Very early that morning, before leaving for the office and his conversation with Steffi, Hammond had checked his voice mail. He returned only one message.
“Loretta, this is Hammond. I didn’t get your messages until this morning. Sorry I put you in a huff last night. I mistook your pages for a wrong number. Uh, listen, I appreciate what you did. But the fact is, I don’t want you to bring in this guy you talked to at the fair. Not now anyway. I have my reasons, believe me, and I’ll explain everything later. For now, keep him on ice. If it turns out I need him, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, just… I guess you can… what I’m saying is, you’re free to take on other work. If I need you further, I’ll be in touch. Thanks again. You’re the best. Goodbye. Oh, I’ll send you a check to cover yesterday and last night. You went above and beyond. ’Bye.”
Bev Boothe listened to the message twice, then stared at the telephone, her fingers tapping lightly on the number pad as she reflected on what to do with the message—save or delete?
What she would like to tell Mr. Cross to do with his message was anatomically impossible.
She was tired and cranky. Overnight someone had dented her car while it was parked in the hospital personnel parking lot. A dull lower backache took hold every morning following her twelve-hour shift.
Mostly, she was worried about her mother, whose bedroom was empty and undisturbed. Where had she been all night, and where was she now? Bev remembered that when she left for the hospital last evening, Loretta had seemed preoccupied and depressed.
This message indicated that she was out doing the county solicitor’s dirty work for him, at least for a portion of the night. The bastard didn’t sound very appreciative of her mother’s efforts.
Spitefully, Bev depressed the numeral three to delete the message.
Five minutes later, as she was stepping from the shower, she heard her mother call into her room. “Bev, just wanted to let you know that I’m home.”
Bev grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself. She tracked wet footprints down the hallway into her mother’s bedroom. Loretta was sitting on the side of her bed, easing off a pair of sandals that had cut vivid red stripes into her swollen feet.
“Mom, I was worried,” Bev exclaimed, trying not to sound surprised and relieved that her mother was sober, although she looked haggard and unkempt. “Where’ve you been?”
“It’s a long story that can wait until we’ve both put in a few hours of rack time. I’m exhausted. Did you check the voice mail when you came in? Were there any messages?”
Bev hesitated only a heartbeat. “No, Mom. None.”
“I can’t believe it,” Loretta muttered as she peeled off her dress. “I busted my ass, and Hammond pulls a disappearing act.”
Having stripped to her underwear, she pulled back the covers and lay down. She was almost asleep by the time her head hit the pillow.
Bev returned to her own room, slipped on a nightgown, set her alarm, readjusted the thermostat to a cooler temperature, and got into bed.
Loretta had come home sober this time. But what about the next? She was trying so hard to keep her tenuous hold on sobriety. She needed constant reinforcement and encouragement. She needed to feel useful and productive.
Bev’s last thought before drifting off to sleep was that if Mr. Hammond Cross was going to relieve her mother of the job she desperately needed for her present and future well-being, then he could damn well relieve her of it in person and not via the lousy voice mail.
* * *
“What’s that?”
Rory Smilow glanced up from the manila envelope that Steffi had just plunked down on top of a littered desk. As soon as Hammond left her office, she wasted no time driving to police headquarters. She found the detective in the large, open Criminal Investigation office.
She felt no compunction about informing Smilow of this latest development. Loyalty to her former lover never entered her mind. Nor did she let her pledge of confidentiality deter her. From here on, she was playing for keeps.
“It’s a lab report.” She retrieved the envelope, holding it flat against her chest as though cherishing it. “Can we talk in your office?”
Smilow came to his feet and nodded her in that direction. As they weaved their way through the maze of desks, Detective Mike Collins greeted Steffi in a singsong voice. “Good morning, Miss Mundell.”
“Up yours, Collins.”
Ignoring the laughter and catcalls, she preceded Smilow down the short hallway and into his private office. When the door closed behind them, he asked her what was up.
“Remember the bloodstains on Alex Ladd’s sheets?”
“She nicked her leg shaving.”
“No, she didn’t. Or maybe she did, but it wasn’t her who bled on the sheet. I had the blood typed and compared to another specimen. They match.”
“And this other specimen would be…?”
“Hammond’s.”
For the first time since she had met him, Smilow seemed completely unprepared for what he’d just heard. It left him speechless.
“The night he was mugged,” she explained, “he bled. Quite a lot, I think. I got to his place early the following morning to tell him that Trimble was in our jail. He was acting weird. I attributed his weirdness to the rough night he’d had and the medication he was taking.
“But it was more than that. I got this feeling that he was lying to cover up a shameful secret. Anyway, before we left, I impulsively sneaked a bloody washcloth out of his bathroom.”
“What prompted you to do that? And to test it against the stains on Ladd’s sheets?”
“The way he acts around her!” she cried softly, flinging her arms out to her sides. “Like it’s all he can do to keep from devouring her. You’ve sensed it, too, Smilow. I know you have.”
He ran his hand around the back of his neck and said the last thing Steffi would have expected. “Jesus, I’m embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?”
“I should have reached this conclusion myself. Long before now. You’re right, I did sense something between them. I just couldn’t lay my finger on what it was. It’s so unthinkable, I never even thought of sexual attraction.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Smilow. Women are more intuitive about these things.”
“And you had another advantage over me.”
“What?”
“I’ve never slept with Hammond.”
He grinned wryly, but Steffi didn’t find the statement humorous. “Well, it really doesn’t matter who sensed what when, or who first defined what is going on between them. The bottom line is that Hammond has been in bed with Alex Ladd since he was appointed prosecutor of the criminal case in which she’s a prime suspect.” She raised the envelope as though it were a scalp or some other battle trophy. “And we can prove it.”
“With evidence illegally obtained.”
“A technicality,” she said with a shrug. “For now, let’s look at the big picture. Hammond is in deep doo-doo. Remember that weak lie about who had busted the lock on her back door? I’m guessing it was Hammond. He broke into her house—”
“For what purpose? To lift the silver?”
She frowned at his making light of this. “They had met before. Before she became a suspect. Each pretended not to know the other. They had to get together to compare notes, so Hammond went to see her.… Let’s see, that would have been Tuesday night, after we’d caught her in several lies.
“He couldn’t go up to her front door and ring the bell, so he sneaked in. When he busted the lock, he cut his thumb. That’s what bled on her sheet. I remember he was wearing a bandage the next day.
“And I think she was with him the night he was mugged, too. He was evasive when I asked him about the doctor who had treated his wounds, and why he hadn’t gone to the emergency room. He fabricated some farfetched explanations.”
The detective was still looking at her with skepticism.
“I know him, Smilow,” she said insistently. “I practically lived with him. I know his habits. He’s relatively neat, but he’s a guy. He lets things go until he’s forced to straighten up, or he waits on his weekly maid to clean up after him. The morning after the mugging, when he was feeling like shit, do you know what he was worried about? Making up his bed. Now I understand why. He didn’t want me to notice that someone had slept beside him.”
“I don’t know, Steffi,” he said, his frown dubious. “As much as I’d like to see this Boy Scout brought down several pegs, I can’t believe Hammond Cross would do something this compromising. Have you confronted him about it?”
“No, but I’ve baited him. Gently. Teasingly. Until this morning when I received the lab report, it was only a hunch.”
“Blood type isn’t conclusive.”
“If it comes to proving malfeasance, we could get a DNA test.”
“If you’re right—and I’ll concede that it has weight—that explains his reaction to Bobby Trimble’s statement yesterday.”
“Hammond didn’t want to hear that Alex Ladd is a whore.”
“Was.”
“The tense is still up for debate. In any event, that’s why he balked at our using Trimble’s testimony.” When Smilow pulled another steep frown, Steffi said, “What?”
“I tend to agree with him on that. Hammond’s arguments make a certain amount of sense. Trimble is so offensive, he could create sympathy for Dr. Ladd. Here she is, a respected psychologist. There he is, a drug-using male prostitute who thinks he’s God’s special gift to women. He could hurt our case more than help it, especially if you wind up with a largely female jury. It would almost be better if he weren’t in the picture.”
“If Hammond has his way, there’ll be no case against Alex Ladd. At least it will never go to trial.”
“That decision isn’t entirely his. Does he plan—”
“What he plans is to pin Pettijohn’s murder on someone else.”
“What?”
“You haven’t been listening, Smilow. I’m telling you that he’ll go to any lengths to protect this woman. In one breath he declined to share the leads he’s following, and in the next breath he’s asking for my cooperation and help in building a case against someone else. Someone who had motive and opportunity. Someone he would love to see go down for it.” Steffi savored the moment before adding, “And guess who he has in mind.”
* * *
“Hammond, I’ve been trying to locate you all morning.”
“Hey, Mason.” He had got the message that Mason was looking for him, but had hoped to dodge him. He didn’t have time for a meeting, however brief. “I’ve been awfully busy this morning. In fact, I’m on my way out now.”
“Then I won’t detain you.”
“Thanks,” Hammond said, continuing on his way toward the exit. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Just be sure you’re free at five o’clock this afternoon.”
Hammond stopped, turned. “What happens then?”
“A press conference. All the local stations are broadcasting it live.”
“Today? Five o’clock?”
“City hall. I’ve decided to formally announce my retirement and endorse you as my successor. I see no reason to postpone it. Everybody knows already anyway. Come the November election, your name will be on the ballot.” He beamed a smile on his protégé and proudly rocked back on his heels.
Hammond felt like he had just been slam-dunked, head first. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he stammered.
“No need to say anything to me,” Mason boomed. “Save your remarks for this afternoon.”
“But—”
“I’ve notified your father. Both he and Amelia plan to be there.”
Christ. “You know, Mason, that I’m right in the middle of this Pettijohn thing.”
“What better time? When you’re already in the public eye. This is a great opportunity to make your name a Charleston household word.”
The statement harkened back to a recent conversation. Hammond closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “Dad put you up to this, didn’t he?”
Mason chuckled. “He bought a few rounds last night at our club. I don’t have to tell you how persuasive he can be.”
“No, you don’t have to tell me,” Hammond said in an angry mutter.
Preston never sat back and let the cards fall as they may. He always stacked the deck in his favor. His philanthropy on Speckle Island had disarmed Hammond and practically assured that he would not be held accountable for any wrongdoing that had taken place on the sea island. But just in case Hammond had in mind to continue pursuing it, Preston had upped the ante, raised the stakes, and increased the pressure.
“Look, Mason, I’ve got to run. Lots going on today.”
“Fine. Just remember five o’clock.”
“No. I won’t forget.”