The Alibi (7 page)

good reason to kill Lute." Under her penetrating

stare, he looked away.

Steffi Mundell stepped forward as though to remind

Davee that she was still there, and that she was

somebody important, somebody to be reckoned with.

"I'm sorry if I came on a little too strong, Mrs. Pettijohn."

She paused, but Davee wasn't about to forgive her

for her many infractions of the unwritten rules of

decorum. Davee kept her expression impassive.

"Your husband was a prominent figure," Steffi

continued. "His business concerns generated a lot of

revenue for the city, the county, and the state. His participation

in civic affairs--"

"Is all this leading somewhere?"

She didn't like Davee's interruption, but she persisted

undaunted. "This murder will impact the entire

community and beyond. My office will give this top

priority until the culprit is captured, tried, and convicted.

You have my personal guarantee that justice

will be swift and sure."

Davee smiled her prettiest, most beguiling smile.

"Ms. Mundell, your personal guarantee isn't worth

warm spit to me. And I've got unhappy news for

you. You will not be prosecuting my husband's murder

case. I never settle for bargain-basement goods."

She gave Steffi's dress a look of blatant distaste.

Then, turning to Smilow, the former debutante

mandated how things were going to be. "I want the

top guns on this. See to it, Rory. Or I, Lute Pettijohn's

widow, will."

CHAPTER 5

A hundred big ones, right here." The man slapped

the stained green felt, flashing a beery and obnoxious

grin that made Bobby Trimble shudder with revulsion.

Pinching his wallet from the back pocket of his

trousers, Bobby removed two fifties and passed them

to the stupid bastard, a cracker if he'd ever seen one.

"Good game," he said laconically.

The man pocketed the bills, then eagerly rubbed

his hands together. "Ready to rack 'em up again?"

"Not right now."

"You pissed? Come on, don't be pissed," he said

in a wheedling voice.

"I'm not pissed," Bobby said, sounding pissed.

"Maybe later."

"Double or nothing?"

"Later." Winking, he fired a fake pistol into the

other guy's expansive gut, then ambled off, taking his

drink with him.

Actually he would love to try and win back his

losses, but the sad fact of the matter was, he was

strapped for cash. The last series of games, all of

which he'd lost, had left him several hundred dollars poorer. Until his cash flow problem abated, he

couldn't afford to gamble.

Nor could he indulge in the finer things of life.

That last hundred would have gone a long way toward

taking the edge off his nerves. Nothing fancy.

Just a few lines. Or a pill or two. Oh, well...

It was a good thing he still had the counterfeit

credit card. He could cover his living expenses with

that, but for extras he needed cash. That was a little

harder to come by. Not impossible. It just required

more work.

And Bobby had his heart set on less work and

more relaxation. "It won't be long now," he told himself,

smiling into his highball glass. When his investment

paid off, there would be years of recreation to

look forward to.

But his smile was short-lived. A cloud of uncertainty

moved across the fantasy of his sunny future.

Unfortunately, the success of his moneymaking

scheme depended on his partner, and he was beginning

to doubt her trustworthiness. In fact, doubt was

burning his gut as fiercely as the cheap whiskey he'd

been drinking all evening. When it came right down

to it, he didn't trust her any farther than he could

throw her.

He sat down on a stool at the end of the bar and ordered

another drink. The maroon vinyl seat had once

borne a leather grain imprint, but it had been worn almost

slick from supporting decades of hard drinkers.

Except for needing to keep a low profile, he wouldn't

have patronized a low-class tavern like this. He had

come a long way since hanging out in joints of

this caliber. He had moved up from where he'd

started. Way up. Upwardly mobile, that was Bobby Trimble.

Bobby had cultivated a new image for himself,

and he wasn't about to give it up. One couldn't help

what he'd been born into, but if he didn't like it, if he

knew instinctively that he was destined for bigger

and better things, he could sure as hell shake one

image and create another. That's what he had done.

It was this acquired urbane appeal that had landed

him the cushy job in Miami. The nightclub owner

had needed a guy with Bobby's talents to act as host

and emcee. He looked good and his line of bullshit

drew the ladies in. He took to the job like a duck to

water. Business increased significantly. Soon the

Cock'n'Bull was one of the most happening

nightspots in Miami, a city famous for happening

nightspots.

The nightclub had been packed every night with

women who knew how to have a good time. Bobby

had cultivated and then nurtured its raunchy reputation

to compete with the other ladies' entertainment

clubs.

The Cock'n'Bull made no apology for having a

down-and-dirty floor show that appealed to women, not ladies, who weren't afraid to really let their hair

down. On most nights, the dancers went all the way

down to the skin. Bobby kept his tuxedo on, but he

talked the talk that whipped the women into a sexual

frenzy. His verbal come-ons were more effective than

the thrusting pelvises of the dancers. They adored his

dirty dialogue.

Then one night a particularly enthusiastic fan

climbed up on the stage with one of the dancers,

dropped to her knees, and started doing the nasty

thing on him. The crowd went wild. They loved it.

But the vice squad working undercover didn't.

They secretly called for backup, and before anyone

realized what was happening, the place was

lousy with cops. He had been able to sneak out the

back door--but not before helping himself to all the

cash in the office safe.

Because of a fondness for the racetrack, and a recent

streak of very bad luck, he had been in debt to a

loan shark, who wouldn't have understood that the

club's closing amounted to a temporary cessation of

income, which would have been reversed soon.

"Soon" wasn't in a loan shark's vocabulary.

So, with the club owner, the cops, and the loan

shark on his tail, he had fled the Sunshine State, with

nearly ten thousand dollars lining the pockets of his

tuxedo. He had his Mercedes convertible painted a

different color and switched the license plates on it.

For a time, he traveled leisurely up the coast, living well off stolen money.

But it hadn't lasted forever. He'd had to go to

work, plying the only trade he knew. Passing himself

off as a guest of the luxury hotels, he hung out at the

swimming pools, where he worked his charm on

lonely women tourists. The money he stole from

them he considered a fair exchange for the happiness

he gave them in bed.

Then, one night, while sipping champagne and

sweet-talking a reluctant divorcee out of her room

key, he spotted an acquaintance from Miami across

the dining room. Excusing himself to go to the men's

room, Bobby had returned to his hotel, hurriedly

packed his belongings into the Mercedes, and got the

hell out of town.

He laid low for several weeks, forgoing even the

hustling. His reserve cash dwindled to a piddling

amount. For all his affectations and polished mannerisms,

when Bobby looked in the mirror, he saw himself

as he'd been years ago--a brash, smalltime

hustler running second-rate cons. That self-doubt was

never so strong as when he was broke, when it set in

with a vengeance. One night, feeling desperate and a

little afraid, he got drunk in a bar and wound up in a

fight with another customer.

It was the best thing that could have happened.

That barroom brawl had been observed by the right

person. It had set him on his present course. The culmination

was in sight. If it worked out the way he

planned, he would make a fortune. He would have

the wealth that befitted the Bobby Trimble he was

now. There would be no going back to the loser he

had been.

However--and this was a huge "however"--his

success rested with his partner. As he had earlier established,

women were not to be trusted to be anything

other than women.

He drained his drink and raised his hand to the bartender.

"I need a refill."

But the bartender was engrossed in the TV set. The

picture was snowy, but even from where he sat

Bobby could make out a guy talking into the microphones

pointed at him. He wasn't anybody Bobby

recognized. He was an unsmiling cuss, that was for

sure. All business, like the welfare agents who used

to come nosing around Bobby's house when he was

a kid, asking personal questions about him and his

family, butting into his private business.

The guy on TV was one cool dude, even with a

dozen reporters stepping over each other to crowd

around him. He was saying, "The body was discovered

this evening shortly after six o'clock. It has been

positively identified."

"Do you have--"

"What about a weapon?"

"Are there any suspects?"

"Mr. Smilow, can you tell us--"

Bobby, losing interest, said louder, "I need a drink

here."

"I heard ya," the bartender replied querulously.

"Your service could stand some improve--"

The complaint died on Bobby's lips when the picture

on the TV screen switched from the guy with the

cold eyes to a face that Bobby recognized and knew

well. Lute Pettijohn. He strained to catch every word.

"There was no sign of forced entry into Mr. Pettijohn's

suite. Robbery has been ruled out as a motive.

At this time we have no suspects." The live special

report ended and they returned to the eleven o'clock

news anchor desk.

Confidence once more intact, grinning from ear to

ear, Bobby raised his fresh drink in a silent salute to

his partner. Evidently she had come through for him.

"That's all I have to tell you at this time."

Smilow turned away from the microphones, only

to discover more behind him. "Excuse me," he said,

nudging his way through the media throng.

He ignored the questions shouted after him and

continued wedging a path through the reporters until

it became evident to them that they were going to get

nothing further from him and they began to disperse.

Smilow pretended to hate media attention, but the

truth was that he actually enjoyed doing live press

conferences like this one. Not because of the lights

and cameras, although he knew he looked intimidating

when photographed. Not even for the attention

and publicity they generated. His job was secure and

he didn't need public approval to keep it.

What he liked was the sense of power that being

filmed and quoted evoked.

But as he approached the team of detectives who

had gathered near the registration desk in the lobby of

the hotel, he grumbled, "I'm glad that's over. Now

what've you got for me?"

"Zilch."

The others nodded agreement to Mike Collins'

summation.

Smilow had timed his return to Charles Towne

Plaza from the Pettijohns' home to coincide with the

eleven o'clock news. As he had predicted, all the

local stations, as well as others from as far away as

Savannah and Charlotte, had led with a live telecast

from the hotel lobby, where he imparted the rudimentary

facts to the reporters and viewers at home.

He didn't embellish. Primarily because all he knew

were the rudimentary facts. For once he wasn't being

coy when he had declined to give them more information.

He was as anxious for information as the media.

That's why the detective's terse summation of their

success took him aback. "What do you mean, zilch?"

"Just that." Mike Collins was a veteran. He was

less intimidated by Smilow than the others, so by

tacit agreement he was generally the spokesperson.

"We've got nothing so far. We--"

"That's impossible, Detective."

Collins had dark rings around his sunken eyes,

proof of just how tough his night had been. He turned

to Steffi Mundell, who had interrupted him, and

looked at her like he would like to strangle her, then

pointedly ignored her and continued his verbal report

to Smilow.

"As I was saying, we've put these folks through

the ringer." Guests and employees were still being

detained in the hotel's main ballroom. "At first they

kinda enjoyed it, you know. It was exciting. Like a