The Alibi (54 page)

Knuckle's prominent Adam's apple slid up, then

down the skinny column of his neck. His hard swallow

was audible. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the

vaguest."

"You lied to Loretta Boothe," Hammond said,

playing his hunch. "Didn't you?"

Harvey tried to disguise his guilty nervousness

with petulance. "I don't know what you're talking

about."

"What I'm talking about is five-to-ten for computer

theft."

"Huh?"

"I could get you on several counts without breaking

a sweat, Harvey. That is unless you cooperate

with me now. Who asked you to check out Dr. Alex

Ladd?"

"Pardon?"

Hammond's eyes practically nailed him to the office

door behind him. "Okay. Fine. Get yourself a

good defense lawyer." He turned.

Harvey blurted, "Loretta did."

Hammond came back around. "Who else?"

"Nobody."

"Harveee?"

"Nobody!"

"Okay."

Harvey relaxed and wet his lips with a quick

tongue, but his sickly smile folded when Hammond

asked, "What about Pettijohn?"

"I don't know--"

"Tell me what I want to know, Harvey."

"I'm always willing to help you, Mr. Cross, you know that. But this time I don't know what you're

talking about."

"Records, Harvey," he said with diminishing patience.

"Who asked you to dig up Pettijohn's records?

Deeds. Plats. Partnership documents, things like

that."

"You did," Harvey squeaked.

"I went through legal channels. I want to know

who else was interested in his business dealings. Who

asked you on the sly to go into his records?"

"What makes you think--"

Hammond took a step nearer and lowered his

voice. "Whoever it was had to come to you for information, so don't stall, and don't try and bullshit me

with that phony innocent, quizzical expression, or

I'm liable to get angry. Prison can be tough on a guy

like you, you know." He paused to let the implied

threat sink in. "Now, who was it?"

"T-two different people. At different times,

though."

"Recently?"

Harvey nodded his head so rapidly his teeth

clicked together. "Within the last couple of months or

thereabout."

"Who were the two?"

"D-detective Smilow."

Hammond kept his expression unreadable. "And

who else?"

"You ought to know, Mr. Cross. She said she was

asking on your behalf."

A news junkie by habit, Loretta Boothe watched

the early evening newscasts, flipping back and forth

between channels and comparing their coverage of

the Alex Ladd story.

She was dismayed to see Hammond facing TV

cameras looking the worse for wear, his arm in a

sling. When had he got hurt? And how? She had seen

him just last night.

About the time the news ended and Wheel of Fortune began, her daughter Bev came through the living

room dressed for work. "I made a macaroni casserole

for my lunch, Mom. There's plenty left in the fridge

for your supper. Salad makings, too."

"Thanks, honey. I'm not hungry just yet, but

maybe later."

Bev hesitated at the front door. "Are you okay?"

Loretta saw the worry in her daughter's eyes, the

wariness. The harmony between them was still tentative.

Both wanted desperately for things to go well

this time. Both feared that they wouldn't. Promises

had been made and broken too many times for either

of them to trust Loretta's most recent pledges. Everything

depended on her staying sober. That was all she

had to do. But that was a lot.

"I'm fine." She gave Bev a reassuring smile. "You

know that case I was working on? They're taking it

to the grand jury next week."

"Based on information you provided?"

"Partially."

"Wow. That's great, Mom. You still have the

knack."

Bev's compliment warmed her. "Thanks. But I guess this means I'm out of work again."

"After this success, I'm sure you'll get more." Bev

pulled open the door. "Have a good evening. See you

in the morning."

After Bev left, Loretta continued watching the

game show, but only for lack of something better to

do. The apartment felt claustrophobic this evening,

although the rooms were no smaller today than they

had been yesterday or the day before. The restlessness

wasn't environmental; it came from within.

She considered going out, but that would be risky.

Her friends were other drunks. The hangout places

she knew were rife with temptation to have just one

drink. Even one would spell the end of her sobriety,

and she would be right back where she had been before

Hammond had retained her to work on the Pettijohn

case.

She wished that job weren't over. Not just because

of the money. Although Bev made an adequate salary

to support them, Loretta wished to contribute to the

household account. It would be good for her self-esteem,

and she needed the independence that came

with earning her own income.

Also, as long as she was working, she wouldn't

notice her thirst. Idle time was a peril she needed to

avoid. Having nothing constructive to do made her

crave what she couldn't have. With time on her

hands, she began thinking about how trivial her life

really was, how it really wouldn't matter if she drank

herself to death, how she might just as well make

things easy on herself and everyone associated with

her. A dangerous train of thought.

Now that she thought about it, Hammond hadn't

specifically told her he no longer needed her services.

After she gave him the scoop on Dr. Alex Ladd, he

had fled that bar like his britches were on fire. Although

he had seemed somewhat downcast, he

couldn't wait to act upon the information she had

provided, and his action must have paid off because

now he was taking his murder case to the grand jury.

Contacting Harvey Knuckle today had probably

been superfluous. Hammond had seemed rushed and

not all that interested when she passed along her

hunch that Harvey had lied to her this morning. But

what the hell? It hadn't hurt her to make that additional

effort.

Despite Hammond's injuries, whatever they were,

his voice had been strong and full of his conviction

when he addressed the reporters on the steps of police

headquarters. He explained that Bobby Trimble's appearance

had been the turning point of the case.

"Based on the strength of his testimony, I feel confident

that Dr. Ladd will be indicted."

Conversely, Dr. Ladd's solicitor, whom Loretta

knew by reputation only, had told the media that this

was the most egregious mistake ever made by the

Charleston RD. and Special Assistant County Solicitor

Cross. He was confident that when all the facts

were known, Dr. Ladd would be vindicated and that

the powers-that-be would owe her a public apology.

Already he was considering filing a defamation suit.

Loretta recognized lawyerese when she heard it,

although Frank Perkins's statements had been particularly

impassioned. Either he was an excellent orator

or he was genuinely convinced of his client's innocence.

Maybe Hammond did have the wrong suspect.

If so, he would be made to look like a fool in the

most important case of his career thus far.

He had alluded to Alex Ladd's unsubstantiated

alibi, but he hadn't been specific. Something

about... what was it?

"Little Bo Peep Show," Loretta said mechanically,

solving the Before and After puzzle on Wheel of Fortune with the ts, the ps, and the w still missing.

A fair on the outskirts of Beaufort. That was it.

Suddenly on her feet, she went into the kitchen

where Bev stacked newspapers before conscientiously

bundling them for recycling. Luckily tomorrow

was pickup day, so a week's worth was there.

Loretta plowed through them until she located last

Saturday's edition.

She pulled out the entertainment section and

quickly leafed through it until she found what she had

hoped to. The quarter-page advertisement for the fair

provided the time, place, directions, admission fees,

attractions to be enjoyed, and--wait!

"Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evening

through the month of August," she read out loud.

Within minutes she was in her car and on her way

out of the city, driving toward Beaufort. She didn't

know what she would do when she got there. Follow

her nose, she supposed. But if she could--by a stroke

of luck or an outright miracle--shoot a hole in Alex

Ladd's alibi, Hammond would forever be in her debt.

Or, if the psychologist's alibi held up, at least he

would be forewarned. He wouldn't be unpleasantly

surprised in the courtroom. Either way, he would owe

her. Big time.

Until he officially dismissed her, she was technically

still on retainer. If she came through for him on

this, he would be undyingly grateful and wonder

what he had ever done without her. He might even

recommend her for a permanent position in the

D.A.'s office.

If nothing else, he would appreciate her for seizing

the initiative and acting on her own razor-sharp instincts,

which not even oceans of booze had dulled.

He would be so proud!

"Sergeant Basset?"

The uniformed officer tipped down the corner of

the newspaper he was reading. When he saw Hammond

standing on the opposite side of his desk, he

shot to his feet. "Hey, Solicitor. I have that printout

you requested right here."

The CPD's evidence warehouse was Sergeant

Glenn Basset's domain. He was short, plump, and

self-effacing. A bushy mustache compensated for his

bald head. Lacking aggressiveness, he had been a

poor patrolman, but was perfectly suited for the desk

job he now held. He was a nice guy, not one to complain,

satisfied with his rank, an affable fellow,

friendly toward everyone, enemy to none.

Hammond had called ahead with his request,

which the sergeant was flattered to grant. "You didn't

give me much notice, but it was only a matter of

pulling up the past month's records and printing them

out. I could go back further--"

"Not yet." Hammond scanned the sheet, hoping a

name would jump out at him. It didn't. "Do you have

a minute, Sergeant?"

Sensing that Hammond wished to speak to him

privately, he addressed a clerk working at a desk

nearby. "Diane, can you keep an eye on things for a

minute?"

Without removing her eyes from her computer terminal,

she said, "Take your time."

The portly officer motioned Hammond toward a

small room where personnel took their breaks. He offered

Hammond a cup of the viscous coffee standing

in the cloudy Mr. Coffee carafe.

Hammond declined, then said, "This is a very delicate

subject, Sergeant Basset. I regret having to ask."

He regarded Hammond inquisitively. "Ask what?"

"Is it within the realm of possibility--not even

probable, just possible--that an officer could ... borrow

... a weapon from the warehouse without your

knowledge?"

"No, sir."

"It's not possible?'

"I keep strict records, Mr. Cross."

"Yes, I see," he said, giving the computer printout

another quick scan.

Basset was getting nervous. "What's this about?"

"Just a notion I had," Hammond said with chagrin.

"I've turned up empty on the weapon that killed Lute

Pettijohn."

"Two .38s in the back."

"Right."

"We've got hundreds of weapons in here that fire

.38s."

"You see my problem."

"Mr. Cross, I pride myself on running a tight ship.

My record with the force--"

"Is impeccable. I know that, Sergeant. I'm not

suggesting any complicity on your part. As I said, it's

a delicate subject and I hated even to ask. I simply

wondered if an officer could have fabricated a reason

to take a weapon out."

Basset thoughtfully tugged on his earlobe. "I suppose

he could, but he would've still had to sign it

out."

Nowhere. "Sorry to have bothered you. Thanks."

Hammond took the records with him, although he

didn't think they would yield the valuable clue he had

hoped they might. He had left Harvey Knuckle on a

high, having got the computer whiz to admit that both

Smilow and Steffi had coerced him into getting them

information on Pettijohn.

But now that he reflected on it, what did that

prove? That they were as interested as he in seeing

Lute get his comeuppance? Hardly a breakthrough.

Not even a surprise.

He wanted so desperately for Alex to be innocent,

he was willing to cast doubt on anyone and everyone,

even colleagues who, these days, were doing more to

uphold law and order than he was.

Despondently, he let himself into his apartment,

moved straight into the living room, and turned on