The Alibi (56 page)

something to you which you're bound by professional

privilege to keep confidential."

"You son of a bitch," Frank said angrily. "I don't

know what you're up to. I don't even want to know,

but I do want you out of my house. Now!"

"Didn't you hear what I said? I said that I

spent--"

He broke off when the open archway behind Frank

filled with people who were curious to see what the

commotion was. Alex's face was the only one that

registered with Hammond.

Frank, following the direction of Hammond's

stare, mumbled, "Maggie, you remember Hammond

Cross."

"Of course," said Frank's wife. "Hello, Hammond."

"Maggie. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. I

hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Actually, we were having dinner," Frank said.

One of his nine-year-old twin sons had a smear of

what looked like spaghetti sauce near his mouth.

Maggie was a gracious southern lady who had descended

from valiant Confederate wives and widows.

The awkward situation unfolding in her foyer didn't

ruffle her. "We've just now sat down, Hammond.

Please join us."

He glanced first at Frank, then at Alex. "No,

thanks, but I appreciate the offer. I just need a few

minutes of Frank's time."

"It was good to see you again. Boys."

Taking each twin by a shoulder, Maggie Perkins

turned them around and herded them back to where

they had come from, presumably an informal eating

area in the kitchen.

Hammond said to Alex, "I didn't know you were

here."

"Frank was kind enough to invite me to dinner

with his family."

"Nice of him. After today, you probably didn't feel

like being alone."

"No, I didn't."

"Besides, it's good you're here. You need to hear

this, too."

Finally Frank butted in. "Since I'm probably

going to be disbarred over this anyway, I think I'll go

ahead and have the drink I desperately need. Either of

you interested?"

He indicated for them to follow him toward the

rear of the house where he had a home study. The

plaques and framed citations arranged in attractive

groupings on the paneled walls attested to the honorable

man that Frank Perkins was, personally and professionally.

Hammond and Alex declined his offer of a drink,

but Frank poured himself a straight scotch and sat

down behind a substantial desk. Alex took a leather

love seat, Hammond an armchair. The lawyer divided

a look between them that ultimately settled on his

client. "Is it true? Have you slept with our esteemed

assistant county solicitor?"

"There's no call for--"

"Hammond," Frank brusquely interrupted, "you

are in no position to correct me. Or even to cross me,

for that matter. I should kick your ass out of here,

then share your confession with Monroe Mason. Unless

he already knows."

"He doesn't."

"The only reason you're still under my roof is because

I respect my client's privacy. Until I know all

the facts, I don't want to do anything rash which

might embarrass her any more than she's already

been embarrassed by this travesty."

"Don't be angry with Hammond, Frank," Alex

said. There was an honest weariness in her voice that

Hammond hadn't heard before. Or perhaps it was

resignation. Maybe even relief that their secret was

finally out. "This is as much my fault as his. I should

have told you immediately that I knew him."

"Intimately?"

"Yes."

"How far were you willing to let it go? Were you

going to let him indict you, jail you, subject you to a

trial, get you convicted, put you on death row?"

"I don't know!" Alex stood up suddenly and

turned her back to them, hugging her elbows close to

her body. After taking a moment to compose herself,

she faced them again. "Actually I'm more to blame

than Hammond. He didn't know me, but I knew him,

and I pursued him. Deliberately. I made our meeting

look accidental, but it wasn't. Nothing that happened

between us was by chance."

"When did this meeting-by-design occur?"

"Last Saturday evening. Around dusk. After the

initial contact, I exercised every feminine wile I

knew to entice Hammond to spend the night with me.

Whatever I did," she said, her voice growing husky,

"worked." She looked across at him. "Because he

did."

Frank finished his drink in one swallow. The

liquor brought tears to his eyes and caused him to

cough behind his fist. After clearing his throat, he

asked where all this had taken place. Alex talked him

through the chain of events, beginning with their

meeting in the dance pavilion and ending in his

cabin. "I sneaked out the following morning before

dawn, prepared never to see him again."

Frank shook his head, which seemed to have become

muddled either by a sudden infusion of alcohol

or by conflicting facts he was finding difficult to

sort out. "I don't get it. You slept with him, but it

wasn't. . . you didn't. . ."

"I was her insurance," Hammond said. It was still

hard for him to hear her admit that she had set him

up, that their meeting wasn't kismet or the romantic

happenstance he wished it had been. But he had to get

past that. Circumstances demanded that he focus on

matters that were much more important. "If Alex

found herself in need of an alibi, I was to be it. I was

the perfect alibi, in fact. Because I couldn't expose

her without implicating myself."

Frank gazed at him with unmitigated puzzlement.

"Care to explain that?"

"Alex followed me to the fair from the Charles

Towne Plaza, where I'd met with Lute Pettijohn."

Frank stared at him for several beats before looking

to Alex for confirmation. She gave a small nod.

Frank got up to pour himself another drink.

While he was at it, Hammond took the opportunity

to look at Alex. Her eyes were moist, but she wasn't

crying. He wanted to hold her. He also wanted to

shake her until all the truths came tumbling out.

Or maybe not. Maybe he didn't want to know that

he had been as gullible as the horny young boys and

dirty old men who had paid half-brother Bobby for

her favors.

If he loved her, as he professed, he would have to

get past that, too.

Frank returned to his chair. Twirling his refilled

glass on the leather desk pad, he asked, "Who's going

to go first?"

"I had an appointment with Pettijohn on Saturday

afternoon," Hammond stated. "At his invitation. I

didn't want to go, but he had insisted that we meet,

guaranteeing that it would be in my best interest."

"For what purpose?"

"The A.G. had appointed me to investigate him.

Pettijohn had got wind of it."

"How?"

"More on that later. For now, suffice it to say that

I was close to turning my findings over to a grand

jury."

"I assume Pettijohn wanted to make a deal."

"Right."

"What was he offering in exchange?"

"If I reported back to the A.G. that there was no

case to be made, and let Lute carry on his business as

usual, he promised to support me as Monroe Mason's

successor, including sizable contributions to my campaign.

He also suggested that once I achieved the office,

we would continue to have a mutually beneficial

arrangement. A very cozy alliance which would have

enabled him to continue breaking laws and me to

look the other way."

"I gather you turned him down."

"Flat. That's when he brought out the heavy artillery.

My own father was one of his partners on the

Speckle Island project. Lute produced documents

proving it."

"Where are those documents now?"

"I took them with me when I left."

"They're valid?"

"I'm afraid so."

Frank was no dummy. He figured it out. "If you

proceeded with your investigation of Lute, you'd be

forced to bring criminal charges against your father,

too."

"That was the essence of Lute's warning, yes."

Alex's face was soft with compassion. Frank said

quietly, "I'm sorry, Hammond."

He knew the commiseration was genuine, but he

waved it aside. "I told Lute to go to hell, that I intended

to uphold my duty. When I turned my back on

him, he was screaming invectives and issuing threats.

The temper tantrum might have brought on the

stroke. I don't know. I never turned around. I wasn't

in there for more than five minutes. Max."

"What time was this?"

"We had a five o'clock appointment."

"Did you see Alex?"

They shook their heads simultaneously. "Not until

I got to the fair. I was so pissed off at Pettijohn, I was

in quite a temper when I left the hotel. I didn't notice

anything."

He paused to take a deep breath. "I had planned to

go to my cabin for the night. On the spur of the moment

I decided to stop at the fair for a while. I saw

Alex in the dance pavilion and ..." He looked from

Frank to her, where she was seated on the love seat,

listening intently. "It went from there."

The room grew so silent that the ticking clock on

Frank's desk sounded ponderous. After a time, the

lawyer spoke. "What did you hope to accomplish by

coming here and telling me this?"

"It's been weighing heavily on my conscience."

"Well, I'm not a priest," Frank said testily.

"No, you're not."

"And we're on opposite sides of a murder trial."

"I'm aware of that, too."

Then back to my original question: Why did you

come here?"

Hammond said, "Because I know who killed

Lute."

CHAPTER

33

Davee languidly answered her telephone.

"Davee, you know who this is." It wasn't a question.

For lack of anything better to do, she had been

stretched out on the chaise lounge in her bedroom,

drinking vodka on the rocks and watching a black

and white Joan Crawford film on a classic movie

channel. The urgency behind the caller's voice

brought her up into a sitting position, which caused a

wave of dizziness. She muted the television set.

"What--"

"Don't say anything. Can you meet me?"

She checked the clock on the antique tea table beside

the chaise. "Now?"

In her wild teenage years a call late at night would

have spelled adventure. She would have sneaked out

of the house to meet a boyfriend or a group of girls

for some forbidden cruising until dawn, skinny-dipping

at the beach, beer drinking, or pot smoking.

Those escapades never failed to get her parents in an

uproar. Getting caught and defying punishment had

been part of the fun.

Even following her marriage to Lute, it wasn't all

that uncommon for her to carry on one-sided telephone

conversations that led to late-night excursions.

However, those had never caused a disturbance in the

household. Either Lute was indifferent to her comings

and goings or he was out on a lark of his own.

They hadn't been nearly as much fun.

Although this one didn't promise to be fun, her curiosity

was piqued. "What's going on?"

"I can't talk about it over the telephone, but it's

important. Do you know where the McDonald's on

Rivers Avenue is?"

"I can find it."

"Near the intersection with Dorchester. As soon as

you can get there."

"But--"

Davee stared at the dead cordless phone in her

hand for a few moments, then dropped it onto the

chaise and stood up. She swayed slightly and put her

hand on the table in order to regain her balance. Her

equilibrium gradually returned and brought her reason

with it.

This was nuts. She'd had a lot to drink. She

shouldn't drive. And, anyway, who the hell did he

think he was to summon her to a McDonald's in the

middle of the freaking night? No explanation. No

please or thank you. No worry that she wouldn't acquiesce.

Why couldn't he come to her with whatever

was so damned important? Whatever it was must

surely relate to Lute's murder investigation. Hadn't

she made it clear that she didn't want to become in volved in that any more than was absolutely necessary?

Nevertheless, she went into the bathroom,

splashed cold water on her face, and gargled a mouthful

of Scope. She slipped off her nightgown, then,

without bothering with underwear, pulled on a pair of

white pants and a matching T-shirt made of some

clingy, synthetic microfiber knit that left little to the

imagination--which served him right. She didn't

bother with shoes. Her hair was a mess of unbrushed

curls. If anyone spied them together, her dishabille

alone would raise eyebrows. She didn't give a damn,

of course, but this recklessness was uncharacteristic

of him.

Sarah Birch was watching TV in her apartment off

the kitchen. "I'm going out." Davee informed her.