The Alibi (36 page)

first."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, be certain you have substantial evidence

and not just a petty grudge. Don't cause us

both a lot of time, effort, and embarrassment just because

you're pissed off at me for being hard on you.

I would never be convicted. In your attempt to spite

me, you'd only be spiting yourself."

Hammond's fingers had turned white and were

aching from gripping the telephone receiver so hard.

"Your phone is cutting out. Goodbye."

Ignoring the rain, Alex had decided to go out for a

run. Through the downpour, her legs pumped at a

steady pace. Adherence to her exercise regimen

seemed essential when the rest of her life had been

pitched into chaos. Besides, after seeing rescheduled

patients late into the evening, it gave her a physical outlet for cerebral overload. It cleared her head and

allowed her mind to wander freely.

She worried about her patients. If and when it became

public that she was a suspect in a murder case,

what would happen to them? What would they think

of her? Would it change their opinion of her? Naturally

it would. It wouldn't be realistic to hope that

they would disregard her involvement with a murder

investigation.

Maybe she should begin as early as tomorrow trying

to place them with interim therapists so there

would be no suspension of their treatment if she were

to be incarcerated.

On the other hand, finding replacements for them

might not become her problem. When they learned

that their psychologist had been accused of murder,

they would probably leave her practice in flocks.

As she ran past a car parked at the curb only a half

block from her house, she noticed that the windows

were fogged, indicating that someone was inside the

vehicle. The motor was idling, although the headlights

were out and the windshield wipers were still.

She ran another twenty yards or so before glancing

back. The car lights were now on. It was turning onto

a side street.

Probably nothing, she told herself. She was just

being paranoid. But her apprehension lingered. Was someone watching her?

The police, for instance. Smilow might have ordered

surveillance. Wouldn't that be standard operating

procedure? Or Bobby could be watching her to

make certain she wouldn't abscond with "his

money." It hadn't been his convertible she'd just

seen, but he was resourceful.

There was another possibility. One much more

threatening. One that she didn't want to entertain, but

knew it would be foolish and naive not to. It hadn't

escaped her that she might be of interest to Lute Pettijohn's

murderer. If it got out that she had been identified

at the scene, the killer might fear she had

witnessed the killing.

The thought made her shiver, and not strictly because

she feared a murderer. Her life was presently

out of her control. That's what she feared most--that

loss of control. In its way, that was a death more real

than death itself. Living, but having no choices or

free will, could be even worse than being dead.

Twenty years ago, she had determined that her life

would never again be given over to someone else to

manage. It had taken her almost that long to convince

herself that she was finally free of the bonds that had

fettered her, that she alone would chart her destiny.

Then Bobby had reappeared and everything had

changed. Now it seemed that everyone around her

had a say-so in her life, and she was powerless to do anything about it.

After a half-hour run, she let herself into the house

through a door off the piazza. In the laundry room she

stripped off her drenched running clothes, then

wrapped herself in a towel for the walk through her

house.

She had lived alone all her adult life, so when by

herself at home, she was never afraid. Loneliness was

more frightening to her than the threat of an intruder.

She didn't feel the need to protect herself from burglars,

but she steeled herself against the emptiness

felt on holidays when even the company of good

friends didn't compensate for the lack of a family.

Solitude didn't make for coziness even when sitting

in front of the fireplace on a cold night. When she

was startled awake in the middle of the night, it

wasn't because of imagined noises, but because of

the all-too-real silence of living alone. The only fear

she had of being by herself was of being by herself

for the rest of her life.

Tonight, however, she felt slightly ill at ease as she

switched out the lights on the lower floor and made

her way upstairs. The treads creaked beneath her

weight. She was accustomed to the protests of the old

wood. Usually a friendly sound, tonight it seemed

ominous. On the second-floor landing, she paused to

look down the shadowed staircase. The hallway and

rooms below were empty and still, exactly as she had

left them when she went out to run.

As she continued on into her bedroom, she blamed

her nervousness on the rain. After days of oppressive

heat, it was a relief, but it was almost too much of a

good thing. It was coming down in torrents that

pelted windowpanes and hammered against the roof.

It spilled over gutters and gushed from the downspouts.

Opening a door onto the second-story piazza, she

stepped out to drag a potted gardenia bush beneath

the sheltering overhang. Below, in the center of the

walled garden, the concrete fountain was overflowing.

Flower petals had been beaten off their stalks,

leaving the vegetation looking bare and forlorn. Returning

inside, she secured the door, then moved

from window to window to close the shutters.

The rainfall was enough to make anyone nervous.

The Battery had been deserted tonight. Without the

usual joggers, bicyclers, and people walking their

dogs, she had felt isolated and vulnerable. The large

trees in White Point Gardens had seemed looming

and menacing, where usually she thought of their

low, thick branches as being protective.

In the bathroom, she draped her towel over the

brass bar and leaned into the tub to turn on the

faucets. It took a while for the hot water to travel

through the pipes, so she used that time to brush her

teeth. When she straightened up out of the sink, she

caught a reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and

whirled around.

It was her robe hanging on a hook on the back of

the door.

Knees weak, she leaned against the pedestal sink

and ordered herself to stop this silliness. It was so unlike

her to jump at shadows. What was wrong with

her?

Bobby, for one thing. Damn him. Damn him!

Silly or not, she allowed herself the same weaknesses

she would have advised a patient to allow

himself. When one's carefully constructed world begins

to fall apart, one is entitled to a few natural re

actions, including bitter anger, even rage, certainly

childlike fear.

She remembered being a child afraid. The bogeyman

had nothing on Bobby Trimble. Very capably he

could destroy lives. He had nearly destroyed hers

once, and he was threatening to destroy it again.

That's why she feared him, now even more than before.

That's why she could be startled at bathrobes, and

lie, and do irresponsible things such as involve a decent

man like Hammond Cross in something ugly.

But only at first, Hammond. Only at the start.

She stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain. For

a long while, she stood beneath the spray, head

bowed, letting the hot water drum against her skull

while the rising steam swirled around her.

A Saturday night in Harbour Town had seemed

like such a safe lie. It placed her a credible distance

from Charleston, in a crowded place where it was

plausible that no one would remember seeing her.

Damn the luck!

What she had told them about the pistol was the

truth, but there was little chance of them believing

that story now. Having been trapped in one lie, everything

she said thereafter would sound untrue.

Steffi Mundell wanted her to be guilty. The prosecutor

hated other women. Alex had determined that

the instant they met. Her studies had covered personalities

like Mundell's. She was ambitious and shrewd

and competitive to a fault. Individuals like Steffi

were rarely happy because they were never satisfied,

not with others, but especially not with themselves.

Expectations were never met because the bar was

continually being raised. Satisfaction was unattainable.

Steffi Mundell was an overachiever to the extreme

and to her detriment.

Rory Smilow was harder to read. He was cold, and

Alex had no doubt he could be cruel. But she also detected

in him an inner demon with which he constantly

struggled. The man never knew a moment of

inner peace. His outlet was to torment others in an effort

to make them as miserable as he. That kernel of

discontent left him vulnerable, but he battled it with

a vengeance that made him dangerous to his enemies

--such as murder suspects.

Between the two of them, it would be hard to

choose whom she feared most.

Then there was Hammond. The others thought of

her as a murderer. His opinion of her must be even

lower than that. But she couldn't dwell on him or she

would become immobilized by despondency and remorse. She had no surplus time or energy to devote

to regretting what might have been had they met at

another time and place.

If ever a man had a chance of touching her--her

mind and heart, the spot in her spirit where Alex Ladd

really lodged--it might have been him. He might

have been the one allowed to relieve the self-imposed

loneliness and solitude, fill the emptiness, relieve the

silence, share her life.

But romantic notions were a luxury she couldn't

afford. Her priority must be to get out of this predica

ment with her practice, her reputation, and her life intact.

She squeezed fragrant gel into a scrubbing sponge

and used the lather liberally. She shaved her legs. She

shampooed her hair. She rinsed for a long time, letting

the hot water ease her muscles even if it couldn't

ease her anxiety.

Eventually she turned off the faucets and sluiced

off excess water with her hands, then she whisked

back the curtain.

Never one to scream, she did.

CHAPTER

21

Bobby was in the chips again.

He considered it only a temporary setback that he

hadn't yet collected his money from Alex. She would

produce. She had too much at stake not to.

In the meantime, however, he wasn't without

funds. Thanks to the two coeds with whom he had

spent the night, he was several hundred dollars richer.

While they lay snoring in his bed, he had packed his

belongings and sneaked out. The experience should

teach them a valuable lesson. He had felt almost altruistic.

Finding other accommodations was a minor inconvenience

when weighed against the reward. As

soon as he was settled in another hotel across town,

in a room with a river view, he ordered an enormous

room-service breakfast of eggs, ham, grits and tasso

gravy, a short stack, and an extra portion of hash

browns, which he hadn't particularly wanted, but ordered

just because he was feeling so flush.

Next on his agenda was a shopping expedition. A

new suit of clothes wasn't an extravagance. It was a

business expense. If he paid income taxes, he could

have counted his wardrobe as an allowable deduction.

In his line of work, one had to look sharp.

He had spent the remainder of the afternoon

lounging around the hotel pool, working on his tan.

Now, decked out in his new suit of cream-colored

linen with a royal blue silk shirt underneath, he entered

a bar that had come highly recommended by a

cabbie. "Where can I find some action?"

"Action?" Then, sizing Bobby up in the rearview

mirror, the taxi driver had drawled, "You're hustling

pussy, aren't you, sport?"

Flattered, Bobby smiled in reply.

"I know just the place."

The moment Bobby entered the bar, he realized

the driver knew his stuff. This was a place for prime

pickings. The music was blaring. Lights flashing.

Dancers sweating. Waitresses scrambling to fill the

drink orders being placed by people on a desperate

quest for fun. Lots of single women. Fair game.

It took him two watered-down drinks before he

homed in on his target. She sat at a table alone. No

one had asked her to dance. She smiled a lot, to

whomever happened to be passing, evidence that she

was feeling self-conscious, conspicuous, and in need

of someone to talk to. Best of all, she had glanced his

way several times while he pretended not to notice.