The Alibi (41 page)

"That was a cheap shot, Smilow!" Hammond

shouted. "Even you've never stooped that low. If

you're going to take potshots like that, at least have

the guts to keep the tape recorder on."

"I don't need lessons from you on how to conduct

an interrogation."

"This isn't an interrogation. It's a character assassination.

For no good reason."

"She's a suspect, Hammond," Steffi countered.

"Not in a sex scam, she's not," he fired back.

"What about the hair, Smilow?" Steffi asked.

"I was getting to that." He and Hammond continued

facing off like leashed pit bulls. Smilow was the

first to collect himself. He smoothed back his hair

and shot his cuffs. Returning to his desk, he switched

the recorder back on. "Dr. Ladd, we found a hair in

the hotel suite. I've just heard from the state lab in

Columbia that it matches strands taken from your

hairbrush."

"So what, Detective?" She no longer appeared

passive to what was going on. There were spots of

color in her cheeks, and her green eyes were flashing

angrily. "I've admitted to being in the suite, and I've

explained why I didn't tell you the truth before. I

shed a hair, which is a natural biological occurrence.

I'm sure mine wasn't the only human hair you collected

from that room."

"No, it wasn't."

"But I'm the only one you singled out to insult."

Hammond wanted to shout, Bravo, Alex. She had

every right to be indignant. Smilow's question had

been calculated to shake her, to throw her off, to

break her concentration so he could trap her in a lie.

It was an old trick used by pros, and it usually

worked. Not this time. Smilow had failed to rattle

her, and had only succeeded in making her mad as

hell.

"Can you explain how a speck of clove got on Mr.

Pettijohn's sleeve?"

Her angry expression relaxed somewhat, then she

actually laughed. "Mr. Smilow, clove can be found in

most kitchens in the world. Why did you isolate my

clove? I'm sure there's a supply in the kitchen at the

Charles Towne Plaza. Maybe Mr. Pettijohn picked it

up from his home kitchen and brought it into the

hotel room with him."

Frank Perkins smiled, and Hammond knew what

the defense attorney was thinking. On cross-examination,

he would follow this same track until

the jurors were also laughing at the prosecution's allegation

that the clove was Dr. Ladd's clove.

"I think you'd better cut your losses here,

Smilow," Perkins said. "Against my advice, Dr. Ladd

has cooperated fully. She's been terribly inconvenienced

and so have the patients whom she had to

reschedule. Her house has been turned upside down,

and she's been unforgivably insulted. You owe her

several apologies."

If Smilow heard the solicitor, he gave no sign of it.

His crystal stare didn't waver from Alex's face. "I'd

like to know about the money we found in your safe."

"What about it?"

"Where did you get it?"

"You don't have to answer, Alex."

She ignored her solicitor's advice. "Check my tax

returns, Mr. Smilow."

"We have."

She raised her eyebrows as though to say, So

what's your question?

"Wouldn't it be more financially sound to keep

your money in an interest-bearing bank account instead

of a wall safe?"

"Her finances and how she manages them are totally

irrelevant," Perkins said.

"That remains to be seen." Before the lawyer

could further object, Smilow held up his index finger.

"One more thing, Frank, and then I'll be done."

"This is getting you nowhere."

"When did you have the break-in, Dr. Ladd?"

Hammond sure as hell didn't see that question

coming. Apparently neither did Alex. For once her reaction

was visible and telling.

"At the kitchen door?"

Watching her closely, Smilow said, "Off the piazza,

yes."

"I don't remember exactly. A few months ago, I

think."

"Were you robbed?"

"No, I think it was just some neighborhood kids up

to mischief."

"Hmm. Okay, thanks." He turned off the recorder.

Perkins held her chair for her as she stood up.

"This is getting very old, very fast, Smilow."

"No apologies, Frank. I've got a murder to solve."

"You're barking up the wrong tree. You're harassing

Dr. Ladd while the culprit's trail grows colder."

He nudged his client toward the door. Hammond

tried to keep his eyes off her but couldn't. She must

have felt his stare because she looked over at him as

she moved past. Consequently they were looking at

each other when Smilow said, "Who's your

boyfriend?"

She turned quickly toward the detective.

"Boyfriend?"

"Your lover."

This time the barb worked. Alex's self-control

slipped. She didn't exercise her customary caution, or

hear her lawyer's admonishment for her not to speak.

She reacted on reflex. "I don't have a lover."

"Then how do you account for the sheets we found

in your dirty clothes hamper that are stained with

blood and semen?"

"That story about covering for a patient was pure

fiction," Steffi chortled. "I recommend that you

charge her without further delay."

She, Smilow, and Hammond had remained behind

after Frank Perkins had furiously hustled his client

out. The two men weren't listening to anything Steffi

had to say, however. They were squared off like gladiators

about to engage in a fight to the finish. Last one

to die wins.

Hammond got in the first thrust. "Where the hell

do you get off--"

"I don't give a damn what you think about my

tactics. I'll do this my way."

"You want her to walk?" Hammond fired back.

"You keep up that bullshit about her personal life,

Frank Perkins will be all over that. A sheet in her

clothes hamper? Jesus," he said, sneering in disgust.

"Don't forget the robe," Steffi interjected. That

was the part she found most amusing. "Miss Goody-two-shoes

fucks with her robe on."

Hammond looked at her with fire in his eyes, but

Smilow demanded his attention. "Why did she lie

about having a boyfriend?"

"How the hell do I know?" Hammond yelled.

"How the hell do you know? She explained that she

wasn't presently involved with anyone. Enough

said."

"Hardly," Steffi threw in. "The semen stains--"

"Have nothing to do with her seeing Pettijohn

last weekend!"

"Maybe not," she said curtly. "It's plausible that

she nicked her leg shaving, as she explained. Okay,

that accounts for the blood, although I think it

should be typed. But sperm is sperm. Why would

she deny having a personal relationship with a man

if it doesn't somehow relate to Pettijohn?"

"There could be a thousand reasons."

"Name one."

Hammond pushed his face close to hers. "Okay,

here's one. It's none of your goddamn business who

she sleeps with."

The cords in his neck were strained. His face was

red, and a vein in his forehead was ticking. She had

seen him furious with cops, judges, juries, her, himself.

But she had never seen him this angry before.

It raised questions in her mind, questions that she

would mull over when she was alone and had time

to think about them carefully. Now she said, "I don't

understand why you're so upset."

"Because I know what he's capable of." He

pointed at Smilow. "He finesses evidence to make

his case."

"We gathered this evidence during a legal

search," Smilow said, straining the words through

his teeth.

Hammond snickered. "I wouldn't put it past you

to jack off on those sheets yourself."

Smilow looked like he might strike Hammond.

With an effort, he pulled air into his nostrils, which

were pinched almost shut by rage.

Steffi thought it prudent to step in. "How often

would you guess that a Miss Priss like Alex Ladd

does her laundry?"

"At least every three or four days," Smilow said

stiffly, his hard eyes still fixed on Hammond.

"I'm not believing this." Hammond backed

against the wall as though trying to distance himself

from the discussion.

Steffi said, "That means that in the last few days,

Alex Ladd has had sex and then lied about it. When

you mentioned a lover, she didn't simply decline to

identify him, or ask what bearing her love life had

on our murder investigation, or tell us all to take a

flying leap. She blanched, she lied, and then when

trapped in her lie, she tried qualifying it: 'What I

meant to say is that I'm not presently involved with

someone.' "

Both men were listening, or appeared to be. But

since neither commented, she continued. "It could

be semantics. Maybe she's taking the politician's

way out. Not exactly lying, but not exactly telling

the truth, either. Maybe she doesn't have a steady

lover, but she enjoys occasional, recreational sex."

Smilow's brows drew together. "I don't think so.

We didn't find any oral contraceptives in the medicine

cabinet. No diaphragm, or even condoms.

Nothing to suggest sexual activity on a more or less

routine basis. Consequently, that's why I was

frankly surprised when we found those stained

items in the hamper."

"But you must have thought of her in a sexual

connotation, Smilow. Otherwise, where were you

going with that question about her having sex with

Pettijohn?"

"Nowhere in particular," he admitted. "It was

saying more about Lute than her."

"It was a mean attempt to trip her up."

Steffi ignored Hammond's sulky remark. "So

you don't really believe that she went down on her

knees in that hotel suite and gave Pettijohn head?"

Smilow grinned. "Maybe that's what caused his

stroke."

Hammond practically launched himself away

from the wall. "Is discussing Dr. Ladd's sex life

going to be the extent of this meeting? Because if it

is, I've got real work to do."

Smilow nodded him toward the door. "Feel free

to leave."

"What else is there to talk about?"

"The break-in on her back door."

"She explained that."

Steffi was becoming increasingly impatient with

Hammond's obtuseness. "You didn't believe that

explanation, did you? She was obviously lying

about that, too. Just as she's been lying all along,

about everything. What's the matter with you? Usually

you can smell a lie a mile away."

"She claims the break-in occurred months ago,"

Smilow said. "But the splintered wood hadn't

weathered. It was raw. The scratches on the metal

lock were fresh, too. Besides these signs of a recent

break-in, as meticulously as she's groomed, and as

immaculate as the house is, I can't see her waiting

months to have repair work done."

"It's still conjecture," Hammond said. "All of it.

Everything."

"But to dismiss it would be preposterous," Steffi

argued.

"No more preposterous than tying up a bunch of

unrelated, unsubstantiated guesses and considering

them facts."

"Some of them are facts."

"Why do you want so badly for her to be guilty?"

"Why do you want so badly for her not to be?"

The ensuing silence was so sudden and tension-laden

that the knock at the door sounded like a cannon

blast.

Monroe Mason opened the door and poked his

head around. "I heard that Dr. Ladd was being questioned

again, and thought I'd come over and see

how it was going. Not too well, I gather. I could

hear the shouting as soon as I came through the security

doors."

Everyone mumbled greetings, then for half a

minute no one said anything.

Eventually Mason addressed Steffi. "You're usually

so outspoken. What's wrong? Cat got your

tongue? What did I interrupt?"

She glanced at Hammond and Smilow before

going back to Mason. "The search of Dr. Ladd's

house yielded some items of interest. Hammond and

I were evaluating their relevance to the case. It's

Smilow's opinion, and I tend to agree, that they constitute

valid evidence against her."

He turned to Hammond. "You obviously don't

share their opinion."

"In my opinion we've got zilch. They're getting

off on it, but then they don't have to present the case

to the grand jury."

Steffi realized that the next few moments could

be key to her future. Hammond was Monroe

Mason's protege. As recently as this morning, when

she had aired her concerns over Hammond's seeming

indifference toward the case, Mason had jumped