The Citadel, respected as one of the outstanding institutions of higher learning in America, was located only a few blocks from the Shady Rest Lounge. Beyond their proximity, the bar and the military academy were worlds apart in every respect.
Unlike the renowned academy with its guarded gate and pristine grounds, the Shady Rest didn’t boast an impressive facade. It had no windows, only cinder-block patches where windows had once been. The entrance was a metal door on which a vandal had carved an obscenity. After the infraction, a slapdash attempt had been made to cover the word with a thin, low-grade paint which, unfortunately, didn’t quite match the original color or fill in the scratch. As a result, the expletive now drew more attention than if it had been left alone. The only thing that indicated the nature of the establishment was a neon sign above the door that spelled out the name. The sign buzzed noisily and worked only sporadically.
In spite of its lofty neighbor and all its own shortcomings, the Shady Rest Lounge was perfectly at home in its environment, a neighborhood of poverty- and crime-ridden streets where windows were barred and visible signs of prosperity made one a target.
With self-protection in mind, Hammond had replaced his business suit with blue jeans and T-shirt, a baseball cap and sneakers. All had seen better days… better decades. But a change of clothing alone wasn’t sufficient. In this section of the city, one needed to adopt an attitude in order to survive.
When he pulled open the defaced door to go into the lounge, he didn’t politely stand aside for the pair of guys on their way out. Instead he shouldered his way between them, acting tough enough to make a statement but hopefully not being so aggressive as to spark a confrontation he would most certainly lose. He escaped with only a muttered slur directed toward him and his mother.
Once inside the lounge, it took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Shady deals were transacted in the Shady Rest. He had never been in this particular bar before, but he knew instantly the kind of place it was. Every city had them, Charleston being no exception. He was also uneasily aware that he wouldn’t last long if any of the other patrons discovered that he represented the County Solicitor’s Office.
Once his eyes had adjusted and he got his bearings, he spotted whom he sought. She was sitting alone at the end of the bar, morosely staring into a highball glass. Affecting disregard for the wary, hostile stares sizing him up, Hammond made his way over to her.
Loretta Boothe’s hair was grayer than the last time he had seen her, and it looked like it had been a while since her last shampoo. She had made an attempt to apply makeup, but either she had done an inept job or this application was several days old. Mascara had flaked onto her cheeks, and her eyebrow pencil had been smudged. Lipstick had bled into the fine lines radiating from her mouth, though none of the color remained on her lips. One cheek was rosy with rouge, the other sallow and colorless. It was a pathetic face.
“Hey, Loretta.”
She turned and focused bleary eyes on him. Despite the baseball cap, she recognized him immediately, and her delight to see him was plain. Eyelids that were saggy and webbed beyond their years crinkled as she grinned, revealing a lower front tooth in bad need of a dentist’s attention.
“Lord have mercy, Hammond.” She looked beyond him, as though expecting an entourage. “You’re the last person in the world I’d expect to see in a dive like this. You slumming tonight?”
“I came to see you.”
“Same as,” she said, snorting a humorless laugh. “I didn’t think you were speaking to me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You had every right to be pissed.”
“I still am.”
“So what put you in a forgiving mood?”
“An emergency.” He glanced down at her nearly empty glass. “Buy you a drink?”
“Ever know me to turn one down?”
Wishing the privacy of a booth, Hammond gallantly helped her off the barstool. If he hadn’t lent a supporting hand, her knees might have buckled when she stood up. The drink she left on the bar hadn’t been her first, or even her second.
As she teetered along beside him, he acknowledged to himself that there was a very good chance he was going to sorely regret doing this. But as he had told her, it was an emergency.
He ensconced her in a booth, then returned to the bar and ordered two Jack Daniel’s black, one straight, one with water over rocks. He passed the former to Loretta as he slid into the booth.
“Cheers.” She raised her glass to him before taking a hefty swallow. Fortified by the drink, she turned her attention to Hammond. “You’re looking good.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. You always did look good, of course, but you’re just now coming into your own. Growing into your bones. Whatever it is that you men do that makes you get better-looking with age while we women rapidly go to pot.”
He smiled, wishing he could exchange compliments with her. She was barely fifty, but looked much older.
“You’re better-looking than your daddy,” she observed. “And I always thought Preston Cross was a right handsome man.”
“Thanks again.”
“Part of your problem with him—”
“I don’t have a problem with him.”
She frowned, squelching his denial. “Part of your problem with him is that he’s jealous of you.”
Hammond scoffed.
“It’s true,” Loretta pronounced with the superior air of drunks and sages. “Your daddy’s afraid that you might surpass him. You might achieve more than he has. You might become more powerful than he is. Earn more respect. He couldn’t stand that.”
Hammond looked down into his own drink, which he didn’t want. The one he’d had a couple hours ago with Smilow and Steffi had left him slightly queasy. Or maybe it had been the subject matter that had turned his stomach. In any case, he wasn’t thirsty for Tennessee sipping whiskey. “I didn’t come here to talk about my father, Loretta.”
“Right, right. An emergency.” She took another drink. “How’d you find me?”
“I called the last number I had.”
“My daughter lives there now.”
“It’s your apartment.”
“But Bev is paying the rent, and has been for months. She told me if I didn’t pull myself together, she was going to kick me out.” She raised her shoulders. “Here I am.”
Suddenly he realized why she looked so disheveled and unwashed, and the realization increased his queasiness. “Where are you living now, Loretta?”
“Don’t worry about me, hotshot. I can take care of myself.”
He allowed her a remnant of pride by not coming right out and asking if she was living on the streets or in a homeless shelter. “When I spoke to Bev, she told me this had become one of your favorite hangouts.”
“Bev’s an ICU nurse,” she boasted.
“That’s great. She’s done well.”
“In spite of me.”
There was no argument for that, so Hammond said nothing. Feeling self-conscious and awkward for her, he studied the handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the record selector on their table. The sign had been there a long time. Both the paper and the Scotch tape had yellowed with age. The jukebox in the distant corner stood dark and silent, as though it had succumbed to the pervasive despondency inside the Shady Rest.
“I’m proud of her,” Loretta said, still on the subject of her daughter.
“As you should be.”
“She can’t stand the sight of me, though.”
“I doubt that.”
“No, she hates me, and I can’t say that I blame her. I let her down, Hammond.” Her eyes were watery with remorse and hopelessness. “I let everybody down. You especially.”
“We finally got the guy, Loretta. Three months after—”
“After I fucked up.”
Again, the truth was unarguable. Loretta Boothe had served on the Charleston Police Department until her alcohol abuse got so bad she was fired. Her increasing dependency had been blamed on her husband’s death. He had died instantly and bloodily when his Harley crashed into a bridge abutment. His death had been ruled accidental, but in a boozy, confidential conversation with Hammond, Loretta had confessed her misgivings. Had her husband chosen suicide over living with her? The question haunted her.
About that same time, she became increasingly disenchanted with the CPD. Or possibly her disenchantment was a result of her deteriorating personal life. Either way, she created problems for herself at work and eventually found herself unemployed.
She got licensed as a private investigator and for a time worked regularly. Hammond had always liked her; when he joined the prestigious firm fresh out of law school, she was the first person to address him as “solicitor.” It was a small thing, but he had never forgotten her thoughtful boost to his self-confidence.
When he moved to the County Solicitor’s Office, he frequently retained her to investigate on its behalf even though they had investigators on staff. Even when her reliability became chancy, he continued to use her out of a sense of loyalty and pity. Then she had screwed up royally, and the fallout had been disastrous.
The accused in the case was an angry, incorrigible young man who had almost beaten his mother to death with a tire tool. He was a threat to society, and would continue to be until he was put in prison for a long time.
To win a conviction, Hammond desperately needed the eyewitness testimony of the accused’s second cousin, who was not only reluctant to testify against a family member, but was also scared of the guy and feared retaliation. Despite the subpoena, he hightailed it out of town. It was rumored he’d gone to hide with other relatives in Memphis. Because the staff investigators were already committed to other cases, Hammond brought Loretta in. He advanced her money to cover her expenses, and dispatched her to Memphis to track down the cousin.
Not only did his witness drop out of sight, so did Loretta.
He learned later that she had used the expense money to binge. The trial judge, who was unsympathetic with Hammond’s plight, refused his request for a postponement and ordered him to proceed with what he had, which was the testimony of the battered mother. Also fearing retribution from her violent son, she changed her story on the witness stand, testifying that she had suffered her injuries when she fell off the back porch.
The jury brought in an acquittal. Three months later, the same guy attacked his neighbor in a similar fashion. The victim didn’t die, but he sustained severe and irreparable brain damage. This time the criminal was convicted and sentenced to years behind bars. But Steffi Mundell had prosecuted that case.
All these months later, Hammond still hadn’t forgiven Loretta for betraying the trust he had placed in her, especially when no one else would hire her. She had abandoned him when he needed her most and had made him look like a fool in the courtroom. Worst of all, her dereliction had caused a man to suffer a brutal beating that had left him mentally and physically impaired for the rest of his life.
When sober, Loretta Boothe was the best at what she did. She had the instincts of a bloodhound and an uncanny ability to ferret out information. She seemed to possess a sixth sense about where to go and whom to question. Her own human frailties were so obvious, that people found her disarming and confidence-inspiring. They relaxed their guard and they talked candidly to her. She was also savvy enough to distinguish between what information was significant and what wasn’t.
Despite her talent, seeing her in the reduced state she was in tonight made Hammond question the advisability of retaining her again. Only a desperate person would seek help from a chronic drunk who had already proved her unreliability.
But then he thought about Alex Ladd, and realized that he was just that desperate.
“I have some work for you, Loretta.”
“What is this, April Fool’s Day?”
“No, but I’m probably a damn fool for entrusting you with anything.”
Her features contorted with emotion. “You’d do well to leave right now, Hammond. I would jump at the chance to make up for what I did last time, but you’d be crazy to depend on me again.”
He smiled grimly. “Well, I’ve been called crazy before.”
Tears formed in her eyes, but she cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “What… what did you have in mind?”
“You’ve heard about Lute Pettijohn.”
Her lower jaw went slack. “You want me to work on something as important as that?”
“Indirectly.” He shifted uncomfortably on the booth’s hard bench. “What I want you to do isn’t officially for the D.A.’s office. It’s strictly confidential. Between you and me. Nobody else must know. Okay?”
“I’m a fuckup, Hammond. I’ve demonstrated that. But I always liked you. I admire you. You’re one of the good guys, and I flatter myself into thinking of you as a friend. You were good to me when people would do an about-face to avoid speaking. I may let you down, probably will, but they’d have to cut out my tongue before I would betray your confidence.”
“I believe that.” He peered deeply into her eyes. “How drunk are you?”
“I’ve got a good buzz going, but I’ll remember this tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I want you to learn what you can about… Should I write this down?”
“Would you ever want it to come back to you?”
He thought about it for a moment. “No.”
“Then don’t write it down. If it ain’t tangible, it ain’t evidence.”
“Evidence? Whoa, Loretta,” he said, holding up both hands. “What I want you to do is confidential. It stretches ethics. But it’s not illegal. I just want to level the playing field for a suspect.”
Tilting her head, she regarded him curiously. “Maybe I’m drunker than I thought. Did you just say—”
“You heard me right.”
“You want to give a suspect in the Pettijohn case a break?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How come?”
“You’re not drunk enough for me to explain that.”
A laugh rattled out of her chest. “Okay,” she said, still dubious. “Who’s the suspect?”
“Dr. Alex Ladd.”
“Is he in Charleston?”
“It’s a she.”
She blinked several times, then gave him a long, hard look. “A she.”
Hammond pretended not to notice the obvious question posed by her raised eyebrows. “She’s a psychologist here in Charleston. Find out everything you can about her. Background, family, schooling, anything. Everything. But in particular any possible connection she might have had with Lute Pettijohn.”
“Like if she was a girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Like that.”
“I got the impression that Steffi Mundell was prosecuting the Pettijohn case.”
“What made you think that?”
She then told him about seeing Steffi and Rory Smilow in the hospital emergency room the night Pettijohn was murdered. “I had gone to see Bev. Actually I was there to bum money off her. Anyway, Stuff-me-Steffi and Unsmiling Smilow came busting in like storm troopers. For all the good it did them. This little pipsqueak of a doctor stood up to them. They got nowhere with him. Did my heart good.” She paused to chuckle, then turned somber again and looked across at Hammond. “You still sleeping with her?”
He couldn’t conceal his surprise, but he didn’t ask how she knew about his secret affair with Steffi. Her knowing evinced that she was very good at what she did. “No.”
She studied him a moment as though to convince herself that he was telling her the truth. “Good. Because I’d hate to speak badly of the woman you’re boinking.”
“You don’t like Steffi?”
“The same way I don’t like poisonous snakes.”
“She’s not as bad as that.”
“No, she’s worse. She’s a viper. She’s had her eye on you since she first came to Charleston. Not only to get inside your pants, either. She wants to wear them.”
“If you mean that we’re vying for the same job again, I’m well aware of that.”
“But have you thought of this? Steffi might have been using your dick as a lever to hoist her right into the solicitor’s office.”
“Are you suggesting that she slept with me only to advance her career? Gee, thanks, Loretta. You’re doing my ego a world of good.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was afraid that possibility might have escaped you. Men rarely think of their dicks as anything except a magic wand with which to cast spells over grateful women. That’s why a stiff prick is so goddamn exploitable.”
Alex Ladd sprang immediately to Hammond’s mind. If Loretta knew about how gullible he had been last Saturday night, she could really lambast him.
She was saying, “Steffi Mundell would screw a rottweiler if she thought it would get her where she wants to be.”
“Cut her some slack. True, she’s ambitious. But she’s had to claw and scrape for every achievement. She had a domineering father who gauged everyone’s value on a testosterone meter. Steffi was expected to cook and clean and wait on the menfolk, first her brothers and father, then her husband. Devout Greek Orthodox family. Not only was she not devout, she was—is—a nonbeliever. She had no help or encouragement through university or law school. And when she graduated at the top of her class, her father said something like, ‘Now maybe you’ll stop this foolishness and get married.’ ”
“Please, my heart’s bleeding,” Loretta said sarcastically.
“Look, I know she can be annoying as hell. But she has good qualities that outweigh the bad. I’m a big boy. I know what Steffi’s about.”
“Yeah, well…,” she muttered, unconvinced, “then there’s Smilow.” She reached for her glass of whiskey, but Hammond reached across the table and gently removed it from her hands. “Can’t I even finish that one?” she wheedled. “It’s a waste of good whiskey.”
“Starting now, you’re on the wagon. Two hundred dollars a day and sobriety. Those are the terms of this agreement.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Solicitor Cross.”
“I’ll also cover your expenses, and you’ll receive a hefty bonus when the job is finished.”
“I wasn’t referring to the pay. That’s generous. More than I deserve.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “It’s the no-drinking clause that’s causing me to balk.”
“That’s the rule, Loretta. If you take a single drink and I find out about it, the deal is off.”
“Okay, I got it,” she said irritably. “I’ll just have to gut it out, that’s all. I need the money to pay Bev back. Otherwise I’d tell you to stuff your ‘terms’ where the sun don’t shine.”
He smiled, knowing that her gruff act was just that. She was thrilled to be working again. “What were you about to say about Smilow?”
“That son of a bitch,” she sneered. “He’s the reason I was fired. He gave me an impossible assignment. Dick Tracy couldn’t have done it in the amount of time Smilow specified. When I couldn’t produce, he blamed my drinking, not his own impossible deadline.
“He went to the chief and said that demoting me from criminal investigation wasn’t good enough. He wanted me out, period. Called me a disgrace, a blight on the entire department, a liability. He actually threatened to quit if they didn’t fire me. After being issued an ultimatum like that, who do you think the powers that be were going to choose? A woman cop with a slight drinking problem or an ace homicide detective?”
It could be argued that everything Smilow had alleged was true, and that Loretta’s drinking problem was more than “slight,” and that Smilow had merely forced his superiors to do what they had needed to do but were hesitant to do, fearing a sex discrimination suit or something equally cumbersome.
As unfortunate as it had been to Loretta, Smilow’s ultimatum might have prevented a catastrophe. For months leading up to her dismissal, she had been perpetually drunk. She should not have been working as an armed policewoman, investigating assaults and crimes against persons, a dangerous beat under the best of circumstances.
But Hammond understood her need to vent. “Smilow isn’t very tolerant of human weaknesses.”
“He has some of his own.”
“Such as?”
“His love for his sister and his hatred for Lute Pettijohn.”
Recalling the condensed story Davee had told him the night before, he asked, “What do you know about that?”
“Same as everybody knows. Margaret Smilow was one sick ticket. Bipolar, I think. Smilow was a protective older brother. When she fell hard for Lute Pettijohn, Rory disliked the idea from the start. Maybe he was jealous of the new protector in his sister’s life, or maybe he simply saw Pettijohn’s true colors when everybody else was blind to them. For whatever reason, Rory disapproved of the marriage.”
“I understand they had some violent quarrels.”
Loretta harrumphed. “One night Rory and I were investigating a convenience store holdup and murder. He got paged to call his sister immediately. Margaret was hysterical and begged him to come right then. He was so upset, we turned the crime scene over to our backup team, and I drove him.
“Hammond,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief, “by the time we got there, she had totally wrecked that house. Hurricane Hugo didn’t do that much damage. There wasn’t a piece of glass that wasn’t broken. Not a pillow that wasn’t ripped open. Not a shelf that hadn’t been swept clean. You couldn’t walk across the floor for all the debris.
“Apparently she had discovered that Pettijohn had a girlfriend. When we got there, Margaret was in the bathroom holding a straight razor to her wrist and threatening to kill herself. Smilow sweet-talked her out of the razor. He called her doctor, who was kind enough to come over and medicate her. Then Smilow had me drive him to Pettijohn’s rendezvous.
“Long story short… he barged in and caught this gal sitting on Lute’s face. He and Pettijohn each got in a few good punches before I intervened. I had to physically restrain Smilow because nothing I said was getting through. I honestly believe that if I hadn’t been there to wrestle him down, he would have killed Pettijohn that night. I’ve never seen a man—or woman—that enraged.”
Her eyes narrowed and she tapped the ugly Formica with a jagged, dirty fingernail. “And till the day I die, I’ll believe that’s what Rory Smilow holds against me. To the world he reveals this bloodless persona. He comes across as being unfeeling. Cold. Passionless. But I witnessed him being as human as the next man. More human than the next man. He lost control. That’s why he couldn’t tolerate having me around every day as a reminder.”
Hammond didn’t question her veracity. For all her flaws, he had never known Loretta to lie or even to embroider a story. “Why did you tell me this?”
“Just throwing out some possibilities.”
“Possibilities? You think Smilow killed Pettijohn?”
“All I’m saying is that he could have. I don’t know about opportunity, but he for damn sure had motivation. He never forgave Lute for Margaret’s suicide. And these aren’t just the delusions of an old drunk, either. Your friend Steffi thought of it, too. I overheard her bring it up that night at the hospital. She remarked on how much Smilow would enjoy seeing Pettijohn die.”
“What did Smilow say?”
“He didn’t confess, but he didn’t deny it.” She chuckled. “Not in so many words, anyway. As I recall, he turned the tables and dumped the deed on her.”
“On Steffi?”
“He broached the idea that Pettijohn might have been paving her way into Mason’s office when he retires.”
Hammond laughed. “Smilow must’ve been having an off night. If Lute was doing someone a favor, why would they kill him?”
“That’s what Steffi came back with, and the conversation died there. Besides, he was only being provoking because Steffi was of the opinion that Davee had rid the world of Pettijohn.”
“Davee was her first suspect. But now she’s got someone else in her crosshairs.”
“This Dr. Ladd?”
Nodding, Hammond passed her an envelope containing some advance money. “If you drink that—”
“I won’t. I swear.”
“Find out what you can on Alex Ladd. I want the skinny as soon as you can get it to me.”
“This may sound presumptuous—”
“And I’m sure it is.”
Ignoring him, Loretta continued. “Has she been arrested?”
“Not yet.”
“But apparently you think Smilow and company are off base.”
“I’m not sure.” He gave her a summary of the day’s events, starting with Daniels’s story and ending 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.”