The Alibi (63 page)

Bobby's palms were sweating. He wiped them on

his pants legs. "Listen, I'll tell you anything you want

to know about my sister."

"Useless," Cross said with a wave of dismissal.

"She didn't kill Pettijohn."

"But your own people--"

"She didn't do it," he repeated. Then he smiled,

but it wasn't friendly. "You're out of chips, Bobby.

You've got nothing to bargain with. You're going to

be in one of our jails for a while. And when South

Carolina gets tired of housing and feeding you, the

authorities down in Florida can't wait to have a crack

at you."

"Fuck that! And fuck you," Bobby shouted, lunging

from his chair. "I want to talk to my lawyer."

He took two steps forward before Cross placed his

left palm against his sternum and shoved him back

into the chair with so much impetus it almost tipped

over with him. Then Cross leaned over him so closely

that Bobby had to angle his head back until it strained

his neck.

Cross whispered, "One final thing, Bobby. If you

go near Alex again--ever--I'll break your neck.

And then I'll mess up that pretty face of yours until

you're no longer recognizable. Your days as a ladies'

man will be over. The only looks you'll get from

women will be ones of pity and revulsion."

Bobby was stunned. But only for a few seconds.

Then it all came together--the threat, the prosecutor's

insistence that Alex was innocent. He began to

laugh. "Now I get it. Your cock's twitching for my

baby sister!"

Playfully he poked Hammond in the chest. "Am I

right? Never mind, I know I am. I can read the signs.

Tell you what, Mr. Special Assistant whatever the

hell you call yourself. Whenever you want to fuck

her, you come and see me. Any way you like it, backward,

forward or sideways, I can set it up."

The chair was uprooted, and Bobby was sent flying

backward along with it. Rockets of pain were

launched from the point of contact on his cheekbone.

They detonated inside his skull. His ribs snapped as a

fist with the force of a piston slammed into them.

"Mr. Cross?"

Bobby heard running footsteps and the voices of

the guards. The sounds wafted toward him through a

vast and hollow darkness.

"Everything all right in here, Mr. Cross?"

"I'm fine, thanks. But I'm afraid the prisoner

needs some assistance."

CHAPTER

38

"THIS IS INTERESTING."

Steffi cradled the receiver of her desk phone between

her ear and shoulder. "Hammond? Where are

you?"

"I just left the jail. Bobby Trimble is ours for a

while."

"What about our deal with him?"

"His crimes on Speckle Island superseded that. I'll

fill you in later."

"OK. So what's interesting?"

"Basset," he said. "Glenn Basset? The sergeant

who oversees the evidence warehouse?"

"Okay. I know him, vaguely. Mustache?"

"That's him. He has a sixteen-year-old daughter

who was arrested for drug possession last year. First

arrest. Basically a good kid, but had gotten in with

the wrong crowd at school. Peer pressure. Isolated

--"

"I got it. What does this have to do with anything?"

"Basset went to Smilow for counsel and help.

Smilow intervened with our office on behalf of Basset's daughter."

"They swapped favors."

"That's my guess," Hammond said.

"Only a guess?"

"So far it's just rumor and innuendo. I've been

nosing around. Cops are reluctant to talk about other

cops, and I haven't approached Basset with it yet."

"I'd like to be there when you do, Hammond.

What's next?"

"I've got one more stop to make, then I'm going

over to the Charles Towne."

"What for?"

"Remember the robes?"

"That people wear to and from the spa? White

fluffy things that make everybody look like a polar

bear?"

"Where was Pettijohn's?" he asked.

"What? I'm not--"

    "He got a massage early that afternoon. He showered

in the spa, but he didn't dress. I asked the

    masseur. He came in wearing a robe, and he left

    wearing it. There should have been a used robe and

    slippers in his room. They weren't among the evidence

collected. So what happened to them?"

    "Good question," she said slowly.

    "Here's an even better one. Did you know that

Smilow gets routine manicures in the spa? Get it? No

one would think twice about seeing him wearing one

of those robes. I'm going to check the suite again, see

if we've missed anything. Just wanted to keep you

posted. By the way, have you seen him today?"

"Smilow?" She hesitated, then said, "No."

'If you do, keep him busy so I'm free to operate."

'Sure. Let me know what turns up."

'You'll be the first."

"Thanks for meeting me, Hammond."

He slid into the booth opposite Davee. "What's

up? You said urgent."

"Would you like some lunch?"

"No, thanks, I can't. Busy day. I'll have a club

soda," he told the waiter, who withdrew to fill his

order. He fanned smoke away from his face. "When

did you start smoking again?"

"An hour ago."

"What's going on, Davee? You seem upset."

She took a sip of her drink, which Hammond

guessed correctly wasn't her first, and it wasn't club

soda. He had responded to her page, surprised when

she asked him to meet her at a restaurant downtown.

He was headed that way anyway, which, given his

tight schedule, was the only reason he had agreed to

the spontaneous invitation.

"Rory called me last night. We had a rendezvous.

Not of the romantic sort," she clarified.

"Then what sort?"

"He asked me all kinds of questions about you and

Lute's murder investigation." She waited until the

waiter delivered his club soda before continuing. "He

knows that you met with Lute last Saturday, Hammond.

But I didn't tell him. I swear I didn't."

"I believe you."

"He said you were seen in the hotel. He's guessing

about your appointment with Lute, but as we know,

he's a damn good guesser."

"It's a harmless guess."

"Maybe not, because there's something else you

should know." Her hand was shaking as she lifted the

cigarette to her lips. Hammond took it from her and

ground it out in the ashtray.

"Go ahead."

"I know about you and Alex Ladd."

He considered playing dumb but realized that

Davee of all people would see through the act.

"How?"

He listened as she told him about Alex's visit to

her house that morning. "I don't know the details of

how you met, or when, or where. I didn't ask for any

insider information, and she didn't volunteer any.

And by the way, she's lovely."

"Yes," he said thickly. "She is."

"As I'm sure you're aware," she continued, "this

love affair is ill-timed and most inappropriate."

"Very aware."

"Of all the women in Charleston who've hot for

you, why--"

"I have a pressing schedule today, Davee. I

haven't got time for a lecture. I didn't plan on falling

in love with Alex this week. It just happened that

way. And by the way, you're a fine one to be preaching

sermons about indiscretions."

"I'm only warning you to be careful. I haven't

even been in the same room with the two of you, but

it was evident to me just by the way she spoke your

name that she's in love with you.

"Anyone who has been with you when you're together

is bound to sense those undercurrents. Even

someone as romantically disinclined as Rory. That's

why I called you." Tears filled her eyes, and that

alarmed him, because Davee never cried. "I'm afraid

for you, Hammond. And for her."

"Why, Davee? What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid that Rory killed Lute, and that he

might kill someone else to cover it up."

He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled

softly. "Thanks, Davee."

"For what?"

"For caring about me. I love you for it. I love you

even more for caring about Alex. I hope you become

best friends." He slid out of the booth, leaned down,

and kissed the top of her head. "You've got nothing

to worry about."

"Hammond?" she cried after him as he rushed

from the booth.

"I'm on top of it," he called back to her. "I

promise."

He jogged from the restaurant to his car. As he

drove toward the hotel, he dialed Alex's home number.

The lock on the kitchen door was still broken. It

was careless of her not to have had it repaired by

now. As he remembered from before, the kitchen was

cozy and neat, although the faucet in the sink had developed

a drip.

He was moving past the telephone when it rang,

startling him. She answered it in another room on the

second ring. Her voice drifted down the hallway toward

him.

"Hammond, are you all right?"

She was in her office, her back to the door opening

into the hall. He could smell the clove-spiked oranges

in the bowl on the console table. She was

seated in an armchair with what appeared to be patients'

files stacked on the end table at her elbow. One

folder lay open in her lap along with a palm-size tape

recorder. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows.

Her hair attracted it like a magnet.

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine.. .. What about

Sergeant Basset? ... So, you were right. In a way I

feel sorry for him. There's no telling what threats

were used to get him to cooperate.... Yes, I will.

Please call me as soon as you can."

She ended her call and set the cordless phone on

the table. Catching movement out of the corner of her

eye, she turned toward him suddenly. The open file

folder slid off her lap onto the floor, scattering its

contents across the Oriental rug. The recorder landed

at her feet with a thud. Clearly, she had thought she

was alone.

Her voice a near gasp, she said, "Detective

Smilow, you startled me."

* * *

Smitty had someone in his chair when Hammond

walked past on his way to the elevators. "Hi, Smitty.

Have you seen Detective Smilow today?"

"No, sir, Mr. Cross. I surely haven't."

Usually gregarious, Smitty didn't look up and

never broke his rhythm as he alternately whisked the

brushes across the toe of his customer's shoe. Hammond

didn't dwell on it. He was preoccupied with

getting to the fifth-floor penthouse suite.

The yellow tape still formed an X across the door.

Having obtained a key from the manager last night,

he stepped through the tape and went inside, leaving

the door slightly ajar.

The drapes were drawn, so the room was dim. He

made a routine check of the parlor where the bloodstain

in the carpet showed up almost black. As he understood

it from the housekeeping staff, replacement

carpet had been ordered.

Standing over the stain, he tried to work up some

feelings of remorse for Pettijohn's death, but he

couldn't garner any. He'd been a bastard in life. Even

in death, he was still wreaking havoc on people's

lives.

Hammond moved into the bedroom and went

straight to the closet. He gazed at the robe, hanging

with the belt tied at the waist. It matched the one Lute

had worn down to the spa. He had left his clothes

here in the suite, showered in the spa, then exchanged

the robe for his clothes when he returned.

"I might never have thought of it if you hadn't

mentioned it that afternoon we had drinks in the

lobby bar," he said.

Turning, he faced Steffi, who had thought she was

sneaking up behind him. Actually he'd been expecting

her.

He continued, "Rhetorically you asked if I could

imagine Lute strutting around in one of the spa robes.

I couldn't. I didn't. Until last night. And when I imagined

it, it caused me to wonder how you knew he had

been strutting around in a spa robe that day. I then

went on to wonder where the used robe was." He

gazed at her thoughtfully. "What I surmise is that you

wore that robe out of the suite over your clothes."

"Workout clothes. Which I had thought were a

good idea. Who goes to a murder dressed like that?

But the robe was even better."

"You dropped it at the spa."

"Along with the towel Pettijohn must have carried

from the spa. I wrapped it turban-style around my

head. Put on sunglasses. I was virtually unidentifiable.

I dropped off the paraphernalia at the spa-- there were a lot of people bringing robes and towels

in from the gym and pool. No one paid me any attention.

I ran a few miles, and by the time I got back, the

body had been discovered and the investigation was