The temporary headquarters of the judicial building was located in North Charleston. It was an unattractive two-story structure situated in an industrial district. Its nearest neighbors were a convenience store and a day-old bakery shop. This out-of-the-way location was serving until an extensive renovation of the stately old building downtown was completed. It had been already in need of attention when Hurricane Hugo rendered the building unsafe and unusable, forcing the move.
It was only a ten-minute drive from downtown. Hammond wouldn’t remember making the drive that morning. He parked and went inside. He responded by rote to the guard who manned the metal detector at the entrance. Turning left, he went into the County Solicitor’s Office and passed the receptionist’s desk without slowing up. He brusquely asked her to hold all calls.
“You already have—”
“I’ll take care of everything later.”
He soundly closed his private office door behind him. Tossing his suit jacket and briefcase on top of the paperwork waiting for his attention on his desk, he threw himself into the high-backed leather chair and pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets.
It simply couldn’t be. This had to be a dream. Shortly, he would wake up startled and alarmed and breathing heavily, his sheets damp with sweat. After orienting himself to familiar surroundings, he would realize with relief that he had been in a deep sleep and that this nightmare wasn’t a reality.
But it was. He wasn’t dreaming it, he was living it. Impossible as it seemed, the sketch artist had drawn Dr. Alex Ladd, who had shared Hammond’s bed within hours after she was seen at the site of a murder.
Coincidence? Highly unlikely.
She must have some connection to Lute Pettijohn. Hammond wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that connection was. In fact, he was dead certain he didn’t want to know.
He dragged his hands down his face, then, propping his elbows on his desk, he stared into near space and tried to arrange his chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order.
First, without a doubt, Corporal Endicott had sketched the face of the woman he had slept with Saturday night. Even if he hadn’t seen her as recently as last night, he wasn’t likely to forget her face that soon. It had attracted him from the start. He had spent hours late Saturday night and early Sunday morning studying, admiring, caressing, and kissing it.
“Where did this come from?” He touched a spot beneath her right eye.
“My blemish?”
“It’s a beauty mark.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“When I was younger I hated it. Now I must admit I’ve grown rather fond of it.”
“I can see how that could happen. I could grow fond of it myself.” He kissed it once, then a second time, touching it lightly with the tip of his tongue.
“Hmm. It’s a shame.”
“What?”
“That I don’t have more spots.”
He had come to know her face intimately. The artist’s sketch was a two-dimensional, black and white drawing. Given those limitations, it couldn’t possibly capture the essence of the woman behind the face, but it had been such a close representation that there was no doubt Dr. Ladd had been seen near a murder victim’s room shortly before placing herself in the path of someone from the county solicitor’s office, specifically one Hammond Cross, who had himself been in Pettijohn’s company that afternoon.
“Jesus.” Plowing his fingers through his hair and holding his head between his hands, he almost surrendered to the disbelief and despair that assailed him. What the hell was he going to do?
Well, he couldn’t collapse from within, which is what he felt like doing. What a luxury it would be to slink away from this office, leave Charleston, leave the state, run away and hide, let this mess erupt on its own, and spare himself having to withstand the incendiary lava flow of scandal that would inevitably follow.
But he was made of sterner stuff than that. He had been born with an indomitable sense of responsibility, and his parents had nourished that trait every day of his life. He could no more fathom running away from this than he could imagine sprouting wings.
So he forced himself to confront a second point that seemed unarguable—withholding her name from him hadn’t been the flirtation he had mistaken it for. They had been together at the fair for at least an hour before he even thought to ask her name. They’d laughed because it had taken them that long to get around to what was usually the first order of business when two people meet and must make their own introductions.
“Names aren’t really that important, are they? Not when the meeting is this amiable.”
He agreed. “Yeah, what’s in a name?” He proceeded to quote what he could remember of the passage from Romeo and Juliet.
“That’s good! Have you ever thought of writing it down?”
“In fact I have, but it would never sell.”
From there it had become a running joke—his asking her name, her declining to tell him. Like a sap he had thought they were playing out the fantasy of making love to an anonymous stranger. Namelessness had been an enticement, part of the adventure, integral to the allure. He had seen no harm in it.
What was disturbing but likely was that Alex Ladd had known his name all along. Theirs hadn’t been a random meeting. It wasn’t happenstance that she had arrived at that dance pavilion shortly after him. Their meeting had been planned. The remainder of the evening had been orchestrated in order to either embarrass or totally compromise him and/or the solicitor’s office.
To what extent remained to be seen. But even the slightest extent could be calamitous for his burgeoning career. Even a hint of scandal would be a stumbling block. One of this magnitude would certainly damage, if not destroy, his hopes of ever succeeding Monroe Mason and distinguishing himself as the top-ranking law enforcer of Charleston County.
Leaning over his desk, he buried his face in his hands again. Too good to be true. A trite but sound adage. During law school he and his friends had hung out in a bar called Tanstaafl, an acronym for “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” His fantasy evening with the most exciting woman he had ever met not only came with strings attached, those strings were probably going to form a noose that would ultimately hang him.
What an idiot he had been not to recognize the carefully baited trap for what it was. Ironically, he didn’t blame the person, or persons—if she was in league with Pettijohn—who had trapped him as much as he blamed himself for being so goddamn callow.
With both eyes wide open, he had walked into the oldest snare known to man. Sex was a trusty method by which to compromise a man. Countless times throughout recorded history, it had proven itself to be timely, reliable, and effective. He wouldn’t have thought himself that gullible, but obviously he was.
Gullibility was forgivable. Obstruction of justice wasn’t.
Why hadn’t he immediately admitted to Smilow and Steffi that he recognized the woman in the sketch?
Because she could be completely blameless. This Daniels could be mistaken. If in truth he had seen Alex Ladd in the hotel, the timing of his seeing her would become critical. Hammond knew almost to the minute when she had appeared in the dance pavilion. Given the distance she would have driven to get there, and taking the traffic congestion into consideration, she couldn’t have made it if she had left the hotel… He did a quick calculation. Say, after five-thirty. If the coroner pinpointed the time of death anytime after that, she couldn’t be the murderer.
Good argument, Hammond. In hindsight. A terrific rationalization.
But the fact of the matter was, it had never entered his mind to identify Alex Ladd.
From the heart-stopping instant he looked at the drawing and knew with absolute certainty who the subject was, he knew with equal certainty that he wasn’t going to reveal her name.
When he saw the face on the artist’s sketch pad and remembered it from the vantage point of his pillow, he didn’t weigh his options, didn’t deliberate the pros and cons of keeping silent. His secret had been instantly sealed. At least for the time being, he was going to protect her identity. Thereby, he had consciously breached every rule of ethic he advocated. His silence was a deliberate violation of the law he had sworn to uphold, and an intentional attempt to impede a homicide investigation. He couldn’t even guess at the severity of the consequences he might pay.
All the same, he wasn’t going to turn her over to Smilow and Steffi.
The loud rap on his office door came a millisecond before it opened. He was about to rebuke the secretary for disturbing him after expressly asking not to be bothered, but the harsh words were never spoken.
“Good morning, Hammond.”
Fuck. This is all I need.
As always when in his father’s presence, Hammond put himself through something similar to a pre-flight inspection. How did he look? Were all systems and parts in optimum working condition? Were there any malfunctions that required immediate correction? Did he pass muster? He hoped his father wouldn’t be examining him too closely this morning.
“Hello, Dad.” He stood and they formally shook hands across his desk. If his father had ever hugged him, Hammond had been too young to recall it.
He gathered up his suit coat and hung it on a wall hook, set his briefcase on the floor, and invited his father to sit down in the only spare chair in the cramped room.
Preston Cross was considerably stockier and shorter than his son. But his lack of stature didn’t reduce the impact he made on people, whether in a crowd or one-on-one. His ruddy complexion was kept perpetually sunburned by outdoor activities that included tennis, golf, and sailing. As though on command, his hair had gone prematurely white when he turned fifty. He wore it like an accessory to ensure he was given the respect he demanded.
He had never known a day of illness, and actually disdained poor health as a sign of weakness. He had given up cigarettes a decade ago, but smoked cigars. He drank no less than three tall bourbons a day. He considered it a sacrilege not to have wine with dinner. He always had a snifter of brandy before bedtime. Despite these vices, he thrived.
In his mid-sixties, he was more robust and in better shape than most men half his age. But it wasn’t his imposing physicality alone that created a powerful aura. It was also his dynamic personality. He took his good looks as his due. He intimidated men who were usually self-confident. Women adored him.
In both his professional and personal life he was rarely second-guessed and never contradicted. Three decades ago, he had combined several small medical insurance companies into a large one that, under his leadership, had grown huge, now boasting twenty-one branches statewide. Officially, he was semi-retired. Nevertheless, he was still CEO of the company, and it was more than a titular position. He monitored everything down to the price of bulk pencils. Nothing escaped him.
He served on numerous boards and committees. He and Mrs. Cross were on every invitation list that mattered. He knew everyone who was anyone in the southeastern United States. Preston Cross was well connected.
While Hammond wished to love, admire, and respect his father, he knew Preston had taken full advantage of his God-given qualities to do ungodly things.
Preston began his unannounced visit by saying, “I came as soon as I heard.”
The words ordinarily prefaced a condolence. Hammond was filled with cold dread. How could his father possibly have found out about his indiscretion with Alex Ladd this soon? “What’d you hear?”
“That you’ll be prosecuting Lute Pettijohn’s murder case.”
Hammond tried to hide his relief. “That’s right.”
“It would have been nice to hear that kind of good news directly from you, Hammond.”
“No slight intended, Dad. I only spoke with Mason last night.”
Ignoring Hammond’s explanation, his father continued. “Instead, I had to hear it from a friend who attended a prayer breakfast with Mason this morning. When he casually mentioned it to me later at the club, he naturally assumed that I already knew. I was embarrassed that I didn’t.”
“I went to my cabin on Saturday. I was told about Pettijohn as soon as I returned last evening. Since then, things have been happening so quickly I haven’t had a chance to absorb them all myself.” An understatement if ever there was one.
Preston brushed an invisible piece of lint off the knife-blade crease of his trousers. “I’m sure you appreciate what an incredible opportunity this is for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The trial will generate a lot of publicity.”
“I’m aware—”
“Which you should exploit, Hammond.” With the zeal of a fire-and-brimstone evangelist, Preston raised his hand and closed it into a tight fist as though grasping a handful of radio waves. “Use the media. Get your name out there on a routine basis. Let the voters know who you are. Self-promotion. That’s the key.”
“Winning a conviction is the key,” Hammond countered. “I hope my performance in court will speak for itself, and that I won’t need to rely on media hype.”
Preston Cross waved his hand in a gesture of impatient dismissal. “People don’t care how you handle the case, Hammond. Who really gives a damn whether the killer goes to prison for life, or gets the needle, or gets off scot-free?”
“I care,” he said heatedly. “And the citizenry should.”
“Maybe at one time closer attention was paid to how public officials performed. Now all folks care about is how good they perform on TV.” Preston laughed. “If polled, I doubt most people would even have a basic understanding of what a district attorney does.”
“Yet those same people are outraged over the crime statistics.”
“That’s good. Appeal to that,” Preston exclaimed. “Talk a good talk and the public will be pacified.” He eased back in his chair. “Schmooze the reporters, Hammond, and get on their good side. Always give them a statement when they ask for one. Even if it’s bullshit, you’ll be amazed to see how a little goes a long way. They’ll start giving you free air time.” He paused to wink. “Get yourself elected first, then you can crusade to your heart’s content.”
“What if I can’t get elected?”
“What’s to stop you?”
“Speckle Island.”
Hammond had dropped a bombshell, but Preston didn’t even flinch. “What’s that?”
Hammond didn’t even try to hide his disgust. “You’re good, Dad. You’re very good. Deny it all you want, but I know you’re lying.”
“Watch your tongue with me, Hammond.”
“Watch my tongue?” Hammond angrily sprang from his chair and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’m not a child, Father. I’m a county prosecutor. And you’re a crook.”
Bourbon-flushed blood rushed to the capillaries of Preston’s face. “Okay, you’re so smart. What do you think you know?”
“I know that if Detective Smilow or anyone else discovers your name in conjunction with the Speckle Island project, it could cost you a hefty fine, maybe even jail time, and spell the end of my career. Unless I prosecute my own father. Either way, your alliance with Pettijohn has placed me in an untenable situation.”
“Relax, Hammond. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m out of Speckle Island.”
Hammond didn’t know whether to believe him or not. His father’s face was calm, implacable, giving off no telltale signs of dishonesty. He was talented that way. “Since when?” he asked.
“Weeks ago.”
“Pettijohn didn’t know that.”
“Of course he did. He tried to talk me out of withdrawing. I got out anyway, and took my money with me. Pissed him off something fierce.”
Hammond felt his face growing warm with embarrassment. Pettijohn had told him last Saturday afternoon that Preston was up to his neck in Speckle Island. He had shown him signed documents on which his father’s signature was readily recognizable. Had Pettijohn been playing with him? “One of you is lying.”
“When did you exchange confidences with Lute?” Preston wanted to know.
Hammond ignored the question. “When you pulled out, did you sell your partnership for a profit?”
“It wouldn’t have been good business not to. There was a buyer wanting to get in on the deal, and ready to pay my price for my share.”
The sour coffee in Hammond’s stomach roiled. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re out now or not. If you were ever connected to that project, you’re tainted. And by association, so am I.”
“You’re making far too much of this, Hammond.”
“If it ever becomes public knowledge—”
“It won’t.”
“It might.”
Preston shrugged. “Then I’ll tell the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That I was unaware of what Lute was doing out there. When I found out, I disapproved and pulled out.”
“You’ve got it figured from all angles.”
“That’s right, I do. Always have.”
Hammond glared at his father. Preston was practically daring him to make a case out of it—literally. But Hammond knew it would be futile to do so. Probably even Lute Pettijohn had known that Preston would have all his ducks in a row. He had used Preston’s temporary affiliation with the Speckle Island project to manipulate Hammond.
“My advice to you, Hammond,” Preston was saying, “is to learn a valuable lesson from this. You can get by with just about anything, as long as you leave yourself a dependable escape hatch.”
“That’s your advice to your only son? Fuck integrity?”
“I didn’t make the rules,” he snapped. “And you might not like them.” Leaning forward in his chair, he punctuated his words by stabbing the air with a blunt index finger. “But you’ve got to abide by them, or those who aren’t so high-minded will leave you choking on their heel dust.”
This was familiar territory. They’d tramped over it a thousand times. When Hammond became old enough to question his father’s infallibility and to dispute some of his principles, it soon became apparent that they differed. A line had been drawn in the sand. These were arguments that neither could win because neither would concede an inch.
Now that Hammond had seen written proof of his father’s involvement in one of Pettijohn’s more nefarious schemes, he realized how vastly different their viewpoints were. He didn’t believe for an instant that Preston was ever unaware of what was taking place on that sea island. Conscience had played no part in his decision to pull out when he did. He had merely waited for an opportunity to make a profit on his own investment.
Hammond saw the gulf between them yawning wider. He saw no way to span it.
“I have a meeting in five minutes,” he lied, coming around the corner of his desk. “Tell Mom hi. I’ll try and call her later today.”
“She and some of her friends are calling on Davee this afternoon.”
“I’m sure Davee will appreciate that,” Hammond said, remembering how Davee had scorned the whole idea of receiving callers who would flock to her house more out of curiosity than to pay their respects.
At the door, Preston turned. “I made no secret of how I felt when you left the law firm.”
“No, sir, you didn’t. You made it abundantly clear that you thought it was the wrong choice,” Hammond said stiffly. “But I stick by my decision. I like my job here, on this side of the law. Beyond that, I’m good at it.”
“Under Monroe Mason’s tutelage you’ve done well. Exceptionally well.”
“Thank you.”
The compliment didn’t warm Hammond because he no longer valued his father’s opinion. Furthermore, Preston’s praise always came with a qualifier attached.
“I like the looks of all those A’s, Hammond. But that B-plus in chemistry is unacceptable.”
“The runners you batted in on that triple won the game. Too bad you couldn’t have made it a grand slam. That would have really been something!”
“Second in your law school class? That’s wonderful, son. Of course, it’s not as good as placing first.”
That had been the pattern since his childhood. His father didn’t break with tradition this morning.
“You now have a chance to validate your decision, Hammond. You abandoned the promise of a full partnership in a prestigious criminal law firm and went into public service. That would make a whole lot more sense if you were the boss.” With false affection, his hand landed on Hammond’s shoulder like a sack of cement. Already he had forgotten, or had chosen to disregard, their recent argument.
“This is the case that could earn you your spurs, son. Pettijohn’s murder case is an open-door invitation to the solicitor’s office.”
“What if your misdeeds cancel my chances, Father?”
With obvious impatience he said, “That’s not going to happen.”
“But if it does, considering your ambition for me, wouldn’t that be a cruel irony?”
* * *
Dr. Alex Ladd didn’t see patients on Mondays.
She used that day to catch up on paperwork and personal business. Today was a special Monday. Today she was paying off Bobby Trimble and getting rid of him, she hoped forever. That was the deal they had struck last night. She would give him what he demanded, and he would disappear.
However, she had learned through experience that Bobby’s promises were worthless.
As she unlocked the door to her office, she wondered how many times in the future she would be forced to go to her safe to extract cash. For the rest of her life? That was a bleak prospect, but a valid one. Now that Bobby had found her again, it was unlikely he would leave her alone.
Her well-appointed office reminded her of all she stood to lose if Bobby were to expose her. With her patients’ comfort uppermost in mind, she had selected understated but expensive furnishings. Like the other rooms of the house, it was a blend of traditional styling with a few antique pieces used for accent.
The Oriental rug muted her footsteps. Sunlight shone in through the windows that overlooked the downstairs piazza and, beyond that, the walled garden, which she kept beautifully maintained through all four seasons. The blooming plants and flowers that thrived in Charleston’s semi-tropical climate were at their peak. Basking in the humidity, they provided patches of vibrant color in the cultivated beds.
She had been fortunate to find the house already restored and renovated with modern conveniences. It had needed only personal touches to make it hers. At one time this front corner room had been the formal parlor of the single house. The matching room adjacent to it, originally a dining room, now functioned as her living room. When she entertained, she took her guests out. Meals at home were eaten in the kitchen, which was the back room on the first floor. Upstairs were two large bedroom suites. Each room in the house opened onto one of the two shady piazzas. The jasmine-covered wall surrounding the garden guaranteed privacy.
Alex swung aside the framed painting that concealed her wall safe. Deftly she spun the dial on the combination lock and when she heard the tumblers line up, she cranked the handle down and pulled open the heavy door.
Inside were several stacks of currency, banded together according to denomination. Perhaps because she had known want, even hunger, in her early years, she was never without cash on hand. The habit was childish and unreasonable, but one she forgave herself, considering the basis of it. It wasn’t sound economics to keep the money in a safe where it earned no interest. But it gave her a sense of security to know that it was there, available should an emergency arise. Such as now.
She counted out the agreed-upon amount and placed the money in a zippered bag. Because of what it represented, the sack felt inordinately heavy in her hand.
Her hatred for Bobby Trimble was so intense it frightened her. She didn’t begrudge giving him the money. Happily she would give him even more if it meant that she never had to see him again. It wasn’t the amount that she resented, it was his intrusion into the life she had built for herself.
Two weeks ago, he had materialized out of nowhere. Unaware of what awaited her, she had blithely answered her ringing doorbell to discover him on her threshold.
For a moment she hadn’t recognized him. The changes were startling. His flashy, cheap clothes had been replaced by flashy, expensive fashions. There was a sprinkling of gray at his temples, which would have made any other man appear distinguished. It only made Bobby seem more sinister, as though his youthful meanness had matured into pure evil.
The sardonic grin, however, was all too familiar. It was a triumphant, gloating, suggestive smile that she had spent years trying to eradicate from her recall. When countless therapy sessions and seas of tears hadn’t rid her of it, she had begged God to remove it. Now, only on rare occasions, it resurfaced in a bad dream, from which she would awaken bathed in sweat and shivering in terror. Because that smile was representative of the control he had wielded over her.
“Bobby.” Her voice had carried the hollow tone of a death knell. His unheralded reappearance in her life could only mean disaster, especially since the subtle changes in him underscored the threat he embodied.
“You don’t sound very glad to see me.”
“How did you find me?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy.” His voice was also changed. It was smoother, more refined, absent the twang. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’ve been hiding from me all these years. As it turns out, it was a fluke that brings me to your door. A twist of fate.”
She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Fate could have played this cruel trick on her. On the other hand, Bobby was resourceful. He might have been tracking her relentlessly for years. Either way, it didn’t matter. He was here, exhuming her worst memories and darkest fears from the deep places of her soul where she had buried them.
“I want nothing to do with you.”
Stacking his hands over his heart, he had pretended her words were wounding. “After all we meant to each other?”
“Because of what we meant to each other.”
He found her far more poised and self-assertive than she had been as a youth, and his face had turned dark with anger. “Do you really want to start comparing our past experiences? You want to match up what happened to who? Remember, I was the one who—”
“What do you want? Besides money. I know you want money.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Dr. Ladd. You’re not the only one to make good. Since we last saw each other, I’ve prospered, too.”
He had boasted about his career as a nightclub emcee. When she had heard all she could stomach about his glory days at the Cock’n’Bull she said, “I have a patient in fifteen minutes.”
She had hoped to bring the reunion to a quick close. Bobby, however, had been building up to a big flash. As though playing a winning ace, he proudly disclosed the scheme that had brought him to Charleston.
Without question, he was stark, staring mad, and she had told him so.
“Be careful, Alex,” he said with terrifying softness. “I’m not as nice as I used to be. And I’m much smarter.”
Fighting her fear, she said, “Then you don’t need me.”
But his scheme did involve her. “In fact, you’re key to its success.”
When he told her what he wanted her to do, she had said, “You’re delusional, Bobby. If you think I would give you so much as the time of day, you’re sorely mistaken. Go away and don’t come back.”
But he had come back. The next day. And the day after that. For a week he persisted, showing up at all hours, interrupting her sessions with patients, leaving repeat messages on her voice mail that grew increasingly threatening. He had reattached himself to her life like the parasite he was.
Finally she had agreed to meet with him. Thinking that she had capitulated, his pleasure turned to rage when she declined to participate. “You may have more polish, Bobby. More refinement. But you haven’t changed. You’re the same as you were when hustling in the streets for pocket change. Scratch the surface of this thin veneer, and you’re still scum underneath.”
Infuriated by the truth, he removed one of her diplomas from the office wall and hurled it to the floor, splintering the frame and shattering the glass. “You listen to me,” he said in a voice more like the one she remembered. “You had better reconsider and do me this little favor. Otherwise, I’ll mess up your life real good. Real good.”
She realized then that he wasn’t just a street hustler any longer. Not only was he capable of damaging her, he could destroy her.
So she had agreed to play her small role in his ridiculous scheme—but only because she had already devised a way to thwart it.
But, as with all Bobby’s schemes, it had gone awry.
Terribly awry.
She had been unable to implement her own plan. Now it was imperative that she disassociate herself from Bobby. If that meant paying him what he demanded, it was a small sacrifice to make compared to the enormity of what she could lose if their alliance was exposed.
Feeling that this decision was justified, she closed the wall safe, moved the painting back into place, and left her office, relocking the door behind her. As though on cue, her doorbell chimed. Bobby was right on time. She slipped the zippered bag behind a vase on the foyer table, stepped out onto the piazza, and answered the street door.
But it wasn’t Bobby on the threshold. Two uniformed policemen stood on either side of a man with pale eyes and a thin, unsmiling mouth. Alex’s heart plummeted, knowing already what had brought them to her home. Once again, her life was about to be pitched into chaos.
To conceal her anxiety, she smiled pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Ladd?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sergeant Rory Smilow, a homicide detective with Charleston P.D. I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Lute Pettijohn.”
“Lute Pettijohn? I’m afraid I don’t know—”
“You were seen outside his penthouse suite on the afternoon he was murdered, Dr. Ladd. So please don’t waste my time by pretending that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
She and Detective Smilow stared at one another, taking each other’s measure. It was Alex who finally relented. She stood aside. “Come in.”
“Actually, I was hoping you would come with us.”
She swallowed, although her mouth was dry. “I’d like to call my lawyer.”
“That isn’t necessary. This isn’t an arrest.”
She looked pointedly at the stoic policemen flanking him.
Smilow’s lips lifted in what could have passed as a wry smile. “Volunteering to be questioned without an attorney present would go a long way toward convincing me that you’re innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“I don’t believe that for an instant, Detective Smilow.” She scored a point. Her directness seemed to take him aback. “I’ll be happy to accompany you as soon as I notify my lawyer.”