The Alibi (5 page)

with curiosity-seekers drawn to the new complex by

the emergency vehicles parked along the street.

They moved through the curious onlookers without

drawing notice because neither's appearance denoted

"public official." Smilow's suit was still

unwrinkled, his French cuffs unsoiled. Despite the

hullabaloo surrounding Pettijohn's murder, he hadn't

broken a sweat.

No one would suspect Steffi of being an assistant

county solicitor, either. She was dressed in running

shorts and sports bra, both still damp with perspiration

that even the hotel's air-conditioning system

couldn't dry. Her stiff nipples, along with her lean

and muscled legs, attracted several male passersby,

but she wasn't even aware of their appreciative

glances as she motioned Smilow toward her car,

which was illegally parked in a tow-away zone.

He depressed the keyless entry button but didn't go around to open the passenger door for her. She would

have rebuffed the gesture if he had. She climbed into

the back seat. Smilow got behind the wheel. As he

started the car and waited to pull into traffic, Steffi

asked, "Was that the truth? What you told those cops

as we came out?"

"Which part?"

"Ah, so some of it was bullshit?"

"Not the part about us having no apparent motive,

no weapon, and no suspect at this time." He had told

them to keep their mouths shut when reporters started

showing up asking questions. Already he had called a

press conference for eleven o'clock. By scheduling it

at that time, he ensured the local stations going live

with it during their late newscasts and consequently

maximizing his TV exposure.

Impatient with the endless line of cars crawling

down the thoroughfare, he poked Steffi's car into the

narrow lane and earned a loud horn blast from an oncoming

vehicle.

Showing the same level of impatience that Smilow

exhibited with his driving, Steffi whipped the sports

bra over her head. "Okay, Smilow, no one can overhear

you now. Talk. This is me."

"So I see," he remarked, glancing at her in the

rearview mirror.

Unabashed, she wiped her underarms with a hand

towel she took from her gym bag. "Two parents, nine

children, one bathroom. In our house if you were

timid or prissy, you stayed dirty and constipated."

For someone who disclaimed her blue-collar

roots, Steffi frequently referred to them, usually to

justify her crass behavior.

"Well, hurry and dress. We'll be there in a few minutes. Although you don't even need to be there. I

can do this alone," Smilow said.

"I want to be there."

"All right, but I'd like not to get arrested on the

way, so stay low where no one can see you like that."

"Why, Rory, you're a prude," she said, playing the

coquette.

"And you're bloodthirsty. How'd you smell out a

fresh kill so fast?"

"I was running. When I passed the hotel and saw

all the police cars, I stopped to ask one of the cops

what was going on."

"So much for orders not to talk."

"I have my persuasive ways. Besides, he recognized

me. When he told me, I couldn't believe my

ears."

"Same here."

Steffi put on a conventional bra, then peeled off

her shorts and reached into the bag for a pair of

panties. "Stop changing the subject. What have you

got?"

"About the cleanest crime scene I've had in a long

time. Maybe the cleanest I've ever seen."

"Seriously?" she asked with apparent disappointment.

"Whoever did him knew what he was doing."

"Shot in the back while lying face down on the

floor."

"That's it."

"Hmm."

He glanced at her again. She was buttoning up a

sleeveless dress, but her mind wasn't on the task. She

was staring into near space, and he could practically

see the wheels of her clever brain turning.

Stefanie Mundell had been with the County Solicitor's

Office a little more than two years, but during

her tenure she had made quite an impression--not always

a good one. Some regarded her as a royal bitch,

and she could be. She had a rapacious tongue and

wasn't averse to using it. She never, ever backed

down during an argument, which made her an excellent

trial lawyer and a scourge to defense attorneys,

but it didn't endear her to coworkers.

But at least half the men, and perhaps some of the

women, who worked in and around the police department

and county judicial building had the hots for

her. Fantasy alliances with her were often discussed

in crude detail over drinks after work. Not within her

hearing, of course, because no one wished on himself

a sexual harassment rap filed by Stefanie Mundell.

If she was aware of all the closet lusting for her,

she pretended not to be. Not because it would bother

her or make her uneasy to know that men were applying

the lewdest terms to her. She would simply

look upon it as something too juvenile, silly, and trivial

on which to waste time and energy.

Secretly Rory watched her in the mirror now, as

she buckled a slim leather belt around her waist and

then pushed her hands through her hair as a means of

grooming it. He wasn't physically attracted to her.

Watching her operate didn't spark in him any mad,

carnal desire, only a deep appreciation for her keen

intelligence and the ambition that drove her. These

qualities reminded him of himself.

"That was a very meaningful 'hmm,' Steffi. What

are you thinking?"

"How furious the perp must've been."

"One of my detectives commented on that. It was

a cold-blooded killing. The M.E. thinks Lute might

have been unconscious when he was shot. In any

case, he was posing no threat. The killer merely

wanted him dead."

"If you made up a list of all the people who wanted

Lute Pettijohn dead--"

"We don't have that much paper and ink."

She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. "Right.

So, any guesses?"

"Not now."

"Or you just aren't saying?"

"Steffi, you know I don't bring anything to your

office before I'm ready."

"Just promise me--"

"No promises."

"Promise no one else will get first shot."

"No pun intended."

"You know what I mean," she said crossly.

"Mason will assign the case," he said, referring to

Monroe Mason, Charleston County solicitor. "It'll be

up to you to see that you get it."

But looking at her in the mirror and seeing the fire

in her eyes, he had no doubt that she would make that

a priority. He brought the car to a halt at the curb.

"Here we are."

They alighted in front of Lute Pettijohn's mansion.

Its grandiose exterior, befitting its prestigious South

Battery address, was a layering of architecture. The

original Georgian had given way to Federal touches

following the Revolutionary War. There followed the

addition of Greek Revival columns when they were

the antebellum rage. The imposing structure was later

updated with splashes of Victorian gingerbread. This

patchwork of architecture was typical of the Historic

District, and, ironically, made Charleston all the more

picturesque.

The three-story house had deep double balconies

lined with stately pillars and graceful arches. A

cupola crowned its gabled roof. For two centuries it

had withstood wars, crippling economic lulls, and

hurricane winds, before sustaining the latest assault

on it—Lute Pettijohn.

His well-documented restoration had taken years.

The first architect overseeing the project had resigned

to have a nervous breakdown. The second had suffered

a heart attack; his cardiologist had forced him

to retire from the project. The third had seen the

restoration to completion, but it had cost him his marriage.

From the elaborate ironwork front gate with its

historically registered lantern standards, down to the

reproduction hinges on the back doors, Lute had

spared no expense to make his house the most talked

about in Charleston.

That he had achieved. It wasn't necessarily the

most admired restoration, but it was certainly the

most talked about.

He had battled with the Preservation Society of

Charleston, the Historic Charleston Foundation, and

the Board of Architectural Review over his proposal

to convert the ancient and crumbling warehouse into

what was now the Charles Towne Plaza. These organizations,

whose purpose was to zealously preserve

Charleston's uniqueness, control zoning, and limit

commercial expansion, initially had vetoed his proposal.

He didn't receive permits until all were assured

that the integrity of the building's original brick exterior

would not be drastically altered or compromised,

that its well-earned scars would not be camouflaged,

and that it would never be defaced with marquees or

other contemporary signposts that designated it for

what it was.

The preservation societies had harbored similar

reservations about his house renovation, although

they were pleased that the property, which had fallen

into a sad state of disrepair, had been purchased by

someone with the means to refurbish it in a fashion it

deserved.

Pettijohn had abided by the rigid guidelines because

he had no choice. But the general consensus

was that his redo of the house, particularly the interior,

was a prime example of how vulgar one can be

when he has more money than taste. It was unanimously

agreed, however, that the gardens were not to

be rivaled anywhere in the city.

Smilow noticed how lush and well groomed the

front garden was as he depressed the button on the intercom

panel at the front gate.

Steffi looked over at him. "What are you going to

say to her?"

Waiting for the bell to be answered from inside the

house, he thoughtfully replied, "Congratulations."

CHAPTER 4

but

even rory smilow wasn't that heartless and

cynical.

When Davee Pettijohn gazed down the curving

staircase to the foyer below, the detective was standing

with his hands clasped behind his back, staring either

at his highly polished shoes or at the imported

Italian tile flooring beneath them. In any case, he appeared

totally focused on the area surrounding his

feet.

The last time Davee had seen her husband's former

brother-in-law, they were attending a social function

honoring the police department. Smilow had

been presented an award that night. Following the

ceremony, Lute had sought him out to congratulate

him. Smilow had shaken Lute's hand, but only because

Lute had forced it. He had been civil to them,

but Davee surmised that the detective would rather

rip out Lute's throat with his teeth than shake his

hand.

Rory Smilow appeared as rigidly controlled

tonight as he had been on that last occasion. His bearing

and appearance were military crisp. His hair was

thinning on the crown of his head, but that was noticeable

only because of her bird's-eye view.

The woman with him was a stranger to her. Davee

had a lifetime habit of sizing up any other woman

with whom she came into contact, so she would have

remembered if she had met Smilow's companion.

While Smilow never looked up, the woman

seemed avidly curious. Her head was in constant motion,

swiveling about, taking in all the appointments

of the entryway. She didn't miss a single European

import. Her eyes were quick and predatory. Davee

disliked her on sight.

Nothing short of a catastrophe would have brought

Smilow into Lute's house, but Davee chose to deny

that as long as possible. She drained her highball

glass and, making certain not to rattle the ice cubes,

set it on a console table. Only then did she make her

presence known.

"Y'all wanted to see me?"

Following the sound of her voice, they turned in

unison and spotted her up above on the gallery. She

waited until their eyes were fixed on her before starting

her descent. She was barefoot and slightly disheveled,

but she came down the staircase, her hand

trailing along the railing, as though she were dressed

in a ball gown, the princess of the evening, with humble

subjects adoring her and paying homage. She had

been born into a family at the epicenter of Charleston

society. From both sides, she was of the noblesse

oblige. She never forgot it, and she made certain no

one else did, either.

"Hello, Mrs. Pettijohn."

"We don't have to stand on ceremony, do we,