Rory Smilow sat on the corner of his desk. Unlike all other desks in the Criminal Investigation Division, his was uncluttered. The files and paperwork were neatly stacked. Thanks to Smitty’s shoeshine early that morning, his lace-up shoes reflected the overhead lights. His suit jacket remained on.
Alex Ladd was seated with her hands calmly clasped in her lap, legs decorously crossed. Smilow thought she was remarkably composed for someone who, appearance-wise at least, seemed out of place in a homicide detective’s office.
For half an hour they had been waiting for her solicitor, who had agreed to meet her there. If she was uncomfortable with the prolonged silence and Smilow’s close scrutiny, she gave no sign of it. She exhibited no fear or nervousness, merely a grudging tolerance for the inconvenience.
Solicitor Frank Perkins arrived looking flushed, rushed, and apologetic. Except for cleats, he was dressed for the golf course. “I’m sorry, Alex. I was on the tenth hole when I got your page. I came as soon as I could. What’s this about, Smilow?”
Perkins had a solid reputation and an excellent track record. Rarer than that, he was known to be a decent human being with unimpeachable integrity. Smilow wondered in what capacity the defense attorney had served Alex Ladd before, so he asked.
“It’s a rude question,” Perkins replied, “but I don’t mind answering if Alex doesn’t.”
“Please,” she said.
“Up till now, we’ve been social friends. We met a couple of years ago when she and Maggie, my wife, served on a Spoleto committee together,” he explained, referring to Charleston’s renowned arts festival in May.
“Then, to your knowledge, Dr. Ladd has never been faced with criminal charges before?”
“Come to the point, Smilow.” Perkins’s tone demonstrated why prosecutors considered him a tough adversary in the courtroom.
“I wish to question Dr. Ladd in connection to the Lute Pettijohn murder.”
Perkins’s jaw dropped. He gaped at them like he was waiting for the punch line. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Unfortunately, no, he’s not,” Alex said. “Thank you for coming, Frank. I’m terribly sorry I interrupted your golf game. Were you winning?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah,” he replied absently, still trying to digest what Smilow had told him.
“Then I’m doubly sorry.” Glancing at Smilow, she said, “This is all so ridiculous. It’s a waste of time. I just want to get through it and get out of here.”
In a manner that looked like she was granting him permission to proceed, she nodded at Smilow. He leaned across his desk, clicked on a tape recorder, then stated their names, the time, and the date.
“Dr. Ladd, the attendant of a public parking lot on East Bay Street identified you by an artist’s sketch. Since the lot doesn’t have an automated ticketing system, he keeps a record of each car by writing down the license plate number and the time it came in.”
Unfortunately for Smilow, no record was kept of the time a car exited the lot. The charge was based on the time of entry. For any stay under two hours, the fee was five dollars. Incremental charges didn’t start until after that first one hundred twenty minutes. The charge was noted, but not the exact exit time.
“We traced you through your car tag. On Saturday afternoon you left your car in that lot for up to two hours.”
Perkins, who had been listening intently, laughed. “That’s your earthshaking discovery? That’s your big breakthrough on this case?”
“It’s a start.”
“One hell of a slow start. How does the parking lot business connect Dr. Ladd to the murder?”
“I tipped—”
Perkins held up his hand in caution, but she waved it down. “It’s okay, Frank. I gave that young man at the parking lot a ten-dollar bill, which was the smallest denomination I had. That represented a five-dollar tip. I’m sure that’s why he remembered me well enough to describe me to a sketch artist.”
“He wasn’t the one who provided us with the description,” Smilow told them. “That was a Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia. His room in the Charles Towne Plaza was located down the hallway from the penthouse suite briefly occupied by Lute Pettijohn on Saturday afternoon. Did you know him?”
“You don’t have to answer, Alex,” the attorney told her. “In fact, I recommend that you don’t say anything else until we’ve had a chance to speak privately.”
“It’s all right,” she repeated, this time with a small laugh. Looking back to Smilow, she said, “I’ve never heard of Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia.”
She was not only cool, but clever, thought Smilow. “I was referring to Mr. Pettijohn. Did you know him?”
“Everyone in Charleston has heard of Lute Pettijohn,” she said. “His name was constantly in the news.”
“You knew he had been murdered.”
“Of course.”
“You saw it on TV?”
“I was out of town for a portion of the weekend. But when I got back, I heard it on the news.”
“You didn’t know Pettijohn personally?”
“No.”
“Then why were you standing outside his hotel suite near the time he was murdered?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Alex, please, don’t say anything more.” Placing his hand beneath her elbow, Perkins indicated the door. “We’re leaving.”
“It won’t look good.”
“Detective, you’re the one who doesn’t look good. You owe Dr. Ladd an apology.”
“I don’t mind answering the questions, Frank, if it means stopping this nonsense here and now,” she said.
Perkins looked at her for a long moment. He obviously disagreed, but he turned toward Smilow. “I insist on consulting with my client before this goes any further.”
“Fine. I’ll give you a moment alone.”
“Be sure and turn off the microphone before you leave.”
“Believe me, Frank, I want this to go by the books. I don’t want a murderer to be set free on a technicality.” Looking pointedly at Alex, he switched off the recorder and left her alone with her solicitor.
“Can you believe it?” Steffi Mundell was outside in the narrow hall, staring through the two-way mirror into Smilow’s private office. “The artist was right on. What’s she like?”
“Don’t you have any other cases, Steffi? I thought all of you A.D.A.s were overworked and underpaid. At least that’s what you would have everyone believe.”
“With Mason’s sanction, I’ve lightened my caseload so I can concentrate on this one. He wants me to assist Hammond any way I can.”
“Where is the boy wonder?” He watched Alex Ladd adamantly shake her head to one of Frank Perkins’s inquiries.
“Barricaded inside his office. I haven’t seen him since we left the hospital this morning. I left him a message that I was coming over here to take a gander at our suspect. Good work on the capture, by the way.”
“Duck soup. Will Hammond be joining us?”
“Would you mind?”
Smilow shrugged. “I’d like to gauge his reaction.”
“To Dr. Ladd?”
“It might be interesting to see if Saint Hammond could demand the death penalty for a beautiful woman.”
Steffi reacted with a start. “You think she’s beautiful?”
Before Smilow could answer, Frank Perkins opened the door and, after giving Steffi a blunt greeting, waved them inside.
* * *
Bobby Trimble breathed deeply in an effort to bring his heart rate under control. It had been racing ever since he saw Alex talking to cops on her front door step.
That was bad. Very bad. Were the cops wise to his Pettijohn plot? Had Alex called them with the intention of turning him in to save herself?
He had cruised past her house at a moderate speed with studied indifference. What he saw in his peripheral vision, however, was cause for alarm—two uniforms, a plainclothesman, and a vindictive woman who made no secret of despising him. A foolproof recipe for disaster.
There was one positive sign. Alex hadn’t fingered him. She hadn’t pointed to him and shouted, “Get him!” But he wasn’t sure what that signified, or where it left him. It might mean only that she hadn’t seen him driving past.
Deliberating his next move, he aimlessly wove the convertible through downtown Charleston’s midday traffic. Last night he had thought he was home free. After a lot of arm-twisting, Alex had agreed to give him the money he demanded.
“If you think you can steal my idea and use it for your own gain, you’ve got another thing coming, missy!” When agitated, his accent returned. Hating the sound of that hick whine, he had paused to modulate his voice. “Don’t even think about double-crossing me, Alex,” he told her in a softer, but no less threatening tone. “That money belongs to me, and I want it.”
Alex had cleaned up her act, too. She spoke better. Dressed better. Lived well. But for all her snooty high-and-mighty airs, she hadn’t really changed. No more than he had. Just as she knew his true nature, he knew hers. Did she think he was born yesterday? He saw what was happening. She had seized on his brainstorm and was trying to cheat him out of his half.
When he accused her of it, she had said, “For the last time, Bobby: I don’t have any money to give you. Leave me alone!”
“That’s simply not going to happen, Alex. I’m in your life until I get what I came for. If you want me to disappear, pay up.”
Her weary sigh had been as good as a waving white flag. “Be at my house at noon tomorrow.”
So he was at her house at noon, and guess what? She had cops for company. There might already be a warrant out for his arrest.
Although maybe not, he thought, forcing himself to calm down. If she and the police had been laying a trap for him, why was the patrol car parked in plain sight? And how could she rat on him without ratting out herself, too?
In any event, until he knew for certain what was going on, it would be wise for Bobby Trimble to lay low. Boring.
Stopping for a red light, he folded his hands over the steering wheel and contemplated his immediate future. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another convertible pull up alongside his. He turned his head.
The two faces looking back at him were partially concealed by sunglasses with bright yellow lenses. The coeds were young and attractive. Their grins were saucy and challenging. Spoiled, rich daddy’s girls looking for mischief on a hot summer afternoon.
In other words, prey.
The light changed, and with a screech of tires, their car shot forward. They made a right turn at the next corner. Bobby switched lanes and made the same turn. The girls, glancing over their bare shoulders, were aware he was following them. He saw them laughing.
The BMW convertible whipped into the parking lot of a trendy luncheon restaurant. Bobby followed. He watched them as they made their way toward the entrance. They were dressed in short shorts that showed an inch of butt cheek and seeming miles of tanned legs. Their halter tops left little to the imagination. They were a walking, giggling, flirting reminder to Bobby of what he did best.
He made his way through the crowded restaurant and spotted them seated at a table on the patio beneath the shade of an umbrella, giving their drink order to a waitress. When she left, Bobby dropped into an empty chair at their table.
Their lips were glossy, framing very white, very straight teeth. Diamond studs glittered in their ears. They smelled of expensive perfume.
“I’m a vice cop,” he said in a sexy drawl. “Are you young ladies old enough to drink?”
They giggled.
“Don’t worry about us, officer.”
“We’re way past the age of consent.”
“Consent to do what?” he asked.
“We’re on vacation, so we’re open to just about anything.”
“And we do mean anything.”
He gave them a smile of naughty intent. “Is that right? And here I figured y’all for traveling missionaries.”
That brought on another round of giggles. The waitress arrived with two drinks. Bobby leaned back in his chair. “What are we drinking, ladies?”
He had scored.
* * *
The intrepid receptionist finally broke the invisible barrier into Hammond’s office. “That sketched suspect? She’s been identified as Dr. Alex Ladd. As we speak, she’s in Detective Smilow’s office undergoing questioning.”
His palms broke a cold sweat. “Did he arrest her?”
“Came in voluntarily is what Ms. Mundell said. But she has her solicitor with her. Are you on the way over there, or what?”
“Maybe later.”
The receptionist withdrew.
The ramifications of this news rebounded as quickly as echoes. Hammond was assailed by them. Smilow’s interrogation tactics could have wrung a confession from Mother Teresa. Hammond had no way of knowing how Alex Ladd might respond to them. Would she be hostile or cooperative? Would she have something to confess? When she saw him again, what might she reveal? What might he reveal?
To be on the safe side, he wanted to postpone an inevitable face-to-face meeting for as long as possible. Until he knew more about Alex Ladd, and learned the nature and extent of her involvement with Pettijohn, it was best for him to keep his distance from the case.
Ordinarily, that would have been doable. Except for rare exceptions, his office didn’t become directly involved until the detectives felt they had enough evidence to press formal charges, or for Hammond to make a case to the grand jury. Unlike Steffi, who didn’t know the meaning of finesse, he let the police department do its job until it was time for him to take over.
But this was one of those rare exceptions. His involvement was required, if for no other reason than politics. City and state officials, some of whom had been Pettijohn’s avowed enemies in life, others his cohorts, were using his murder as a political platform. Through the media, they were demanding a quick arrest and prosecution of his murderer.
Fanning public interest, an editorial in this morning’s paper had sounded a wake-up call to the sad truth that no one, not even a seemingly invulnerable individual like Lute Pettijohn, was safe from violence.
On the noon edition of the news, a reporter had conducted a man-on-the-street poll, asking people if they were confident that Pettijohn’s killer would be captured and justly punished.
The case was creating the media frenzy his father wished for.
What Hammond wished for was to avoid joining the fray for as long as possible. To that end, he spent another half hour creating busywork for himself.
Monroe Mason appeared immediately upon his return from lunch. “I hear Smilow’s already got a suspect.” His booming voice bounced off the walls of Hammond’s office like a racquetball.
“News travels fast.”
“So it’s true?”
“I just got the message a while ago.”
“Give me the condensed version.”
He explained about Daniels and the sketch. “A flyer with Endicott’s drawing and a written description was circulated around the area of the Charles Towne Plaza. Dr. Ladd was identified by a parking lot attendant.”
“I understand she’s a prominent psychologist.”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Ever heard of her?”
“No.”
“Me either. My wife probably has. She knows everybody. You figure Pettijohn was a patient of hers?”
“At this point, Monroe, you know as much as I do.”
“See what you can find out.”
“I’ll keep you informed as the case progresses.”
“No, I mean this afternoon. Now.”
“Now? Smilow doesn’t like our butting in,” Hammond argued. “He especially dislikes my butting in. Steffi’s already there. If I go, too, he’ll resent the hell out of it. It’ll look like we’re checking up on him.”
“If he gets his ire up, Steffi will smooth it over. I’ve got to have something to tell all the reporters calling my office.”
“It can’t go on record that Dr. Ladd is a suspect, Monroe. We don’t know that she is. She’s only being questioned, for chrissake.”
“She was worried enough to bring Frank Perkins along with her.”
“Frank’s her lawyer?” Hammond knew him well, and he respected him. It was always a challenge to argue a case against him in court. She couldn’t have a more capable attorney. “Any sensible person would have her lawyer along when invited to the police station for questioning.”
Mason wasn’t deterred. “Let me know what she’s about.” With a thundering goodbye, he left, taking any choice Hammond had with him.
Reaching the police station, he went up to the second floor and depressed the buzzer on the locked double doors leading into the Criminal Investigation Division. They were opened for him by a policewoman. Knowing why he was there, she said, “They’re in Smilow’s office.”
“Why not the interrogation room?”
“I think it was occupied. Besides, Solicitor Mundell wanted to watch through the glass.”
Hammond was almost glad Alex wasn’t being questioned in that windowless cubicle that stank of stale coffee and guilty sweat. He couldn’t imagine her in the same room where he’d watched pedophiles and rapists and thieves and pimps and murderers become completely dismantled under the pressure of tough interrogation.
He rounded the corner into the short hallway where the homicide detectives had their offices. He had hoped it would be over and Alex would be gone by the time he arrived. No such luck. Steffi and Smilow were peering through the mirrored glass, looking like vultures waiting for their victim to draw a final breath.
He heard Steffi say, “She’s lying.”
“Of course she’s lying,” Smilow said. “I just don’t know which part is a lie.”
They didn’t notice Hammond until he spoke. “What’s up?”
Turning around, Steffi looked thoroughly put out. “Well, it’s about time. Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I couldn’t get away. What makes you think she’s lying?” He nodded toward the small window, so far too gutless to look through it.
“Normally, an innocent person is nervous and edgy,” Smilow said.
“Our lady doctor hardly blinks,” Steffi told him. “No hem-hawing. No throat clearing. No fidgeting. She answers each question directly.”
Hammond said, “I’m surprised Frank is letting her answer at all.”
“He doesn’t want her to. She insists. She has a mind of her own.”
Following Smilow’s thoughtful gaze, Hammond finally turned his head. He could see only a partial profile, but even that had a profound effect on him. His first impulse was to smooth back the strand of hair that had curled against her cheek. The second was to grab her and shake her angrily, demanding to know just what the hell she was up to and why she had dragged him into it.
“What do we know about her?” he asked.
Even Smilow appeared impressed as he rattled off a long list of credentials. “Besides being published twice in Psychology Today, she’s often asked to lecture, specifically on the study she conducted on panic attacks. She’s considered an expert on the subject. A few months ago, she talked a man off a window ledge.”
“I remember that,” Hammond said.
“It made the newspaper. The man’s wife credits Dr. Ladd with saving his life.” Referring to his notepad, Smilow added, “Her personal life is personal. All we know is that she’s single, no children. Frank is pissed. He says we’ve got the wrong person.”
“What else is he going to say?” Steffi remarked snidely.
Trying to appear impassive, Hammond said, “She seems like a woman who’s got it all together.”
“Oh, she’s together, all right,” Steffi said. “You couldn’t melt ice on her ass. Once you’ve talked to her, you’ll see what we mean. She’s so cool, she’s practically bloodless.”
How little you know, Steffi.
“Ready for the next go ’round?” She and Smilow moved toward the door.
Hammond hung back. “Do you want me to go in?” They turned, surprised.
“I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to get your first crack at the murderess,” Steffi said.
“It remains to be seen whether or not she’s a murderess,” he said testily. “But that’s not the point. The point is that since you’re here, we outnumber Smilow. I don’t want him to think that we’re monitoring him.”
“You can address me directly,” Smilow said.
“Okay,” Hammond said, looking at the detective. “Just so we’re clear, my coming over here was Mason’s idea, not mine.”
“I got the same lecture on peaceful coexistence from Chief Crane. I can tolerate you if you can tolerate me.”
“Fair enough.”
Steffi expelled a deep breath. “So ends round one of the pissing contest. Now can we please get down to business?”
Smilow held the door open for them. Hammond let Steffi precede him. Smilow entered behind him and closed the door, cramming too many people into such a small space. There was hardly enough room for Smilow to squeeze past Hammond on his way to his desk. “Are you sure you won’t have something to drink, Dr. Ladd?”
“No, thank you, Detective.”
To Hammond, hearing her voice was as stirring as if she had touched him. He could almost feel again her breath against his ear. His heart was a hard, dull thudding against his ribs. He could barely breathe. And, dammit, it was all he could do not to touch her.
Smilow made the superfluous introductions. “Dr. Ladd, this is Special Assistant Solicitor Hammond Cross. Mr. Cross, Dr. Alex Ladd.”
She turned her head. Hammond held his breath.