The Alibi (35 page)

his superior's office, scrolling through his personal

finance files and sipping from his secreted bottle of

brandy.

The little man had been mortified to be caught red-handed

doing the very thing he vowed never to do for

someone else. Barely able to contain her laughter,

Loretta had assured him that she had no intention of

tattling and had wished him good luck on his treasure

hunt.

The next time she approached him needing a

favor, Harvey didn't hesitate to grant it. From that

night on, whenever she needed information, she went

to Harvey. He never failed to produce. She had been

tapping that valuable resource ever since.

"I know I can count on you, Harvey."

"I'm making no promises," he said prissily.

"You're no longer with the police department. That

changes things significantly."

"This is very important." She scooted forward on

her bench and whispered confidentially, "I'm working

on the Pettijohn murder case."

He gaped at her, absently thanked the bartender

who delivered his drink to the table, and took a quick

sip. "You don't say?"

"It's very hush-hush. You can't breathe a word of

this to a single soul."

"You know you have my confidence," he whispered

back. "Who've you working for?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"They haven't made an arrest yet, have they? Are

they close to making one?"

"I'm sorry, Harvey. I can't discuss it. It would violate

my client's confidence if I did."

"I understand the necessity for confidentiality, I

do."

He wasn't all that disappointed. The intrigue kindled

his unappeased sense of adventure. Being let in

on a secret, to any extent, gave him a place in an inner

circle when he was excluded from most. It twinged

Loretta's conscience a little to manipulate him this

way, but she was willing to do just about anything to

please Hammond and make up for her past mistake.

"What I need is everything you can unearth on a

Dr. Alex Ladd. Middle initial E. I also have her Social

Security number, driver's license number, and so

on. She's a psychologist who practices here in

Charleston."

"A shrink? Is that her connection to Pettijohn?"

"I can't tell you."

"Loretta," he whined.

"Because I don't know. I swear. So far all I've got

on her is the run-of-the-mill stuff. Income tax returns,

banking records, credit cards. Nothing out of joint on

any of them. She owns her home, has no major debts.

No one's suing her. She hasn't even had a traffic

ticket. Her university and postgrad transcripts are impressive.

She was an excellent student and had offers

to join several existing practices. However, she opted

to set up her own."

"Just starting out? She must come from money."

"She inherited a wad from her adoptive parents,

one Dr. Marion Ladd, a general practitioner in

Nashville. Wife Cynthia, a teacher turned homemaker.

They had no other children. They were killed

several years ago in a commuter plane crash during a

skiing trip in Utah."

"Was foul play suspected?"

Loretta hid her smile behind a sip of her club soda.

Harvey was getting into the spirit of the project.

"No."

"Hmm. It sounds to me as though you have quite

a lot already."

Loretta shook her head. "I know nothing about her

early life. She wasn't adopted until she was fifteen."

"That old?"

"Oddly, that's when it seems her life began. The

circumstances of her adoption and her life prior to it

are a black hole. It's giving up no information, and

I've had no luck trying to penetrate it."

"Huh," Harvey said, taking another quick slurp of

his drink.

"She attended a private high school. The people I

talked to there--and I worked my way up the chain

of command--were nice and polite but tightlipped.

They wouldn't even commit to sending me a yearbook

of her graduating year. Very into protecting the

Ladds' privacy and wouldn't talk about them at all.

"According to everything I read about them, they

were highly respected and above reproach. Cynthia

Ladd was awarded Teacher of the Year before she left

the profession. Dr. Ladd's patients mourned him

when he died. He was a church deacon. She...

Never mind, you get the idea. No scandal or even

close to one."

"So what can I do?"

"Get into the juvenile records."

Again he groaned theatrically. "I was afraid you

were going to say that."

"There's probably nothing there. I just want you to

take a look."

"Just looking could get me fired. You know how GPS is," he whined. "They guard those records like

they're holy relics. They're not to be tampered with."

"Not by anyone less than a genius who won't get

caught. I need them from Tennessee, too."

"Forget it!"

"I know you can do it," she said, reaching across

the table to pat his hand.

"If Child Protection finds out what I was doing, I

could get into a lot of trouble."

"I have every confidence in you, Harvey."

He was viciously gnawing his lip, but she could

see that he was enticed by the challenge it presented.

"I'll agree to try, that's all. I'll try. Also, something

this delicate can't be rushed."

"I understand. Take your time. But hurry." She

downed her club soda and belched softly. "And Harvey,

while you're at it..."

He grimaced. "Uh-oh."

"I want you to check on something else for me."

"It's Smilow."

"You'll have to speak up," Steffi told him. "I'm on

my cell."

"So am I. A guy at SLED just called."

"Good news?"

"For everybody except Dr. Ladd."

"What? What? Tell me."

"Remember the unidentified particle John Madison

took off Pettijohn?"

"You told me about it."

"Clove."

"The spice?"

"When did you last see a spike of clove?"

"Easter. On my mother's ham."

"I saw some yesterday morning when I went to

Alex Ladd's house. There was a cut-glass bowl of

fresh oranges on her entry table. They were spiked

with cloves."

"We've got her!"

"Not yet, but we're getting closer."

"What about the hair?"

"Human, not Pettijohn's. But we don't have one to

compare it to."

"Not yet."

He chuckled. "Sleep tight, Steffi."

"Wait, are you going to call Hammond with this

update?"

"Are you?"

After a pause, she said, "See you tomorrow."

Hammond seriously considered not answering the

telephone. He changed his mind seconds before the

machine kicked in. Immediately he regretted it.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to an

swer." His father's tone of voice turned the simple

statement into a reprimand.

"I was in the shower," Hammond lied. "What's

up?"

"I'm in my car on my way back home. I just

dropped your mother off at her bridge game. I didn't

want her driving in this rain."

His parents had an old-fashioned marriage. The

roles were traditional, clearly defined, and the lines

never blurred. His father made all the major decisions

independently; it would never have occurred to

Amelia Cross to challenge that arrangement. Hammond

couldn't understand her blind devotion to an

archaic system that robbed her of individuality, but

she seemed perfectly content with it. He would never

enflame his father or hurt his mother by pointing out

the inequities of their relationship. Besides, his opinion

of it didn't matter. It had worked for them for

more than forty years.

"How are things going with the Pettijohn case?"

"Fine," Hammond replied.

Preston chuckled. "Could you elaborate a little?"

"Why?"

"I'm curious. I played nine holes with your boss

this afternoon before it started raining. He said

Smilow has questioned a female suspect twice, and

that you were present both times."

His father was more than idly curious. He wanted

to know if his son was performing competently. "I'd

rather not discuss it over a cell phone."

"Don't be silly. I want to know what's going on."

Trying to keep from sounding too defensive, Hammond

gave him the highlights of Alex's interrogation.

"Her lawyer—"

"Frank Perkins. Good man."

Preston was well apprised of the details. Hammond

knew he wasn't violating any confidentiality

because it had already been violated. Preston's

friendship with Monroe Mason dated back to prep

school days. If they had played nine holes of golf

today, Mason would have already divulged the details,

and there would be little left for Hammond to

disclose.

"Perkins thinks we've got nothing on her."

"What do you think?"

Hammond chose his words carefully, not knowing

when something he said would come back to haunt—

or trap—him. Unlike Alex, he wasn't an accomplished

liar. It wasn't his habit to lie, and he disdained

even the slightest fib. Yet he already had two whoppers

of omission to his credit. He discovered he could

lie to his father with relative ease.

"She's been caught in a couple of lies, but in

Frank's able hands, they would probably be disregarded."

"Why?"

"Because of our side's failure to produce hard evidence

linking her to the crime."

"Mason says she lied about where she was that

night."

"Mason didn't leave anything out, did he?" Hammond

said under his breath.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Why would she lie if she doesn't have something

to hide?"

Feeling cavalier and ornery, Hammond said,

"Maybe she had a secret rendezvous that night, and

she's lying to protect the man she was with."

"Maybe. In any event she's lied, and Smilow is

{ right on top of it. I know you don't like him, but

you've got to admit that he's an excellent detective."

"I can't argue that."

"He's got a law degree, you know."

Hammond recognized that as one of those statements

that his father threw out like a quick jab to the

face. It was intended to distract you from the right uppercut

that was coming.

"I hope he never decides to move from the police

department over to the solicitor's office. You might

find yourself out of a job, son."

Hammond ground his teeth to keep from saying

the two words that flashed through his mind.

"I told your mother--"

"You discussed the case with Mom?"

"Why not?"

"Because ... because it's unfair."

"To whom?"

"To everybody concerned. The police, my office,

the suspect. What if this woman is innocent, Dad?

Her reputation will have been trampled for nothing."

"Why are you so upset, Hammond?"

"I hope Mom doesn't regale her bridge club with

all the juicy details of the case."

"You're overreacting."

Maybe he was, but the longer this telephone conversation

got, the more it was pissing him off. Mostly

because he didn't want his father monitoring him

through every step of this case. A murder trial of this

magnitude consumed a lawyer's life. Hours stretched

into days, and days into weeks, sometimes months.

He could handle it. He would relish handling it. But

he wouldn't welcome being critiqued at the end of

each day. That could become demoralizing and cause

him to start second-guessing every strategy.

"Dad, I know what I'm doing."

"No one ever questioned--"

"Bullshit. You bring my ability into question every

time you consult with Mason and ask him for a report.

If he weren't pleased with the work I've done,

he wouldn't have assigned me to this case. He certainly

wouldn't be touting me as his successor."

"Everything you've said is true," Preston said with

maddening control. "All the more reason for me to be

worried that you'll blow it."

"Why would you think I might blow it?"

"I understand the suspect is a beautiful woman."

Hammond hadn't seen that one coming. If it had

been an actual uppercut, it would have been a knockout

and he would be on the mat. He reeled from the

impact. One hundred percent of the time, his father

seemed to know where to strike him where he would

feel it the most.

"That's the most insulting thing you've ever said

to me."

"Listen, Hammond, I'm--"

"No, you listen. I will do my job. If this case warrants

the death penalty, that's what I'll ask for."

"Will you?"

"Absolutely. Just as I'll indict you if my investigation

warrants it."

After a slight pause, Preston said softly, "Don't

bluff me, Hammond."

"Call it, Dad. See if I'm bluffing."

"Then do it. Just be sure to examine your motives