a matter of time before his father's alliance with Pettijohn
was uncovered.
Silently Hammond cursed his father for placing
him in this compromising position. Soon he might be
forced to choose between duty and family loyalty. At
the very least, Preston's dirty dealing could cost
Hammond the Pettijohn murder case. If it came to
that, Hammond would never forgive him.
He glanced at the hospital bed, where the artist
seemed to be making progress.
"Her hair. Was it long or short?"
"About here," Daniels said, indicating the top of
his shoulder.
"Bangs?"
"On her forehead, you mean? No."
"Straight or curly?"
"More curly, I guess. Fluffy." Again he used his
hands to illustrate.
"She was wearing it down, then?"
"Yeah, I guess. I don't know too much about hairstyles."
"Thumb through this magazine. See if there's a
picture in there that resembles her hair."
Daniels frowned and worriedly glanced at the
clock, but he did as instructed and began listlessly
turning the pages of the hair fashion magazine.
"What color was it?" the artist asked.
"Sorta red."
"She was a redhead?"
Hammond felt himself drawn forward by
Daniels's words, as though they were working handover-hand
on a rope, inexorably pulling him in.
"She wasn't a carrot-top."
"Dark red, then?"
"No. I guess you'd just say brown, but with lots of
red in it."
"Auburn?"
"That's it," he said, snapping his fingers. "I knew
there was a word for it, I just couldn't think of it.
Auburn."
Hammond swallowed a sip of coffee that had suddenly
turned bitter inside his mouth. He inched toward
the hospital bed with the reluctance of an
acrophobic approaching the rim of the Grand
Canyon.
Corporal Endicott made rapid pencil strokes
against the paper in her tablet. Scratch, scratch,
scratch. "How's that?" she said, showing Daniels her
work.
"Hey, that's pretty good. Except she had, you
know, strands around her face."
Hammond moved a few steps closer.
"Like this?"
Daniels told Endicott that she had nailed the hairstyle.
"Good. That just leaves the mouth," she said.
Setting aside the magazine, the artist flipped the
sketchbook open to another section. "Do you remember
anything distinctive about her mouth, Mr.
Daniels?"
"She was wearing lipstick," he mumbled as he
studied the myriad sketches of lips.
"So you noticed her lips?"
Raising his head, he darted an uneasy glance toward
the door, as though fearful that Mrs. Daniels
would be standing there eavesdropping. "Her mouth
looked kinda like this one." He pointed to one of the
standard sketches. "Except her lower lip was fuller."
Endicott consulted the drawing in the book, then
replicated it on her own sketch.
Watching, Daniels added, "When she glanced at
me, she sorta smiled."
"Did her teeth show?"
"No. A polite smile. You know, like people do
when they get into an elevator or something."
Like when eyes accidentally connect across a
dance floor.
Hammond couldn't work up enough courage to
look down at Endicott's handiwork, but in his mind's
eye he saw an alluring, closed-mouth smile that had
been deeply impressed on his memory.
"Anything resembling this?" Endicott turned her
pad toward Daniels to afford him a better look.
"Well, I'll be doggone," he said in awe. "That's
her."
And no more than a quick glance confirmed to
Hammond that indeed it was. It was her.
Smilow and Steffi had been engrossed in their
own conversation. Hearing Daniels's soft exclamation,
they rushed to the bedside. Hammond allowed
Steffi to elbow him aside because he didn't need to
see any more.
"It's not exact," Daniels told them, "but it's pretty
damn good."
"Any distinguishing marks or scars?"
A freckle.
"I think she had a molelike thing," Daniels said.
"It wasn't ugly. More like a freckle. Under her eye."
"Do you remember--" Steffi began.
"Which eye?" Smilow asked, finishing her
thought.
The right.
"Uh, let's see, I was facing her ... so that means it
would be ... her left. No, wait, her right. Definitely
her right," Daniels said, pleased that he could be so
helpful and provide this detail.
"Were you close enough to see the color of her
eyes?"
"No. 'Fraid not."
Green, flecked with brown. Widely spaced. Dark
lashes.
"How tall was she, Mr. Daniels?"
Five-six.
"Taller than you," he said, answering Steffi. "But
several inches shorter than Mr. Smilow here."
"I'm five-ten," he offered.
"So about five-six or -seven?" Steffi asked, doing
the math in her head.
"About that, I'd say."
"Weight?"
One hundred and fifteen.
"Not much."
"One thirty?" Smilow ventured.
"Less than that, I think."
"Do you happen to remember what she was wearing?"
Steffi wanted to know. "Slacks? Or shorts? A
dress?"
A skirt.
"Either shorts or a skirt. I'm sure because you
could, you know, see her legs." Daniels squirmed.
"Some kinda top. I don't remember the color or anything
like that."
White shirt. Brown knit tank top and matching
cardigan. Brown leather sandals. No stockings.
Beige lace brassiere that closed in front. Matching
panties.
Endicott began gathering up her supplies and
stuffing them into the overstuffed black bag. Smilow
took the sketch from her and then shook hands with
Mr. Daniels. "We have your number in Macon if we
need to contact you. Hopefully this will be sufficient.
Thank you so much."
"Same for me," Steffi said, smiling at the man before
following Smilow toward the door.
Having no voice, Hammond merely nodded a
goodbye to Mr. Daniels. Out in the hallway, Smilow
and Steffi profusely thanked the artist before she got
into the elevator.
They stayed behind to study the sketch and congratulate
themselves. "So that's our mystery
woman," Smilow remarked. "She doesn't look like a
murderess, does she?"
"What does a murderess look like?"
"Good point, Steffi."
She chuckled. "I see now why Mr. Daniels didn't
want his wife around when he described our suspect.
In spite of the pressure in his bowels, I think he was lusting in his heart. He remembered every minute detail,
even down to the freckle beneath the chick's
right eye."
"You've got to admit, it's a memorable face."
"Which doesn't mean squat when you're talking
guilt or innocence. Pretty women can kill with just as
much alacrity as ugly ones. Right, Hammond?" Steffi
turned to him. "Jeez, what's with you?"
He must have looked as nauseous as he felt. "Bad
cup of coffee," he said, crushing the empty Styrofoam
cup he'd been holding clenched in his hand.
"Well, Smilow, go get her." Steffi tapped the drawing
with her fingernail. "We've got the face."
"It would help if we knew her name."
Dr. Alex Ladd.
CHAPTER
14
the temporary headquarters of the judicial building
was located in North Charleston. It was an unattractive
two-story structure situated in an industrial
district. Its nearest neighbors were a convenience
store and a day-old bakery shop. This out-of-the-way
location was serving until an extensive renovation of
the stately old building downtown was completed. It
had been already in need of attention when Hurricane
Hugo rendered the building unsafe and unusable,
forcing the move.
It was only a ten-minute drive from downtown.
Hammond wouldn't remember making the drive that
morning. He parked and went inside. He responded
by rote to the guard who manned the metal detector
at the entrance. Turning left, he went into the County
Solicitor's Office and passed the receptionist's desk
without slowing up. He brusquely asked her to hold
all calls.
"You already have--"
"I'll take care of everything later."
He soundly closed his private office door behind
him. Tossing his suit jacket and briefcase on top of
the paperwork waiting for his attention on his desk,
he threw himself into the high-backed leather chair
and pressed the heels of his hands against his eye
sockets.
It simply couldn't be. This had to be a dream.
Shortly, he would wake up startled and alarmed and
breathing heavily, his sheets damp with sweat. After
orienting himself to familiar surroundings, he would
realize with relief that he had been in a deep sleep and
that this nightmare wasn't a reality.
But it was. He wasn't dreaming it, he was living it.
Impossible as it seemed, the sketch artist had drawn
Dr. Alex Ladd, who had shared Hammond's bed
within hours after she was seen at the site of a murder.
Coincidence? Highly unlikely.
She must have some connection to Lute Pettijohn.
Hammond wasn't sure he wanted to know
what that connection was. In fact, he was dead certain
he didn't want to know.
He dragged his hands down his face, then, propping
his elbows on his desk, he stared into near space
and tried to arrange his chaotic thoughts into some
semblance of order.
First, without a doubt, Corporal Endicott had
sketched the face of the woman he had slept with Saturday
night. Even if he hadn't seen her as recently as
last night, he wasn't likely to forget her face that
soon. It had attracted him from the start. He had spent
hours late Saturday night and early Sunday morning
studying, admiring, caressing, and kissing it.
"Where did this come from?" He touched a spot
beneath her right eye.
"My blemish?"
"It's a beauty mark."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"When I was younger I hated it. Now I must admit
I've grown rather fond of it."
"I can see how that could happen.I could grow
fond of it myself." He kissed it once, then a second
time, touching it lightly with the tip of his tongue.
"Hmm. It's a shame."
"What?"
"That I don't have more spots."
He had come to know her face intimately. The
artist's sketch was a two-dimensional, black and
white drawing. Given those limitations, it couldn't
possibly capture the essence of the woman behind the
face, but it had been such a close representation that
there was no doubt Dr. Ladd had been seen near a
murder victim's room shortly before placing herself
in the path of someone from the county solicitor's office,
specifically one Hammond Cross, who had himself
been in Pettijohn's company that afternoon.
"Jesus." Plowing his fingers through his hair and
holding his head between his hands, he almost surrendered
to the disbelief and despair that assailed
him. What the hell was he going to do?
Well, he couldn't collapse from within, which is
what he felt like doing. What a luxury it would be to
slink away from this office, leave Charleston, leave
the state, run away and hide, let this mess erupt on its
own, and spare himself having to withstand the incendiary
lava flow of scandal that would inevitably
follow.
But he was made of sterner stuff than that. He had
been born with an indomitable sense of responsibility,
and his parents had nourished that trait every day
of his life. He could no more fathom running away
from this than he could imagine sprouting wings.
So he forced himself to confront a second point
that seemed unarguable--withholding her name from
him hadn't been the flirtation he had mistaken it for.
They had been together at the fair for at least an hour
before he even thought to ask her name. They'd
laughed because it had taken them that long to get
around to what was usually the first order of business
when two people meet and must make their own introductions.
"Names aren't really that important, are they? Not
when the meeting is this amiable."
He agreed. "Yeah, what's in a name?" He proceeded
to quote what he could remember of the passage
from Romeo and Juliet.
"That's good! Have you ever thought of writing it
down?"
"In fact I have, but it would never sell"
From there it had become a running joke--his asking
her name, her declining to tell him. Like a sap he
had thought they were playing out the fantasy of
making love to an anonymous stranger. Nameless
ness had been an enticement, part of the adventure,
integral to the allure. He had seen no harm in it.
What was disturbing but likely was that Alex Ladd
had known his name all along. Theirs hadn't been a
random meeting. It wasn't happenstance that she had
arrived at that dance pavilion shortly after him. Their