urge to go back and put his hands around the throat of
the bastard in the convertible.
One thing was certain: He had to assert himself or
explode. Now. Immediately. He had to establish that
there was something over which Hammond Cross
still had control.
"I want an artist there first thing in the morning."
"It's late, Hammond."
He knew what time it was. For hours he'd been sitting
in a sweltering automobile, entertaining sexual
fantasies. For his trouble, all he'd got was Dr. Ladd in the company of another man. "I know how late it
is."
"My point is, I don't know if I can get--"
"What's the guy's room number?"
"Mr. Daniels's room number? Uh ..."
"I want to talk to him myself."
"That really isn't necessary. Smilow and I questioned
him at length. Besides, I think he's being discharged
in the morning."
"Then you'd better set it up early. Seven-thirty.
And have the police sketch artist standing by."
MONDAY
CHAPTER
13
at seven-thirty the following morning, Hammond
entered the hospital carrying a copy of the Post and
Courier and his briefcase. He stopped at the information
desk to ask the room number, which he had
failed to get from Steffi. He also stopped at a vending
machine for a cup of coffee.
He was wearing a necktie, but in deference to the
hot day that was promised, he had left his suit jacket
in his car, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and unbuttoned
his collar button. His bearing was militant, his face as
dark as a thundercloud.
To Steffi's credit, the others were already assembled
when he arrived. She was there, along with Rory
Smilow, a frumpy woman in an ill-fitting police uniform,
and the man in the hospital bed. Steffi's eyes
were puffy, as though she hadn't slept well. After a
muttered round of greetings, she said, "Hammond,
you remember Corporal Mary Endicott. We've
worked with her before."
He dropped his briefcase and newspaper in a chair
in order to shake hands with the policewoman sketch
artist. "Corporal Endicott."
"Mr. Cross."
Steffi then introduced him to Mr. Daniels, a guest
of their city from Macon, Georgia, who was presently
nibbling at the bland food on his breakfast tray. "I'm
sorry your visit to Charleston hasn't been the best,
Mr. Daniels. Are you feeling better?"
"Good enough to get out of here. If possible, I'd
like to get this over with before my wife comes to
pick me up."
"How quickly we finish depends on how precise
your descriptions are. Corporal Endicott is excellent,
but she can only do as well as you can."
Daniels looked worried. "Would I have to testify
in court? I mean, if you catch this lady and she turns
out to be the one who killed that man, would I have
to point her out at the trial?"
"That's a possibility," Hammond told him.
The man sighed unhappily. "Well, if it comes to
that, I'll do my civic duty." He shrugged philosophically.
"Let's get on with it."
Hammond said, "First, I'd like to hear your story,
Mr. Daniels."
"He's related it to us several times," Smilow said.
"It really doesn't amount to much."
Beyond his perfunctory good morning, up to this
point Smilow had remained as silent and still as a
lizard sunning itself. Often Smilow's posture seemed
indolent, but to Hammond he gave off the impression
of a reptile lying in wait, constantly watching for an
opportunity to strike.
Hammond acknowledged that comparing Smilow
to a serpent was based solely on his unmitigated dis
like of the man. To say nothing of being unfair to serpents.
Smilow's gray suit was perfectly tailored and well
pressed. His white shirt was crisp enough to bounce
a quarter, his necktie tightly knotted. Not a hair was
out of place. His eyes were clear and alert. After the
rough night Hammond had spent tossing and turning,
he resented Smilow's bandbox appearance and unflappable
composure.
"It's your call, of course," he said politely. "This is
your investigation."
"That's right, it is."
"But as a courtesy--"
"You didn't show much courtesy to me when you
arranged this meeting without consulting me first.
You say it's my investigation, but on surface it appears
that it's yours. As usual, your actions belie your
words, Hammond."
Leave it to Smilow to pick a fight on a morning
when he was feeling truculent himself. "Look, I went
out of town the day Pettijohn was killed, so I'm playing
catch-up. I've read the newspaper accounts, but I
know you don't share all your leads with the media.
All I'm asking is that the details be filled in for me."
"When the time is right."
"What's wrong with now?"
"Okay, guys, King's X!" Steffi stepped between
them, forming a cross with her index fingers. "It
really doesn't matter who arranged this meeting, does
it? In fact, Hammond, Smilow had already called
Corporal Endicott by the time I reached her last night." The plump, matronly officer confirmed this
with a nod. "So technically Smilow had the idea first,
as he should since the case is his baby until he turns
it over to us. Right?
"And, Smilow, if Hammond also thought of the
artist, that only means that great minds think alike,
and this case can use all the great minds it can muster.
So let's get started and not detain these people any
longer than necessary. Mr. Daniels is in somewhat of
a hurry, and we've all got other work to do. Speaking
for myself, I wouldn't mind hearing his account once
more."
Smilow conceded with a curt semi-nod. Daniels
recounted his experience of Saturday afternoon.
When he concluded, Hammond asked him if he was
certain he had seen no one else.
"You mean once I reached the fifth floor? No, sir."
"You're sure?"
"Just that one lady and me were the only ones
around. But I couldn't have been in the hall more
than ... hmm .. . say, twenty, thirty seconds from the
time I got off the elevator."
"Did anyone share the car with you?"
"No, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Daniels. I appreciate your repeating your story for my benefit."
Ignoring Smilow's I-told-you-so expression,
Hammond turned Daniels over to Mary Endicott.
Smilow excused himself to make some telephone
calls. Steffi hovered over the artist's shoulder and followed
the questions she was asking Daniels. Ham
mond carried his lukewarm coffee to the window and
stared out over a day that was much too sunny to
match his mood.
Eventually Steffi sidled up to him. "You're awfully
quiet."
"It was a short night. I couldn't fall asleep."
"Any particular reason for your insomnia?"
Catching the underlying meaning to her question,
he turned his head and looked down at her. "Just restless."
"You're cruel, Hammond."
"How so?"
"The least you could have done was get stinking
drunk last night and second-guess your decision to
break up with me."
He smiled, but his tone was serious. "It was the
only decision for us, Steffi. You know that as well as
I do."
"Particularly in light of Mason's decision."
"It was his decision, not mine."
"But I never stood a fighting chance of getting this
case. Mason favors you and makes no bones about it.
He always will. And you know that as well as I do."
"I was here first, Steffi. It's a matter of seniority."
"Yeah, right." Her droll tone contradicted her
words.
Before Hammond could respond to it, Smilow returned.
"This is interesting. One of my guys has been
nosing around the Pettijohns' neighborhood to see if
anyone had overheard Lute quarreling with a tradesman
or neighbor. Dead end there."
"I hope there's a to," Steffi said.
He nodded. "But Sarah Birch was at the supermarket
on Saturday afternoon. She asked the butcher
to butterfly some pork chops she wished to stuff for
Sunday dinner. He was busy, so it took him a while to
get to it. Rather than waiting, she did her other shopping.
The store was crowded. She didn't return to the
butcher for nearly an hour, he said. Which means she
lied about being at home with Mrs. Pettijohn all afternoon."
"If she would lie about something as insignificant
as going to the market, it stands to reason that she
might also tell a whopper."
"Only the lie isn't so insignificant," Smilow said.
"The time frame works. The butcher remembers delivering
the chops to Sarah Birch just before his shift
ended at six-thirty."
"Meaning that she was in the store anywhere from,
say, five until six-thirty," Steffi mused aloud. "About
the time Pettijohn was getting whacked. And the supermarket
is two blocks from the hotel! Damn! Can
it be this easy?"
"No," Smilow said with reluctance. "Mr. Daniels
said that the woman he saw in the hotel corridor
wasn't ethnic. Sarah Birch definitely is."
"She could be covering for Davee, though."
"Nor was the woman he saw blond," Smilow reminded
her. "Davee Pettijohn, by any description, is
a blonde."
"Are you kidding? She's the Queen of Clairol."
It didn't surprise Hammond that Davee's faithful
housekeeper would lie for her. But he was put off by
Steffi's catty comment and uneasy that his childhood
friend was seriously being considered a suspect with
an alibi that wasn't as ironclad as she had claimed.
"Davee wouldn't have killed Lute." The other two
turned to him. "What motive would she have?"
"Jealousy and money."
He shook his head in disagreement. "She has her
own lovers, Steffi. Why would she be jealous of
Lute's? And she has her own money. Probably more
than Lute."
"Well, I'm not ready to mark her off the list just
yet."
Leaving the other two to their speculations, Hammond
wandered toward the bed. A book of sketches
lay open on Daniels's lap, picturing what seemed an
endless variety of eye shapes. Hammond glanced
down at Endicott's rendering, but so far she was still
working to get the shape of the face correct.
"Maybe a little thinner through here," Mr. Daniels
said, stroking his own cheek. The artist made the suggested
adjustment. "Yeah, more like that."
When they progressed to eyebrows and eyes,
Hammond rejoined Steffi and Smilow. "What about
former business associates?" he asked the detective.
"Naturally they're being questioned," Smilow answered
with cool civility. "That is, those who don't
have prison as their alibi."
Unless the cases had fallen under federal jurisdiction,
Hammond had helped put some of those white-collar
criminals behind bars. Lute Pettijohn had bent
the rules often enough, frequently coming a hairbreadth
away from criminal wrongdoing. He flirted
with it, but never crossed the line.
"One of Pettijohn's most recent ventures involves
a sea island," Smilow told them.
Steffi scoffed. "What else is new?"
"This one's different. Speckle Island is about a
mile and a half offshore and is one of the few that has
escaped development."
"That's enough to give Pettijohn a hard-on," Steffi
remarked.
Smilow nodded. "He had set things in motion. His
name isn't on any of the partnership documents. At
least not the documents we've been able to find. But
be assured that we're checking it out." Looking at
Hammond, he added, "Thoroughly."
Hammond's heart sank like a lead ball inside his
chest. Smilow wasn't telling him anything about Pettijohn's
Speckle Island venture that he didn't already
know. He knew much more, more than he wanted to
know.
About six months ago, he had been asked by South
Carolina's attorney general to conduct a covert investigation
into Pettijohn's attempt to develop the island.
His discoveries had been alarming, but none as much
as seeing his own father's name listed among the investors.
Until he learned what connection, if any,
Speckle Island had to Pettijohn's murder, he was
keeping his knowledge of this under wraps. Just as
Smilow had rudely said to him, he would give the detective those details only when the time was right.
Steffi said, "One of those former associates might
have held a grudge so strong that it drove him to
commit murder."
"It's a viable possibility," Smilow said. "The problem
is, Lute operated in a circle of movers and shakers
that included government officials on every level.
His friends were men who wielded power of one kind
or another. That complicates my maneuverability, but
it doesn't keep me from digging."
If Smilow was digging, then Hammond knew the
name of Preston Cross was lying out there like a
buried treasure waiting to be disinterred. It was only