postmortem. Although

it's certainly ugly. It could have caused brain

trauma of several sorts, any one of which could have

been fatal."

"But you don't think so."

"Truly, Rory, I don't. It doesn't appear that traumatic.

The swelling is on the outside, which usually

indicates that there's little or none on the inside.

Sometimes I'm surprised, though."

Smilow could appreciate the coroner's hesitancy

to commit to one theory or another before an autopsy. "At this point, is it safe to say that he died of the gunshots?"

Madison nodded. "But that's only a first guess.

Looks to me like he fell, or was pushed or struck before

he died."

"How long before?"

"The timing will be harder to determine."

"Hmm."

Smilow gave the surrounding area a quick survey.

Carpet. Sofa. Easy chairs. Soft surfaces except for the

glass top on the coffee table. He duckwalked over to

the table and angled his head down until he was eye

level with the surface. A drinking glass and bottle

from the minibar had been found on the table. They

had already been collected and bagged by the CSU.

From this perspective, Smilow could see several

moisture rings, now dried, where Pettijohn had set

down his drinking glass without a coaster beneath it.

His eyes moved slowly across the glass surface, taking

it an inch at a time. The fingerprint tech had discovered

what appeared to be a handprint on the edge

of the table.

Smilow came to his feet and tried to mentally reconstruct

what could have happened. He backed up

to the far side of the table, then moved toward it.

"Let's suppose Lute was about to pick up his drink,"

he said, surmising out loud, "and pitched forward."

"Accidentally?" one of the detectives asked.

Smilow was feared, generally disliked, but no one in

the Criminal Investigation Division quarreled with

his talent for re-creating a crime. Everyone in the

room paused to listen attentively.

"Not necessarily," Smilow answered thoughtfully.

"Somebody could have pushed him from behind,

caused him to lose his balance. He went over."

He acted it out, being careful not to touch anything,

especially the body. "He tried to break his fall

by catching the edge of the table, but maybe his head

struck the floor so hard he was knocked unconscious."

He glanced up at Madison, his eyebrows

raised inquisitively.

"Possibly," the medical examiner replied.

"It's fair to say he was at least dazed, right? He

would have landed right here." He spread his hands

to indicate the outline on the floor that traced the position

in which the body had been found.

"Then whoever pushed him popped him with two

bullets in the back," said one of the detectives.

"He was definitely shot in the back while lying

face down," Smilow said, then looked to Madison for

confirmation.

"It appears so," the M.E. said.

Detective Mike Collins whistled softly. "That's

cold, man. To shoot a guy in the back when he's already

down. Somebody was pissed."

"That's what Lute was most famous for--pissing

off people," Smilow said. "All we've got to do is narrow

it down to one."

"It was somebody he knew."

He looked at the detective who had spoken and indicated

for him to continue. The detective said, "No

sign of forced entry. No indication that the door lock

was jimmied. So either the perp had a key or Pettijohn

opened the door for him."

"Pettijohn's room key was in his pocket," one of

the others reported. "Robbery wasn't a motive, unless

it was thwarted. His wallet was found in a front

pocket, beneath the body, and it appears intact. Nothing

missing."

"Okay, so we've got something to work with

here," Smilow said, "but we've still got a long way to

go. What we don't have are a weapon and a suspect.

This complex is crawling with people, employees as

well as guests. Somebody saw something. Let's get

started with the questioning. Round them up."

As he trudged toward the door, one of the detectives

grumbled, "We're headed toward suppertime.

They ain't going to like it."

To which Smilow retorted, "I don't care." And no

one who had worked with him doubted that. "What

about the security cameras?" he asked. Everything in

Charles Towne Plaza was touted as state of the art.

"Where's the videotape?"

"There seems to be some confusion with that."

He turned to the detective who had been dispatched

earlier to check out the hotel security system.

"What kind of confusion?"

"You know, confusion. General screwup. The tape

is temporarily unaccounted for."

"Missing?"

"They wouldn't commit that far."

Smilow muttered a curse.

"The guy in charge promises we'll have it soon.

But, you know ..." The detective raised his shoulders

as though to say with deprecation, Civilians.

"Let me know. I want to see it ASAP." Smilow addressed

them as a group. "This is going to be a high-profile

murder. Nobody talks to the media except me.

Keep your mouths shut, got that? The perp's trail gets

cooler with each minute, so get started."

The detectives filed out to begin the questioning of