The Alibi (55 page)

the TV. The anchorwoman with the emerald green

contact lenses was just introducing the lead story.

Masochistically, he watched.

Except for the arm sling, his bandages were cov

ered by his clothing, but his complexion looked waxy

and wan in the glare of the leeching TV lights, making

his day-old beard appear even darker. When

asked about his injury, he had dismissed the mugging

as inconsequential and cut to the chase.

Being politically correct, he had complimented the

CPD for an excellent job of detective work. He had

dodged specific questions about Alex Ladd and said

only that Trimble's statement had been a turning

point in the investigation, that their case was solid,

and that an indictment was practically ensured.

Standing just behind his left shoulder, lending support,

Steffi had nodded and smiled in agreement. She

photographed well, he noted. The lights shone in her

dark eyes. The camera captured her vivacity.

Smilow also had been swarmed by media, and he

received equal time on the telecasts. Unlike Steffi, he

had been uncharacteristically restrained. His remarks

were diluted by diplomacy and more or less echoed

Hammond's. He referred to Alex's connection to

Bobby Trimble only in the most general terms, saying

that the jailed man had been integral to making a

case against her. He declined to reveal the nature of

her relationship to Lute Pettijohn.

He never referenced her juvenile record, but Hammond

suspected that this omission was calculated.

Smilow didn't want to contaminate the jury pool and

give Frank Perkins grounds for a change of venue or

mistrial, assuming the case made it to trial.

Video cameras captured a granite-jawed Frank

Perkins ushering Alex out. That segment was the

most difficult for Hammond to watch, knowing how

humiliating it must have been for her to be in the

spotlight as the prime suspect in the most celebrated

homicide in Charleston's recent history.

She was described as thirty-five years old, a respected

doctor of psychology with impressive credentials.

Beyond her professional achievements, she

was lauded for her participation in civic affairs and

for being a generous benefactor to several charities.

Neighbors and colleagues who had been sought for

comment expressed shock, some outrage, calling the

speculation on her involvement "ludicrous," "ridiculous,"

and other synonymous adjectives.

When the anchorwoman with the artificially green

eyes segued into another story, Hammond turned off

the set, went upstairs, and drew himself a hot bath.

He soaked in it with his right arm hanging over the

rim of the tub. The bath eased some of the soreness

out of him, but it also left him feeling lightheaded

and weak.

In need of food, he went downstairs and began

preparing scrambled eggs.

Working with his left hand made him clumsy. He

was further incapacitated by a dismal foreboding.

When remembered in posterity, he didn't want to be

a dirty joke. He didn't want it to be said, "Oh, you remember

Hammond Cross. Promising young prosecutor.

Caught a whiff of pussy, and it all went to hell."

And that's what they would say. Or words to that

effect.

Over their damp towels and sweaty socks in the

locker room, or between glasses of bourbon in a popular

watering hole, colleagues and acquaintances

would shake their heads in barely concealed amusement

over his susceptibility. He would be considered

a fool, and Alex would be regarded as the piece of tail

that had brought about his downfall.

He wanted to lash out at those imagined gossips

for their unfairness. He wanted to lambast them for

making lewd remarks about her and their relationship.

It wasn't what they thought it was. He had fallen

in love.

He hadn't been so doped up on Darvocet last night

that he didn't remember telling her that this was the

real thing for him, and had been from the first. He

had met her less than a week ago--less than a

week--but he had never been more sure of anything

in his life. Never before had he been so physically attracted

to a woman. He had never felt such a cerebral,

spiritual, and emotional connection to anyone.

For hours at that silly fair, and later in his bed at

the cabin, they had talked. About music. Food.

Books. Travel and the places they wanted to visit

when time allowed. Movies. Exercise and fitness regimens.

The old South. The new South. The Three

Stooges, and why men loved them and women hated

them. Meaningful things. Meaningless things. Endless

conversations about everything. Except themselves.

He had told her nothing substantive about himself.

She certainly hadn't divulged anything about her life,

present or past.

Had she been a whore? Was she still? If she was,

could he stop loving her as quickly as he had started?

He was afraid he couldn't.

Maybe he was a fool after all.

But being a fool was no excuse for wrongdoing.

He and his guilty conscience were becoming incompatible

roommates. He was finding it increasingly

difficult to live with himself. Although he hated to

give his father credit for anything, Preston had

opened his eyes today and forced him to confront

something he had avoided confronting: Hammond

Cross was as corruptible as the next man. He was no

more honest than his father.

Unable to stomach the thought, or the scrambled

eggs, he fed them to the garbage disposal.

He wanted a drink, but alcohol would only have

increased the lingering muzziness in his head and left

him feeling worse.

He wanted his arm to stop throbbing like a son of

a bitch.

He wanted a solution to this goddamn mess that

threatened the bright future he had planned for himself.

Mostly, he wanted Alex to be safe.

Safe.

A safe full of cash at Alex's house.

An empty safe in Pettijohn's hotel suite.

A safe inside the closet.

The closet. The safe. Hangers. Robe. Slippers.

Still in their wrapper.

Hammond jumped as though a jolt of electricity

had shot through him, then fell impossibly still as he

forced himself to calm down, think it through, reason

it out.

Go slow. Take your time.

But after taking several minutes to look at it from

every conceivable angle, he couldn't find a hole in it.

All the elements fit.

The conclusion didn't make him happy, but he

couldn't allow himself to dwell on that now. He had

to act.

Scrambling from his chair, he grabbed the nearest

cordless phone. After securing the number from directory

assistance, he punched in the digits.

"Charles Towne Plaza. How may I direct your

call?"

"The spa, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, the spa is closed for the evening. If

you wish to make an appointment--"

He interrupted the switchboard operator to identify

himself and told her with whom he needed to

speak. "And I need to talk to him immediately. While

you're tracking him down, put me through to the

manager of housekeeping."

*

It didn't take long for Loretta to decide that coming

to this fair was a bad idea.

Fifteen minutes after parking her car in a dusty

pasture and going the rest of the way on foot, she was

sweating like a pig. Children were everywhere-- noisy, rowdy, sticky children who seemed to have

singled her out to annoy. The carnies were surly. Not

that she blamed them for their querulous dispositions.

Who could work in this heat?

She would have sold her soul to be inside a nice,

dark, cool bar. The stench of stale tobacco smoke and

beer would have been a welcome relief from the mix

of cotton candy and cow manure that clung to the

fairgrounds.

The only thing that kept her there was the constant

reminder that she might be doing Hammond some

good. She owed him this. Not just in recompense for

the case she'd blown, but for giving her another

chance when no one else would give her the time of

day.

It might not last, this season of sobriety. But for

right now she was dry, she was working, and her

daughter was looking at her with something other

than contempt. For these blessings, she had Hammond

Cross to thank.

Doggedly she trudged from one attraction to another.

"I just thought you might remember--"

"You nuts, lady? We've had thousands of people

through here. How'm I s'posed to remember one

broad?" The carny spat a stringy glob of tobacco

juice that barely missed her shoulder.

"Thank you for your time, and fuck you."

"Yeah, yeah. Now move it. You're holding up the

line."

Each time she showed Alex Ladd's photograph to

the exhibitors, ride operators, and food vendors, the

response was a variation on a theme. Either they were

outright rude like the last one, or they were too frazzled

to give her their full attention. The shake of a

head and a curt "Sorry" was the usual answer to her

inquiries.

She canvassed long after the sun went down and

the mosquitoes came out in force. After several

hours, all she had to show for her trouble was a pair

of feet that the humidity had swollen to the size of

throw pillows. Analyzing the tight, puffy flesh pressing

through the straps of her sandals, she thought it

was a shame that this carnival didn't have a freak

show. "These babies would have qualified me," she

muttered.

She finally acknowledged that this was a fool's

mission, that Dr. Ladd had probably lied about being

at the fair in the first place, and that the likelihood of

bumping into someone who had been there last Saturday

and who also remembered seeing her was next

to nil.

She swatted at a mosquito on her arm. It burst like

a balloon, leaving a spatter of blood. "I gotta be at

least a quart low." It was then she decided to cut her

losses and return to Charleston.

She was fantasizing about soaking her feet in a tub

of ice water when she walked past the dance pavilion

with a conical ceiling strung with clear Christmas

lights. A scruffy band was tuning up. The fiddler had

a braided beard, for crying out loud. Dancers fanned

themselves with pamphlets, laughing and chatting as

they waited for the band to resume playing.

Singles lurked on the perimeter of the floor, checking

out their prospects, assessing their competition,

trying to appear neither too obvious nor too desperate

to link up with someone.

Loretta noticed that there were a lot of military

personnel in the crowd. Young servicemen, with their

fresh shaves and buzz haircuts, were sweating off

their cologne, ogling the girls, and swilling beer.

A beer sure would taste good. One beer? What

could it hurt? Not for the alcohol buzz. Just to quench

a raging thirst that a sugary soft drink couldn't touch.

As long as she was here, she could show Dr. Ladd's

photo around, too. Maybe someone in this crowd

would remember her from the weekend before. Servicemen

always had an eye out for attractive women.

Maybe one had taken a shine to Alex Ladd.

Telling herself she wasn't rationalizing just to get

near the beer-drinking crowd, and wincing from the

sandal straps cutting into her swollen feet, Loretta

limped up the steps of the pavilion.

CHAPTER

32

When Frank Perkins opened the front door to his

home, his welcoming smile slipped, as though the

punch line to a promising joke had turned out to be

a dud. "Hammond."

"May I come in?"

Choosing his words carefully, Frank said, "I

would be very uncomfortable with that."

"We need to talk."

"I keep normal business hours."

"This can't wait, Frank. Not even until tomorrow.

You need to see it now." Hammond removed an envelope

from his breast pocket and handed it to the attorney.

Frank took it, peeped inside. The envelope

contained a dollar bill. "Aw, Jes--"

"I'm retaining you as my lawyer, Frank. That's a

down payment on your fee."

"What the hell are you trying to pull?"

"I was with Alex the night Lute Pettijohn was killed. We spent the night in bed together. Now may

I come in?" As expected, the declaration rendered

Frank Perkins speechless. Hammond took advantage

of his momentary dumbfoundedness to edge past

him.

Frank closed the front door to his comfortable suburban

house. Quickly recovering, he came at Hammond

full throttle. "Do you realize how many rules

of ethics you've just violated? How many you tricked me into violating?"

"You're right." Hammond took back the dollar

bill. "You can't be my lawyer. Conflict of interest.

But for the brief time that you were on retainer, I confided