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 herself 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.”
“I—”
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 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 carpet 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. Turn-down 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.”