The Alibi (32 page)

said what he had come to say from just inside the door.

Lute had been sitting on the sofa, sipping his

drink, a picture of complacency as he warned Hammond

that if he was bent on building a grand jury investigation

around him, he must be prepared to

prosecute his own father as well.

"Of course," Lute had added, smiling, "there is a

way to avoid all this ugliness. If you agree to my way,

everybody gets what he wants and goes home

happy."

His proposal amounted to Hammond selling his

soul to the devil. He had turned down the offer. Needless

to say, Pettijohn hadn't taken kindly to his declination.

Disturbed by the memory, Hammond stepped to

the closet, the only area of the bedroom he hadn't inspected.

Behind the tall, mirrored sliding doors was

an empty safe and empty clothes hangers. Hanging

with the belt still tied was a fluffy white terry-cloth

robe. Matching slippers were still sealed inside their

cellophane packaging. It seemed nothing had been

disturbed.

He slid the doors closed, and that's when he saw

an image reflected in the mirror.

"Looking for something?"

Hammond spun around. "I didn't know anyone

else was here."

"Obviously," Smilow said. "You jumped like

you'd been shot." Throwing a glance over his shoulder

at the bloodstains on the carpet in the parlor, he

added, "Forgive the poor choice of words."

"Come now, Rory," Hammond said, using sarcasm

to conceal the chagrin he felt at having been

caught snooping. "You've never been one to mince

words."

"Right. I haven't. So what the fuck are you doing

here?"

"What the fuck do you care?" Hammond fired

back, matching the detective's angry tone.

"There's tape across the door to keep people out."

"I'm entitled to visit the scene of the crime I'm

going to prosecute."

"But protocol demands that you notify my office

and have someone accompany you."

"I know the protocol."

"So?"

"I was out," Hammond said curtly. Smilow was

right, but he didn't want to lose face. "It's late. I didn't

see the need to drag a cop over here. I didn't touch

anything." He waved the handkerchief still in his

hand. "I didn't take anything. Besides, I thought you

were finished with it."

"We are."

"So what are you doing here? Looking for evidence?

Or planting some?"

The two men glared at one another. Smilow was

the first to get a grip on his temper. "I came here to

think through some of the elements the autopsy

turned up."

In spite of himself, Hammond was interested.

"Like what?"

Smilow turned back into the parlor and Hammond

followed. The detective stood over the bloodstain on

the floor. "The wounds. The trajectory of the bullets

is hard to determine because of all the tissue damage

they caused, but Madison's best guess is that the

muzzle of the pistol was aimed at him from above, at

a distance probably no more than a foot or two."

"The killer couldn't miss."

"He saw to it that he couldn't."

"But he showed up not knowing that Lute had

stroked out."

"He came to kill him, regardless."

"At close range."

"Indicating that Pettijohn knew his killer."

They contemplated the ugly dark stain on the car

pet for a moment. "Something's been bothering me,"

Hammond said after a time. "I just now figured out

what it is. Noise. How do you pop someone with a

.38 without anyone hearing it?"

"Only a few guests were in their rooms. Turndown

service wasn't scheduled to begin until after

six. The housekeepers weren't in the corridor yet.

The shooter could have used a sound suppressor of

some sort, even a jerry-rigged one. Although Madison

didn't find any debris around the area or in the

wounds to indicate that. My guess is that Pettijohn's

boast of virtually soundproof rooms wasn't bogus

like his state-of-the-art video security system."

"Another thought just occurred to me." Smilow

looked across at him and motioned for him to continue.

"Whoever popped him not only knew Lute

well, he also knew a lot about his hotel. It's like the

killer had made himself a scholar on everything Pettijohn

did. Like he was obsessed with him." He probed

Smilow's cold eyes. "Do you see what I'm getting at

here?"

Smilow held his stare for a ten count, but, refusing

to be provoked, nodded toward the door to the suite.

"After you, Solicitor."

TUESDAY

CHAPTER

19

Lute Pettijohn's will stipulated that he be cremated.

As soon as Dr. John Madison released the

body on Monday afternoon, it had been transported

to the funeral home. The widow already had made

the arrangements and taken care of the necessary paperwork.

She declined to view the body before relinquishing

it to the crematorium.

A memorial service had been scheduled for Tuesday

morning, which some regarded as inappropriately

soon, especially in light of the circumstances of

Pettijohn's demise. However, considering the

widow's habitually improper conduct, no one was

surprised by her nose-thumbing of time-honored ritual.

The morning dawned hazy and hot. By ten o'clock,

St. Philip's Episcopal Church was packed to capacity.

The famous and infamous were there, as were those

who had come to gawk at the famous and infamous,

including South Carolina's venerable United States

senator and a movie star who lived in Beaufort.

Some had never met Pettijohn, but deemed themselves

important enough to attend an important man's

funeral. Almost without exception, most of those in

attendance had disparaged the deceased when he was

alive. Nevertheless, they filed into the church shaking

their heads and mourning his tragic, untimely death.

The altar was barely large enough to accommodate

the plethora of floral arrangements.

At exactly ten o'clock, the widow was escorted to

the front pew. She was wearing black from head to

toe, unrelieved by anything except her signature

string of pearls. Her hair had been pulled back into an

unadorned ponytail, over which she wore a wide-brimmed

straw hat that obscured her face. Throughout

the service she kept on dark, opaque sunglasses.

"Is she hiding her eyes because they're swollen

from crying? Or because they're not?"

Steffi Mundell was seated next to Smilow. Her

question caused him to frown. His head was bowed

and he appeared actually to be listening to the opening

prayer.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know you had a

religious streak."

She remained respectfully silent throughout the

remainder of the service, even though she professed

no religion. She wasn't as interested in the afterlife

as much as she was in the present one. She wished

her ambitions to be realized here on earth. Stars in a

heavenly crown weren't her idea of achievement.

So, tuning out the scripture readings and eulogies,

she used the hour to mull over the pertinent aspects

of the case, specifically how she could use them to

her advantage.

The case had been assigned to Hammond, but it

was she, not him, who had placed a call to Solicitor

Mason last evening. She had apologized for interrupting

his dinner, but when she told him about Alex

Ladd's lie regarding her whereabouts Saturday night,

he thanked her for keeping him apprised. She was

satisfied that the call had earned her a few brownie

points. Taking it one step further, she had assured

their boss that Hammond probably would have given

him this latest update sometime today ... when he got

around to it... intimating that Hammond wouldn't

have given it priority.

After what seemed as long as the eternity the minister

extolled, the memorial service concluded. As

they stood, Steffi said, "Now, isn't that sweet?" From

everyone clustered around Davee Pettijohn to pay

their respects, she singled out Hammond. The widow

embraced him warmly. He kissed her cheek.

"Old family friends," Smilow remarked.

"How good of friends?"

"Why?"

"He seems reluctant to consider her a viable suspect."

They continued to watch as Mr. and Mrs. Preston

Cross also embraced Davee. Steffi had met the couple

only once at a golf tournament. Hammond had introduced

her to his parents not as his girlfriend but as

his co-worker. She had admired Preston, seeing in

him a strong, daunting personality. Amelia Cross,

Hammond's mother, was her husband's direct counterpart,

a small, sweet southern lady who probably

had never expressed an independent opinion in her

life. She probably had never formed an independent

opinion in her life.

"See?" Smilow said. "The Crosses are Davee's

surrogate family since she has none here."

"I guess."

Because of the crowd, it took them several minutes

to get outside. "What have you got against

Davee?" Smilow asked as they made their way toward

his car. "Now that she's no longer on your list

of suspects."

"Who said that?" Steffi opened the passenger door

and got in.

Smilow settled behind the steering wheel. "I

thought Alex Ladd was your suspect of choice."

"She is. But I'm not ruling out the merry widow,

either. Can we have some A.C. please?" she asked,

fanning her face. "Have you confronted Davee with

her housekeeper's lie?"

"One of my men did. It seems that Sarah Birch's

trip to the supermarket that day had completely

slipped their minds."

With exaggerated sincerity, Steffi said, "Oh, I'm

sure that's true."

They drove several blocks before Smilow surprised

her by quietly saying, "We found a human

hair."

"In the suite?"

"On the sleeve of Pettijohn's jacket." He glanced

at her and actually laughed at her expression. "Don't

get too excited. He could have picked it up off the

furniture. It could belong to any guest who has previously

been in that room, or any housekeeper, room

service waiter. Anybody."

"But if it matches Alex Ladd's--"

"You're back to her, I see."

"If it matches her hair--"

"We don't know yet that it does."

"We know she lied!" Steffi exclaimed.

"There could be dozens of reasons for that."

"Now you sound like Hammond."

"The amateur sleuth."

Steffi listened as he told her about finding Hammond

in the hotel suite the night before. "What was

he doing there?"

"Looking around."

"At what?"

"At everything, I guess. A sly insinuation that I

had missed something."

"What were you doing there?"

Somewhat sheepishly he said, "I might have

missed something."

"Testosterone!" she scoffed. "What it does to otherwise

reasonable Homo sapiens.'" After a beat, she

added, "For instance, look how it colors your opinion

of Alex Ladd."

"What's that mean?"

"If Alex Ladd wasn't a noted doctor with a long

list of credentials, if she weren't so educated and attractive

and articulate, so damn poised, if instead she

was a tough girl with teased hair and tattoos on her tits, would you two be this reluctant to apply more

pressure?"

"I won't even honor that question with an answer."

"Then why are you soft-pedaling?"

"Because I can't make an arrest based solely on a

lie about her going to Hilton Head Island. I've got to

have more than that, Steffi, and you know it. Specifically

I've got to place her in that room. I need hard evidence."

"Like a weapon."

"Working on it."

Continuing to study his profile, a slow smile broke

across her face. "Come on, Smilow, what gives?

You've practically got yellow feathers sticking out of

your mouth."

"You'll find out the latest development when

everybody else does."

"When will that be?"

"This afternoon. I've asked Dr. Ladd to come in

for further questioning. Against her solicitor's advice,

she has agreed."

"Without realizing she's walking into a carefully

laid trap." Feeling buoyant again, Steffi laughed.

"When you spring it, I can't wait to see her face."

Her face mirrored complete surprise, just as Hammond's

did.

The way it came about was crazy.

Hammond, Steffi, Smilow, and Frank Perkins

were congregated outside Smilow's office waiting for

Alex to arrive. Steffi complained of leaving a file on

the desk sergeant's counter. Feeling claustrophobic,

Hammond quickly offered to go downstairs and retrieve

it for her.

He left the Criminal Investigation Division on the

second floor and went to the elevators. The doors slid

open. The only occupant was Alex, obviously on her

way to Smilow's office. They looked at each other for