unless she was way off base, that was by design.
Hammond was charismatic. Close friendships with
him were earned, but he was friendly and approachable.
Smilow was fastidious and impeccably
groomed, while Hammond's attractiveness was natural
and effortless. In college Smilow would have
been the one guy in class who aced the exam and ruined
the grading curve for everyone else. Hammond's
grades were excellent, too, but he also had been a
popular student leader and star athlete. Both were
overachievers, but one's accomplishments were hard-earned,
while to the other they came easily.
Steffi could identify more closely with Smilow.
She understood and could relate to his resentment of
Hammond, a resentment compounded by Hammond's
own attitude toward his advantages. He did
not exploit them. Moreover, he rejected them. Spurning
his trust fund, he lived on what he earned. His
condo was nice, but he could have afforded much
better. His only extravagances were his sailboat and
his cabin, but he never advertised that he owned either.
He would be much easier to hate if he flaunted his
privileges.
It would be interesting, to say nothing of useful, to
know the source of the antipathy between him and "Hmm. Do you know of any resorts he plans to
visit?"
"None. And a woman can usually tell."
"So can a man."
His tone conveyed more than the four words.
Steffi regarded him closely. "Why, Rory! It is even
remotely possible that Mr. Ice in Veins was once in lowe?"
"Excuse me?" They hadn't noticed the nurse's approach
until she spoke to them. "My patient. . ." She
hitched a thumb over her shoulder indicating Mr.
Daniels's room. "He wanted to know if you had left.
When I told him you were out here, he asked me to
tell you that he remembered something that might
help you."
Before she had finished speaking, they were on
their feet.
CHAPTER
12
hammond consulted the street address he had
jotted down and tucked into his shirt pocket before
leaving his place to visit Davee.
Uncertain that the telephone number for Dr.
Ladd's answering service was a Charleston exchange,
Hammond had anxiously run his finger down
a listing of physicians in the Yellow Pages until he
found one Dr. A. E. Ladd. He knew immediately he
had the right one because the after-hours number
listed matched the one he had called from the cabin
that morning.
Dr. Ladd was his only link to the woman he'd been
with last night. Of course, talking to him was out of
the question. Hammond's short-term goal was only to
locate his office and see what, if anything, he could
learn from it. Later he would try and figure out how
to go about approaching him.
Despite being preoccupied with his breakup with
Steffi, and his disturbing conversation with Davee,
and the Pettijohn murder and all that it implied,
thoughts of the woman he had followed from the
county fair and kissed at a gas station wouldn't leave
him alone.
It would be useless to try and ignore them. Hammond
Cross did not accept unanswered questions.
Even as a boy, he couldn't be pacified with pat answers.
He nagged his parents until they provided him
with an explanation that satisfied his curiosity.
He'd carried the trait into adulthood. That desire to
know not only the generalities, but the particulars,
benefitted him in his work. He dug and continued to
dig until he got to the truth, sometimes to the supreme
frustration of his colleagues. Sometimes even he was
frustrated by his doggedness.
Thoughts of her would persist until he learned
who she was and why, after the incredible night they
had spent together, she had walked out of his cabin
and, consequently, out of his life.
Locating Dr. Ladd was an attempt, albeit a juvenile,
pathetic, and desperate one, to find out something
about her. Specifically, whether or not she was
Mrs. Ladd. If so, that's where it must end. If not.. .
He didn't allow himself to consider the various if
nots.
Having grown up in Charleston, Hammond knew
the street's general location, and it was only blocks
away from Davee's mansion. He reached it within minutes.
It was a short and narrow lane, where the buildings
were shrouded in vines and history. It was one of several
such streets within easy walking distance of the
bustling commercial district, while seemingly a
world apart. Most of the structures in this area between
Broad Street and the Battery boasted historical
markers. Some house numbers ended with a 1/2, indicating
that an outbuilding to the main structure,
such as a coach house or detached kitchen, had
since been converted into a separate residence. Real
estate was at a premium. It was a pricey neighborhood.
The acronym for anyone living south of
Broad was S.O.B.
It wasn't surprising to Hammond that the doctor's
practice was located in a basically residential section.
Many noncommercial professionals had converted
older houses into businesses, often living in the top
stories, which had been a Charleston tradition for
centuries.
He left his car parked on a wider thoroughfare
and entered the cobblestone lane on foot. Darkness
had fallen. The weekend was over; people had retreated
inside. He was the only pedestrian out. The
street was shadowed and quiet, but overall friendly
and hospitable. Open window shutters revealed
lighted rooms that looked inviting. Without exception,
the properties were upscale and well maintained.
Apparently Dr. Ladd did very well.
The evening air was heavy and dense. It was as
tangible as a cotton flannel blanket wrapping around
him claustrophobically. In a matter of minutes his
shirt was sticking to him. Even a slow stroll was enervating,
especially when nervousness was also a factor.
He was forced to breathe deeply, drawing into his
nostrils exotic floral scents and the salty-seminal tan£ of seawater from off the harbor a few blocks away
He smelled the remnants of charcoal smoke on which
somebody had cooked Sunday supper. The aroma
made his mouth water, reminding him that he had
eaten nothing all day except the English muffin at his
cabin.
The walk gave him time to think about how he
was going to make contact with the doctor. What if he
simply went up to the door and rang the bell? If Dr.
Ladd answered, he could pretend that he obviously
had been given the wrong address, that he was looking
for someone else, apologize for disturbing him,
and leave.
If she answered the door ... what choice would he
have? The most troubling question would have been
answered. He would turn and walk away, never look
back, and get on with his life.
All these contingencies had been based on the
probability that she was married to the doctor. To
Hammond that was the logical explanation for her
placing a call to him furtively and then acting guilty
when caught red-handed. Because she appeared the
picture of health, and had certainly exhibited no visible
symptoms of illness, it never had occurred to him
that she might be a patient.
Not until he reached the house number. In the
small square of yard demarcated by an iron picket
fence stood a discreet white wooden signpost with
black cursive lettering.
Dr. A. E. Ladd was a psychologist.
Was she a patient? If so, it was slightly unsettling
that his lover had felt the need to consult her psy
chologist within moments of leaving his bed. He consoled
himself by acknowledging that it was now
commonplace to have a therapist. As confidants they
had replaced trusted spouses, older relatives, and
clergymen. He had friends and colleagues who kept
standing weekly appointments, if only to ease the
stress of contemporary life. Seeing a psychologist
carried no stigma and was certainly nothing to be ashamed of.
Actually, he felt tremendously relieved. Sleeping
with Dr. Ladd's patient was acceptable. What was unacceptable
was sleeping with his wife. But a cloud
moved across that small ray of hope. If she was his
patient, what then? It would be nearly impossible to
learn her identity.
Dr. Ladd wouldn't divulge information about his
patients. Even if Hammond stooped to use the solicitor's
office as his entree, the doctor would probably
stand on professional privilege and refuse to open his
files unless they were subpoenaed, and Hammond
would never take it that far. His professional standards
wouldn't allow it.
Besides, how could he ask for information about
her if he didn't even know her name?
From the opposite side of the street, Hammond
mulled over this dilemma while studying the neat
brick structure in which Dr. Ladd had his office. It
typified a unique architectural style--the single
house, so called because from the street it was only
one room wide, but was several rooms deep. This one
had two stories, with deep side porches, or piazzas,
running from front to back on both levels.
Behind an ornate gate, the front walkway extended
straight up the right side of the yard to a front
door painted Charleston Green--a near-black with
only a dollop of green mixed in. The door had a brass
knocker in its center, and like the front doors to most
single houses, opened not into the house itself, but
onto the piazza, from which one entered the house.
Fig vine had a tenacious hold on much of the facade,
but it had been neatly trimmed around the four
tall windows that offset the front door. Beneath each
of these windows was a window box overflowing
with ferns and white impatiens. No lights were on.
Just as Hammond was stepping off the curb to
cross the street for a closer look, the door of the house
behind him opened and an enormous gray and white
sheepdog bounded out, dragging his owner behind
him.
"Whoa, Winthrop!"
But Winthrop would not be restrained. He was raring
to go and straining against his leash as he reached
the end of the walkway and came up on his back legs,
throwing himself against the gate. Instinctively Hammond
took a couple steps back.
Laughing at his reaction, the dog owner pulled the
gate open and Winthrop bolted through. "Sorry about
that. Hope he didn't scare you. He doesn't bite, but
given the chance, he might lick you to death."
Hammond smiled. "No problem." Winthrop,
showing no interest in him, had hiked his leg and was
peeing against a fence post.
Hammond must have looked harmless but lost, because
the man said, "Can I help you?"
"Uh, actually I was trying to locate Dr. Ladd's office."
"You found it." The young man pointed his chin
toward the house across the street.
"Right, right."
The man gave him a politely quizzical look.
"Uh, I'm a salesman," he blurted. "Medical forms.
Stuff like that. The sign doesn't say what time the office
opens."
"About ten, I think. You could call Alex to confirm."
"Alex?"
"Dr. Ladd."
"Oh, sure. Yeah, I should've called, but... you
know .. .just thought I'd ... well, okay." Winthrop
was sniffing beneath a camellia bush. "Thanks. Take
it easy, Winthrop."
Hoping the neighbor would never connect the
inarticulate idiot to the assistant D.A. frequently seen
addressing reporters on TV, Hammond patted the
shaggy dog on the head, then set off down the sidewalk
in the direction from which he had come.
"Actually, you just missed her."
Hammond whipped back around. "Her?"
* * *
had two stories, with deep side porches, or piazzas,
running from front to back on both levels.
Behind an ornate gate, the front walkway extended
straight up the right side of the yard to a front
door painted Charleston Green--a near-black with
only a dollop of green mixed in. The door had a brass
knocker in its center, and like the front doors to most
single houses, opened not into the house itself, but
onto the piazza, from which one entered the house.
Fig vine had a tenacious hold on much of the facade,
but it had been neatly trimmed around the four
tall windows that offset the front door. Beneath each
of these windows was a window box overflowing
with ferns and white impatiens. No lights were on.
Just as Hammond was stepping off the curb to
cross the street for a closer look, the door of the house
behind him opened and an enormous gray and white
sheepdog bounded out, dragging his owner behind
him.
"Whoa,Winthrop!"
But Winthrop would not be restrained. He was raring
to go and straining against his leash as he reached