The Alibi (31 page)

with Alex's denial that she even knew Pettijohn.

"They've found no connection. Speaking as a prosecutor,

his case is weak."

"And speaking otherwise?"

"There is no otherwise."

"Huh." Loretta was watching him like she didn't

believe him, but she let it drop. "Well, God help this

Dr. Ladd if she didn't kill Pettijohn."

"Don't you mean, God help her if she did?"

"No, I meant what I said."

"I don't follow," Hammond said, puzzled.

"If Dr. Ladd was at the scene, but didn't kill him,

she could be a witness."

"A witness? Wouldn't she have told us?"

"Not if she was afraid."

"What could she fear more than being accused of

murder?"

Loretta replied, "The murderer."

CHAPTER

18

Alex drove with one eye on her rearview mirror.

She recognized her symptoms as paranoia, but she

figured she was entitled, having spent most of the

day being questioned in connection with a homicide.

With Hammond Cross in the room. Knowing she

was lying.

Of course, he had been lying, too, by omission. But why? Curiosity? Perhaps he had wanted to see

how far she would carry her lies about her whereabouts

on Saturday night. But when she concluded

her false story about Hilton Head, she had fully expected

him to denounce her as a liar.

He hadn't. Which indicated to her that he was protecting

his own reputation. He hadn't wanted his colleague

Ms. Mundell and the frightening Detective

Smilow to know that he had slept with their only lead

in the Pettijohn murder case on the very night of the

murder. For today, at least, he had been more interested

in keeping their meeting a secret than he had

been in nailing her as a suspect.

But that could change. Which left her vulnerable.

Until she knew how Hammond intended to play this

out, she must do everything possible to protect her

self from incrimination. It might not come to that, but

if it did, she must be prepared.

She arrived at her destination, but eschewed the

porte cochere and valets and instead pulled into the

public parking lot. Bobby had gone upscale. When

she had known him, he'd been no stranger to flophouses.

Now he was registered in a chain suite hotel

near downtown. She hadn't called first to notify him

that she was on her way. Surprising him might give

her a slight advantage over what would doubtless be

an unpleasant confrontation.

In the elevator, she closed her eyes and rolled her

head around her shoulders. She was exhausted. And

terribly afraid. She wished she could turn back the

clock and rewrite the day Bobby Trimble had reentered

her life after twenty years of freedom from him.

She wished she could delete that day and all the subsequent

ones.

But that would mean also deleting her night with

Hammond Cross.

She hadn't known much happiness in her life.

Even as a child. Particularly as a child. Christmas had been just another day on the calendar. She'd never

had a birthday cake, or an Easter basket, or a Halloween

costume. Not until her late teens had she

learned that ordinary people, not just people in magazines

and on television, were allowed to participate

in holiday celebrations.

Her young adulthood had been spent undoing the

damage of the past and creating a new individual.

She had been greedy to absorb everything she had

been denied. At university she had applied herself to

her studies with such diligence that little time was left

for dating.

By the time her practice was established, her energy

had been devoted to it. Through her volunteer

and charity work she met eligible men. With some

she had forged friendships, but romance had never

been an element in these relationships, and that had

been her choice.

She had settled on being content with her accomplishments,

and with the satisfaction that came from

helping troubled people to work through their problems

and realize their worth.

Real happiness, the giddy, effervescent kind of joy

she had experienced with Hammond that night, had

escaped her. It was an elusive stranger to her, so up

till now she hadn't realized its addictive powers. Or

its potential hazards. She wondered now: Was happiness

always this costly?

As soon as the elevator doors opened, she heard

music and figured it was probably coming from

Bobby's room. She was right. She approached the

door and knocked, waited a moment, then knocked

again, harder this time. The music was killed.

"Who is it?"

"Bobby, I need to see you."

A few seconds later the door was opened. He was

naked except for a towel around his hips. "If you're

bringing the heat on me, so help me God, I'll--"

"Don't be absurd. The last thing I want is for the

police to know I was ever associated with you."

His eyes scanned the hallway. Finally satisfied that

she was alone, he said, "I'm relieved to hear that,

Alex. For a while today, I was afraid you had double-crossed

me again."

Movement behind him drew her gaze beyond his

shoulder. First one girl, then a second, appeared. He

glanced over his shoulder and, when he saw the girls,

smiled and pulled them forward, keeping an arm

around the waist of each. If either was eighteen, it

wasn't by much. One was wearing a pair of thong underwear,

nothing on top. The other was wrapped in a

sheet that Alex assumed had been stripped from the

bed.

"Alex, this is--"

"I don't care," she interrupted. "I need to talk to

you." She leveled an impatient stare on him.

"Okay." He sighed. "But you know what they say

about all work and no play."

Shooing both girls back into the room, he swatted

their fannies and asked them to give him a few minutes

alone with Alex. "We've got business to settle.

Then the party will really begin. Okay? Go on, now."

With their whining admonitions not to keep them

waiting long, he stepped out into the hallway and

closed the door.

Alex said, "You're stoned, aren't you?"

"Don't I have a right to be? Seeing cops at your

front door wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I

came to see you today."

"Where did you buy the dope?"

"I didn't have to buy it. I know how to pick my

friends."

"Your victims."

He grinned, taking no offense. "These girls were

well supplied. Quality stuff. Why don't you have

some?" He reached out and gave her knotted shoulder

a squeeze. "You're all tense, Alex. How about a

little pick-me-up?"

She slapped his arm away.

"Suit yourself," he said with an affable shrug.

"Where's my money?"

"I don't have it."

His smile slipped a notch. "You're fucking with

me, right?"

"You saw the policemen at my house, Bobby. How

could I possibly bring you that cash now? I came here

to warn you not to come near me again. I don't want

to see you. I don't want you to drive past my house.

I don't want to know you."

"Hold on just one goddamn minute. We agreed, remember?"

He waggled his hand between his chest

and hers. "We made a deal."

"The deal is off. Circumstances have changed.

They questioned me about Lute Pettijohn's murder."

"That isn't my fault, Alex. You can't blame me for

your screwup."

"I told you last night--"

"I know what you told me. That doesn't mean I believe it."

It was pointless to argue with him. He hadn't believed

her yesterday, and he wasn't going to believe

her now. Not that she cared what he believed. She

just wanted to be rid of him.

"As agreed, I'll give you the hundred thousand."

"Tonight."

She shook her head. "In a few weeks. As soon as

this is cleared up. It would be crazy to give it to you

now when the police are watching me so closely."

Placing his hands on his lean hips, he leaned forward

from the waist, bringing his face down to the

level of hers. "I warned you to be careful. Didn't I

warn you?"

"Yes, you warned me."

"So how'd they mark you?"

She wasn't going to stand in the hallway of a family

hotel with a nearly naked man and discuss her police

interrogation. Besides, he didn't really care how

the police had linked her to Pettijohn. He cared about

only one thing. "You'll get your money," she said.

"I'll contact you when I feel it's safe for us to meet.

Until then, stay away from me. If you don't, you'll

only be shooting yourself in the foot."

Apparently his high was wearing off, because his

expression was no longer cool and congenial, but belligerent.

"You must think I'm really dense. Do you

honestly believe that you can get rid of me just because

you want to, Alex?"

He snapped his fingers hard only inches from her

nose. "Think again. Until I get my cut of that cash,

I'm your shadow. You owe me this."

"Bobby," she said evenly, "if I repaid you what

you were owed, I would have to kill you."

"Threats, Alex?" he said silkily. "I don't think so."

Then he surprised her by poking her hard in the chest

with his index finger, causing her to fall back several

steps. "You're in no position to be threatening me.

You're the one with the most to lose. Remember that.

Now, I'm going to say it for the last time. Get me that

money."

"Don't you understand that I can't? Not now."

"Like hell. You've got an alphabet soup of letters

strung out behind your name. You've got all the

smarts you need to figure this one out." His eyes narrowed

into mean slits. "You get that money to me.

That's the only way I'll disappear."

Hatred burned red-hot inside her. "Do those girls

realize that they'll wake up tomorrow morning without

their jewelry and money?"

"They'll get what they want in return." He

winked. "And then some."

Disgusted, Alex turned and headed for the elevator.

"Stay away from me until I notify you."

Softly he called after her, "Your shadow, Alex.

Look around. I'll be there."

Hammond switched on the bedside lamp, bathing the pastel striped walls with a warm glow. Looking

around, he had to hand it to Lute Pettijohn--he had

hired a good decorator for his Charles Towne Plaza

and hadn't skimped on amenities. At least not in the

penthouse suite.

The room was spacious and laid out to be user

friendly. Behind the doors of the French armoire was

a twenty-seven-inch TV, larger than standard

hotel/motel issue and equipped with a VCR. Inside

the cabinet were also a CD player and a selection of

disks, last week's issue of TV Guide, and a remote

control for the television. Nothing else.

He moved into the bathroom. The towels appeared

not to have been touched since the housekeeper had

placed them on the decorative bars. A small silver

basket on the marble dressing table still contained

bottles of shampoo and other grooming products, a

miniature sewing kit, a shoeshine cloth, a shower

cap.

He switched out the light and went back into the

bedroom, his footsteps muted by the plush carpeting.

The bedroom had its own minibar in addition to the

one in the parlor. The contents had already been inventoried

by the CSU. All the same, he gloved his

hand with a handkerchief and opened the refrigerator.

A quick inventory checked against the printed menu

of stocked items revealed that none were missing.

When he closed the door, the motor kicked on and it

began to hum.

He welcomed the sound. The suite, its luxurious

decor and abundant amenities notwithstanding, was

now a crime scene. Its eerie silence pressed in on him

from all sides.

He had left the Shady Rest Lounge with the intention

of going home and putting an end to this terrible

Monday. Instead, he had felt drawn here. He didn't

need to guess the reason for this compulsion.

Loretta's last comment had found a foothold in his

mind and wouldn't let go.

Had Alex Ladd been here last Saturday? Had she

witnessed something that she was reluctant to reveal

because it might put her life at risk? He would rather

believe that than entertain the idea of her being the

murderer, although neither was a cheery prospect.

Subconsciously he had come here in the hope of finding

something that had been previously overlooked,

something that would exonerate Alex Ladd and possibly

implicate someone else. Irrationally, he felt

compelled to protect a woman who had proved to be

an elaborate and unconscionable liar.

It hadn't been easy to return to this suite of rooms

where last Saturday he had met Lute and exchanged

heated words. He hadn't gone beyond the parlor,

hadn't really gone far beyond the threshold. He had