"Dr. Ladd?"
"Yes."
"I'm Sergeant Rory Smilow, a homicide detective
with Charleston P.D. I'd like to talk to you about the
murder of Lute Pettijohn."
"Lute Pettijohn? I'm afraid I don't know--"
"You were seen outside his penthouse suite on the
afternoon he was murdered, Dr. Ladd. So please
don't waste my time by pretending that you don't
know what I'm talking about."
She and Detective Smilow stared at one another,
taking each other's measure. It was Alex who finally
relented. She stood aside. "Come in."
"Actually, I was hoping you would come with us."
She swallowed, although her mouth was dry. "I'd
like to call my lawyer."
"That isn't necessary. This isn't an arrest."
She looked pointedly at the stoic policemen flanking
him.
Smilow's lips lifted in what could have passed as
a wry smile. "Volunteering to be questioned without
an attorney present would go a long way toward convincing
me that you're innocent of any wrongdoing."
"I don't believe that for an instant, Detective
Smilow." She scored a point. Her directness seemed
to take him aback. "I'll be happy to accompany you
as soon as I notify my lawyer."
CHAPTER
15
Rory Smilow sat on the corner of his desk. Unlike
all other desks in the Criminal Investigation Division,
his was uncluttered. The files and paperwork
were neatly stacked. Thanks to Smitty's shoeshine
early that morning, his lace-up shoes reflected the
overhead lights. His suit jacket remained on.
Alex Ladd was seated with her hands calmly
clasped in her lap, legs decorously crossed. Smilow
thought she was remarkably composed for someone
who, appearance-wise at least, seemed out of place in
a homicide detective's office.
For half an hour they had been waiting for her solicitor,
who had agreed to meet her there. If she was
uncomfortable with the prolonged silence and
Smilow's close scrutiny, she gave no sign of it. She
exhibited no fear or nervousness, merely a grudging
tolerance for the inconvenience.
Solicitor Frank Perkins arrived looking flushed,
rushed, and apologetic. Except for cleats, he was
dressed for the golf course. "I'm sorry, Alex. I was on
the tenth hole when I got your page. I came as soon
as I could. What's this about, Smilow?"
Perkins had a solid reputation and an excellent
track record. Rarer than that, he was known to be a
decent human being with unimpeachable integrity.
Smilow wondered in what capacity the defense attorney
had served Alex Ladd before, so he asked.
"It's a rude question," Perkins replied, "but I don't
mind answering if Alex doesn't."
"Please," she said.
"Up till now, we've been social friends. We met a
couple of years ago when she and Maggie, my wife,
served on a Spoleto committee together," he explained,
referring to Charleston's renowned arts festival
in May.
"Then, to your knowledge, Dr. Ladd has never
been faced with criminal charges before?"
"Come to the point, Smilow." Perkins's tone
demonstrated why prosecutors considered him a
tough adversary in the courtroom.
"I wish to question Dr. Ladd in connection to the
Lute Pettijohn murder."
Perkins's jaw dropped. He gaped at them like he
was waiting for the punch line. "You've got to be kidding."
"Unfortunately, no, he's not," Alex said. "Thank
you for coming, Frank. I'm terribly sorry I interrupted
your golf game. Were you winning?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah," he replied absently, still trying
to digest what Smilow had told him.
"Then I'm doubly sorry." Glancing at Smilow, she
said, "This is all so ridiculous. It's a waste of time. I
just want to get through it and get out of here."
In a manner that looked like she was granting him
permission to proceed, she nodded at Smilow. He
leaned across his desk, clicked on a tape recorder,
then stated their names, the time, and the date.
"Dr. Ladd, the attendant of a public parking lot on
East Bay Street identified you by an artist's sketch.
Since the lot doesn't have an automated ticketing system,
he keeps a record of each car by writing down
the license plate number and the time it came in."
Unfortunately for Smilow, no record was kept of
the time a car exited the lot. The charge was based on
the time of entry. For any stay under two hours, the
fee was five dollars. Incremental charges didn't start
until after that first one hundred twenty minutes. The
charge was noted, but not the exact exit time.
"We traced you through your car tag. On Saturday
afternoon you left your car in that lot for up to two
hours."
Perkins, who had been listening intently, laughed.
"That's your earthshaking discovery? That's your big
breakthrough on this case?"
"It's a start."
"One hell of a slow start. How does the parking lot
business connect Dr. Ladd to the murder?"
"I tipped--"
Perkins held up his hand in caution, but she waved
it down. "It's okay, Frank. I gave that young man at
the parking lot a ten-dollar bill, which was the smallest
denomination I had. That represented a five-dollar
tip. I'm sure that's why he remembered me
well enough to describe me to a sketch artist."
"He wasn't the one who provided us with the de
scription," Smilow told them. "That was a Mr.
Daniels of Macon, Georgia. His room in the Charles
Towne Plaza was located down the hallway from the
penthouse suite briefly occupied by Lute Pettijohn on
Saturday afternoon. Did you know him?"
"You don't have to answer, Alex," the attorney
told her. "In fact, I recommend that you don't say
anything else until we've had a chance to speak privately."
"It's all right," she repeated, this time with a small
laugh. Looking back to Smilow, she said, "I've never
heard of Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia."
She was not only cool, but clever, thought Smilow.
"I was referring to Mr. Pettijohn. Did you know him?'
"Everyone in Charleston has heard of Lute Pettijohn,"
she said. "His name was constantly in the
news."
"You knew he had been murdered."
"Of course."
"You saw it on TV?"
"I was out of town for a portion of the weekend.
But when I got back, I heard it on the news."
"You didn't know Pettijohn personally?"
"No."
"Then why were you standing outside his hotel
suite near the time he was murdered?"
"I wasn't."
"Alex, please, don't say anything more." Placing
his hand beneath her elbow, Perkins indicated the
door. "We're leaving."
"It won't look good."
"Detective, you're the one who doesn't look good.
You owe Dr. Ladd an apology."
"I don't mind answering the questions, Frank, if it
means stopping this nonsense here and now," she
said.
Perkins looked at her for a long moment. He obviously
disagreed, but he turned toward Smilow. "I insist
on consulting with my client before this goes any
further."
"Fine. I'll give you a moment alone."
"Be sure and turn off the microphone before you
leave."
"Believe me, Frank, I want this to go by the books.
I don't want a murderer to be set free on a technicality."
Looking pointedly at Alex, he switched off the
recorder and left her alone with her solicitor.
"Can you believe it?" Steffi Mundell was outside
in the narrow hall, staring through the two-way mirror
into Smilow's private office. "The artist was right
on. What's she like?"
"Don't you have any other cases, Steffi? I thought
all of you A.D.A.s were overworked and underpaid.
At least that's what you would have everyone believe."
"With Mason's sanction, I've lightened my caseload
so I can concentrate on this one. He wants me to
assist Hammond any way I can."
"Where is the boy wonder?" He watched Alex
Ladd adamantly shake her head to one of Frank
Perkins's inquiries.
"Barricaded inside his office. I haven't seen him
since we left the hospital this morning. I left him a
message that I was coming over here to take a gander
at our suspect. Good work on the capture, by the
way."
"Duck soup. Will Hammond be joining us?"
"Would you mind?"
Smilow shrugged. "I'd like to gauge his reaction."
"To Dr. Ladd?"
"It might be interesting to see if Saint Hammond
could demand the death penalty for a beautiful
woman."
Steffi reacted with a start. "You think she's beautiful?"
Before Smilow could answer, Frank Perkins
opened the door and, after giving Steffi a blunt greeting,
waved them inside.
Bobby Trimble breathed deeply in an effort to
bring his heart rate under control. It had been racing
ever since he saw Alex talking to cops on her front
door step.
That was bad. Very bad. Were the cops wise to his
Pettijohn plot? Had Alex called them with the intention
of turning him in to save herself?
He had cruised past her house at a moderate speed
with studied indifference. What he saw in his peripheral
vision, however, was cause for alarm--two uniforms,
a plainclothesman, and a vindictive woman
who made no secret of despising him. A foolproof
recipe for disaster.
There was one positive sign. Alex hadn't fingered
him. She hadn't pointed to him and shouted, "Get
him!" But he wasn't sure what that signified, or
where it left him. It might mean only that she hadn't
seen him driving past.
Deliberating his next move, he aimlessly wove the
convertible through downtown Charleston's midday
traffic. Last night he had thought he was home free.
After a lot of arm-twisting, Alex had agreed to give
him the money he demanded.
"If you think you can steal my idea and use it for
your own gain, you've got another think coming,
missy!" When agitated, his accent returned. Hating the sound of that hick whine, he had paused to modulate
his voice. "Don't even think about double-crossing
me, Alex," he told her in a softer, but no less
threatening tone. "That money belongs to me, and I
want it."
Alex had cleaned up her act, too. She spoke better.
Dressed better. Lived well. But for all her snooty
high-and-mighty airs, she hadn't really changed. No
more than he had. Just as she knew his true nature, he
knew hers. Did she think he was born yesterday? He
saw what was happening. She had seized on his
brainstorm and was trying to cheat him out of his
half.
When he accused her of it, she had said, "For the
last time, Bobby: I don't have any money to give you.
Leave me alone!"
"That's simply not going to happen, Alex. I'm in
your life until I get what I came for. If you want me
to disappear, pay up."
Her weary sigh had been as good as a waving
white flag. "Be at my house at noon tomorrow."
So he was at her house at noon, and guess what?
She had cops for company. There might already be a
warrant out for his arrest.
Although maybe not, he thought, forcing himself
to calm down. If she and the police had been laying a
trap for him, why was the patrol car parked in plain
sight? And how could she rat on him without ratting
out herself, too?
In any event, until he knew for certain what was
going on, it would be wise for Bobby Trimble to lay
low. Boring.
Stopping for a red light, he folded his hands over
the steering wheel and contemplated his immediate
future. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another
convertible pull up alongside his. He turned his
head.
The two faces looking back at him were partially
concealed by sunglasses with bright yellow lenses.
The coeds were young and attractive. Their grins
were saucy and challenging. Spoiled, rich daddy's
girls looking for mischief on a hot summer afternoon.
In other words, prey.
The light changed, and with a screech of tires,
their car shot forward. They made a right turn at the
next corner. Bobby switched lanes and made the
same turn. The girls, glancing over their bare shoul
1
ders, were aware he was following them. He saw
them laughing.
The BMW convertible whipped into the parking
lot of a trendy luncheon restaurant. Bobby followed.
He watched them as they made their way toward the
entrance. They were dressed in short shorts that
showed an inch of butt cheek and seeming miles of
tanned legs. Their halter tops left little to the imagination.
They were a walking, giggling, flirting reminder
to Bobby of what he did best.
He made his way through the crowded restaurant
and spotted them seated at a table on the patio beneath
the shade of an umbrella, giving their drink