Steffi drew up short when she opened her office door and found Hammond on the other side of it, fist raised, about to knock.
“Got a minute?”
“Actually, no. I was just—”
“Whatever it is, it can wait. This is important.” He backed her into the office and closed the door.
“What’s up?”
“Sit down.”
Quizzical, she nevertheless did as he asked. In the time it took her to get seated, he had begun pacing the width of her office. He didn’t look much better than he had yesterday. His arm was still in the sling. His hair looked like it had been dried with a leaf blower. He had nicked his chin shaving, and the scabbing spot of blood reminded her of the lab report she had received only minutes ago.
“You look frazzled. How much coffee have you had this morning?” she asked.
“None.”
“Really? You look like you’ve been taking caffeine by IV.”
Suddenly he stopped pacing and faced her across the desk. “Steffi, we have a special relationship, don’t we?”
“Pardon?”
“It transcends our being colleagues. While we were together, I entrusted you with my secrets. That past intimacy elevates our relationship to another plane, right?” He looked closely at her for a moment, then cursed and tried in vain to smooth down his hair. “God, this is awkward.”
“Hammond, what is going on?”
“Before I tell you, I’ve got to clear the air on another matter.”
“I’m over it, Hammond. Okay? I don’t want a man who—”
“Not that. Not us. Harvey Knuckle.”
The name landed like a rock on her desk. She tried to contain her surprise, but knew her shattered expression must be a dead giveaway. Under Hammond’s piercing gaze, a denial would be futile.
“Okay, so you know. I had him sneak me some private information on Pettijohn.”
“Why?”
She tinkered with a paper clip for a moment, weighing the advisability of dissecting this with Hammond. Finally she said, “Pettijohn approached me several months ago. It seemed innocent enough at first. Then he made his pitch. He said it had occurred to him how comfortable it could be for both of us if I held the county solicitor’s job. He promised to make it happen.”
“If?”
“If I would keep my eyes and ears open and report to him anything that might be of interest. Such as a covert investigation into his business dealings.”
“To which you said?”
“Something not too ladylike, I’m afraid. I turned down the offer, but it made me curious to know what he could be hiding, what he was into. Wouldn’t it be a feather in Steffi Mundell’s cap if she nailed the biggest crook in Charleston County? So I approached Harvey.” She bent the paper clip into an S shape. “I got the information I was after and—”
“Saw my father’s name on the partnership papers.”
“Yes, Hammond,” she replied solemnly.
“And you kept quiet about it.”
“It was his crime, not yours. Preston couldn’t be punished without you getting hurt. I didn’t want that to happen. You know I would love to have the top job. I’ve made no secret of it.”
“But not if it meant getting into bed with Pettijohn.”
She shuddered. “I hope you meant that figuratively.”
“I did. Thanks for coming clean.”
“Actually, I’m glad it’s out in the open. It’s been like a fester.” She dropped the paper clip. “Now what’s up?”
He sat down across from her, balancing on the edge of the seat and leaning forward as he spoke. “What I’m about to tell you must remain strictly between us,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Do I have your confidence?”
“Implicitly.”
“Good.” He took a deep breath. “Alex Ladd did not kill Lute Pettijohn.”
That was the big proclamation? After that grand buildup, she’d been expecting a heart-rending confession of their affair, maybe an earnest plea for forgiveness. Instead his verbal drumroll had heralded only another pathetic petition for his secret lover’s innocence.
Her temper surged, but she forced herself to lean back in her chair in a deceptively relaxed posture. “Yesterday you were gung-ho to take the case to the grand jury. Why this sudden reversal of opinion?”
“It’s not sudden, and I was never gung-ho. All along I’ve felt we had the wrong person. There are too many factors that don’t add up.”
“Trimble—”
“Trimble’s a pimp.”
“And she was his whore,” she fired back. “It appears she still is.”
“Let’s not go there again, okay?”
“Agreed. It’s a tired argument. I hope you’ve got a better one.”
“Smilow killed him.”
Her jaw involuntarily went slack. This time, she truly couldn’t believe that she had heard him correctly. “Is this a joke?”
“No.”
“Hammond, what in God’s name—”
“Listen for a minute,” he said, patting the air between them. “Just listen, and then if you disagree, I’ll welcome your viewpoint.”
“Save your breath. I can almost assure you that my viewpoint is going to differ.”
“Please.”
Last Saturday evening when she had teasingly asked Smilow if he had murdered his former brother-in-law, she had intended it as a joke, albeit a bad one. She had asked him out of pure orneriness, trying to provoke him. But Hammond was deadly serious. Obviously he considered Smilow a viable suspect. “Okay,” she said with an exaggerated shrug of surrender. “Lay it on me.”
“Think about it. The crime scene was practically sterile. Smilow himself has made several references to how pristine it was. Who would know better how to leave no trace of himself than a homicide detective who makes his living picking up after murderers?”
“It’s a good point, Hammond, but you’re reaching.”
He was reaching in order to protect his new lover. It was deeply insulting that he would go to such lengths for Alex Ladd’s sake. All that schoolboy stammering about intimacy and entrusting her with his secrets, and clearing the air, and their special, elevated relationship had been just so much bullshit. He was trying to use her to get his lady love off the hook.
She wanted to tell him that she knew about their inappropriate affair, but that would be an impetuous and foolish move. While it would be gratifying to see him humbled, she would sacrifice a long-term advantage. Her knowledge of their secret affair was a trump card. Playing it too soon would reduce its effectiveness.
Meanwhile, the more he talked, the more ammunition he was giving her to use against him. Unwittingly, he was handing her the job of county solicitor gift-wrapped. It took a lot of self-control to maintain her poker face.
“I hope you’re basing your suspicion on more than the lack of physical evidence,” she said.
“Smilow hated Pettijohn.”
“It’s been established that many people did.”
“But not to the degree that Smilow did. On several occasions, he all but pledged to kill Lute for the unhappiness he had caused Margaret. I have it on good authority that he once attacked Lute and would have killed him on the spot if he hadn’t been restrained.”
“Who told you that, Deep Throat?”
Unappreciative of her amusement, he said stiffly, “In a manner of speaking, yes. For the time being I’m keeping this as confidential as possible.”
“Hammond, are you sure you’re not letting your personality conflict with Smilow color your reason?”
“True, I don’t like him. But I’ve never threatened to kill him. Not like he threatened to kill Lute Pettijohn.”
“In the heat of the moment? In a fit of rage? Come on, Hammond. Nobody takes death threats like that seriously.”
“Smilow often goes for drinks in the lobby bar of the Charles Towne Plaza.”
“So do hundreds of other people. For that matter, so do we.”
“He gets his shoes shined there.”
“Oh, he gets his shoes shined there,” she exclaimed, slapping the edge of her desk. “Hell, that’s practically a smoking gun!”
“I refuse to take umbrage, Steffi. Because the gun was my next point.”
“The murder weapon?”
“Smilow has access to handguns. Probably at least half of them are unregistered and untraceable.”
This was the first issue to which Steffi gave serious consideration. Her teasing smile slowly faded. She sat up straighter. “You mean handguns—”
“In the evidence warehouse. They’re confiscated in drug raids. Seized in arrests. Being held there until a trial date, or simply awaiting disposal or sale.”
“They keep change-of-custody records over there.”
“Smilow would know how to get around that. He could have used one, then replaced it. Maybe he threw it away after using it. It would never be missed. He may have used one that hadn’t been consigned to the warehouse yet. There are dozens of ways.”
“I see what you mean,” she said thoughtfully, then shook her head. “But it’s still a stretch, Hammond. Just as we don’t have a weapon to prove that Alex Ladd shot Pettijohn, we don’t have one that proves Smilow did.”
He sighed, glanced down at the floor, then looked across the desk at her again. “There’s something else. Another motive, perhaps even more compelling than revenge for his sister’s suicide.”
“Well?”
“I can’t discuss it.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because someone else’s privacy would be violated.”
“Wasn’t it you who, not five minutes ago, made that flowery speech about our transcendent relationship and mutual trust?”
“It’s not that I mistrust you, Steffi. Someone else trusts me. I can’t betray that individual’s confidence. I won’t, not until and unless this information becomes a material element in the case.”
“The case?” she repeated with ridicule. “There is no case.”
“I think there is.”
“Do you actually intend to pursue this?”
“I know it won’t be easy. Smilow isn’t a favorite among CPD personnel, but he’s feared and respected. No doubt I’ll encounter some resistance.”
“ ‘Resistance’ is putting it mildly, Hammond. If you investigate one of their own, you’ll never have the cooperation of another city cop.”
“I’m aware of the obstacles. I realize what it’s going to cost me. But I’m determined to go through with it. Which should give you some indication of how firmly I believe that I’m right.”
Or how besotted you are with your new lover, she thought. “What about Alex Ladd and the case we’ve made against her? You can’t just throw it out, make it disappear.”
“No. If I did, Smilow would smell a rat. I plan to proceed. But even if the grand jury indicts her, we can’t win the case we have against her. We can’t,” he said stubbornly when he saw that she was about to object. “Trimble is a smarmy hustler. A jury will see right through his cheesy veneer. They’ll think his testimony is self-serving, and they’ll be right. They won’t believe him even if he occasionally tells the truth. Besides, how many times has Dr. Ladd earnestly denied that she did it?”
“Naturally she’s going to deny she did it. They all deny it.”
“But she’s different,” he muttered.
Even knowing about his affair with the psychologist, Steffi was dismayed by his unshakable determination to protect and defend her. She studied him for a moment, not even trying to hide her frustration. “That’s it? You’ve told me everything?”
“Honestly, no. I checked some things out last night, but the evidence isn’t concrete.”
“What kind of things?”
“I don’t want to discuss them now, Steffi. Not until I’m certain that I’m right. This is a precarious situation.”
“You’re damn right it is,” she said angrily. “If you won’t tell me everything, why tell me anything? What do you want from me?”
* * *
The last person Davee Pettijohn expected to come calling that morning was the woman suspected of making her a widow.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Sarah Birch had led Dr. Alex Ladd into the casual living room where Davee was having coffee. Even if the housekeeper hadn’t announced her by name, Davee would have recognized her. Her picture was on the front page of the morning newspaper, and Davee had seen last evening’s newscasts before her troubling, clandestine meeting with Smilow.
“I’m receiving you more out of curiosity than courtesy, Dr. Ladd,” she said candidly. “Have a seat. Would you like coffee?”
“Please.”
While waiting for Sarah Birch to return with an extra cup and saucer, the two women sat in silence and assessed one another. The TV cameras and newspaper photographs hadn’t done Alex Ladd justice, Davee decided.
After thanking the housekeeper for the coffee and taking a sip, Alex said, “I saw your husband last Saturday afternoon in his hotel suite.” She indicated the sections of the morning edition scattered about. “The newspaper write-ups subtly suggest that Mr. Pettijohn and I had a personal relationship.”
Davee smiled wryly. “Well, he had a reputation to uphold.”
“But I don’t. There’s absolutely no basis for that implication. Although you’ll probably think I’m lying if my half-brother ever testifies against me.”
“I read about him, too. In print Bobby Trimble comes across as a real asshole.”
“You flatter him.”
Davee laughed, but as she watched the other woman’s face, she realized that the topic wasn’t pleasant for her. “You had it rough as a kid?”
“I got past it.”
Davee nodded. “We all bear scars from childhood, I guess.”
“Some scars are just more visible than others,” Alex said by way of agreeing. “In my work, I’ve learned how clever people can be at hiding them. Even from themselves.”
Davee studied her for a moment longer. “You’re not what I expected. From the way you were portrayed in the news stories, I would have thought you were… coarser. Harder. Devious. Even wicked.” She laughed again. “I would have thought you were more like me.”
“I have my flaws. Plenty of them. But I swear that I met your husband only once. That was last Saturday. As it turns out, not long before he was killed. But I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t go to that hotel suite to sleep with him. It’s important to me that you know that.”
“I’m inclined to believe you,” Davee said. “First of all, you have nothing to gain by coming here and telling me that. Moreover, and I mean no offense by this, you’re not my dearly departed’s type.”
Alex smiled at that, but her curiosity was genuine when she asked, “Why wouldn’t I have been his type?”
“Physically you would have passed muster. Don’t be offended by this, either—Lute would screw any woman whose body was warm. Who knows? Sometimes that might not even have been a qualification.
“But he liked his women to be in awe of him. Submissive and stupid. Silent for the most part, except maybe during orgasm. You wouldn’t have appealed to him because you’re far too self-confident and bright.”
She refilled her coffee cup from a silver carafe, then dropped two sugar cubes into the cup so that they made soft splashes. “FYI, Dr. Ladd, some of the people accusing you of killing Lute don’t truly believe you did.”
Registering surprise, Alex blurted out, “You’ve spoken with Hammond?”
“No. It wasn’t…” A jolt of enlightenment halted Davee in midsentence. “ ‘Hammond’? You’re on a first-name basis with the man prosecuting your murder case?”
Clearly flustered, Alex set her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “I hope my coming here wasn’t too much of an imposition, Mrs. Pettijohn. I wasn’t sure you would even consent to see me. Thank you for the—”
Davee stopped the chatter by reaching across the space separating them and laying her hand on Alex’s arm. After a pause, Alex raised her head and stared back at Davee with quiet dignity. They communicated on a different level. Defenses were down. Two women seeing, understanding, accepting.
Peering deeply into the other woman’s eyes, Davee said softly, “You’re the one who is not just complicated but impossible.”
Alex opened her mouth to speak, but Davee forestalled her. “No, don’t tell me. It would be like reading the last page of a juicy novel. But I can’t wait to find out how the two of you managed to get yourselves into this mess. I hope the circumstances were absolutely decadent and delicious. Hammond deserves that.” Then she smiled ruefully. “Poor Hammond. This must be one hell of a dilemma for him.”
“Very much so.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“He may soon find himself in need of friends. Be his friend.”
“I am.”
“So he says.” Alex slid the strap of her handbag onto her shoulder. “I should go.”
Davee didn’t summon her housekeeper but walked Alex to the front door herself. “You haven’t commented on my house,” she observed as they crossed the front foyer. “Most people do the first time they come. What do you think?”
Alex gave a quick look around. “Honestly?”
“I asked.”
“You have some lovely things. But to my taste it’s a little overdone.”
“Are you kidding?” Davee chortled. “It’s gaudy as all get-out. Now that Lute is dead, I plan on detackying it.”
The two women smiled at each other. This was a rare thing for Davee—feeling a kinship with another woman. With characteristic straightforwardness, she said, “I don’t care whether you slept with Lute or not, I like you, Alex.”
“I like you, too.”
Alex was halfway down the front walk when Davee called out to her. “You were with Lute shortly before he was killed?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm. The killer might think that you’re holding something back. Something you saw or heard. Are you?” she asked bluntly.
“Shouldn’t we leave the questions to the police?”
She continued down the walk and let herself out through the front gate. Davee closed the door and turned. Sarah Birch had come up behind her.
“What is it, baby?” She reached out and smoothed away the worry lines creasing Davee’s forehead.
“Nothing, Sarah,” she murmured absently. “Nothing.”