He smiled grimly. "Well, I've been called crazy
before."
Tears formed in her eyes, but she cleared her
throat and squared her shoulders. "What. .. what did
you have in mind?"
"You've heard about Lute Pettijohn."
Her lower jaw went slack. "You want me to work
on something as important as that?"
"Indirectly." He shifted uncomfortably on the
booth's hard bench. "What I want you to do isn't officially
for the D.A.'s office. It's strictly confidential.
Between you and me. Nobody else must know.
Okay?"
"I'm a fuckup, Hammond. I've demonstrated that.
But I always liked you. I admire you. You're one of
the good guys, and I flatter myself into thinking of
you as a friend. You were good to me when people
would do an about-face to avoid speaking. I may let
you down, probably will, but they'd have to cut out
my tongue before I would betray your confidence."
"I believe that." He peered deeply into her eyes.
"How drunk are you?"
"I've got a good buzz going, but I'll remember this
tomorrow."
"Okay." He paused to take a deep breath. "I want
you to learn what you can about... Should I write
this down?"
"Would you ever want it to come back to you?"
He thought about it for a moment. "No."
"Then don't write it down. If it ain't tangible, it
ain't evidence."
"Evidence? Whoa, Loretta," he said, holding up
both hands. "What I want you to do is confidential. It
stretches ethics. But it's not illegal. I just want to
level the playing field for a suspect."
Tilting her head, she regarded him curiously.
"Maybe I'm drunker than I thought. Did you just
say--"
"You heard me right."
"You want to give a suspect in the Pettijohn case a
break?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"How come?"
"You're not drunk enough for me to explain that."
A laugh rattled out of her chest. "Okay," she said,
still dubious. "Who's the suspect?"
"Dr. Alex Ladd."
"Is he in Charleston?"
"It's a she."
She blinked several times, then gave him a long,
hard look. "A she."
Hammond pretended not to notice the obvious
question posed by her raised eyebrows. "She's a psychologist
here in Charleston. Find out everything you
can about her. Background, family, schooling, anything.
Everything. But in particular any possible connection
she might have had with Lute Pettijohn."
"Like if she was a girlfriend?"
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Like that."
"I got the impression that Steffi Mundell was prosecuting
the Pettijohn case."
"What made you think that?"
She then told him about seeing Steffi and Rory
Smilow in the hospital emergency room the night
Pettijohn was murdered. "I had gone to see Bev. Actually
I was there to bum money off her. Anyway,
Stuff-me-Steffi and Unsmiling Smilow came busting
in like storm troopers. For all the good it did them.
This little pipsqueak of a doctor stood up to them.
They got nowhere with him. Did my heart good." She
paused to chuckle, then turned somber again and
looked across at Hammond. "You still sleeping with
her?"
He couldn't conceal his surprise, but he didn't ask
how she knew about his secret affair with Steffi. Her
knowing evinced that she was very good at what she
did. "No."
She studied him a moment as though to convince
herself that he was telling her the truth. "Good. Because
I'd hate to speak badly of the woman you're
boinking."
"You don't like Steffi?"
"The same way I don't like poisonous snakes."
"She's not as bad as that."
"No, she's worse. She's a viper. She's had her eye
on you since she first came to Charleston. Not only to
get inside your pants, either. She wants to wear
them."
"If you mean that we're vying for the same job
again, I'm well aware of that."
"But have you thought of this? Steffi might have been using your dick as a lever to hoist her right into
the solicitor's office."
"Are you suggesting that she slept with me only to
advance her career? Gee, thanks, Loretta. You're
doing my ego a world of good."
She rolled her eyes. "I was afraid that possibility
might have escaped you. Men rarely think of their
dicks as anything except a magic wand with which to
cast spells over grateful women. That's why a stiff
prick is so goddamn exploitable."
Alex Ladd sprang immediately to Hammond's
mind. If Loretta knew about how gullible he had been
last Saturday night, she could really lambast him.
She was saying, "Steffi Mundell would screw a
rottweiller if she thought it would get her where she
wants to be."
"Cut her some slack. True, she's ambitious. But
she's had to claw and scrape for every achievement.
She had a domineering father who gauged everyone's
value on a testosterone meter. Steffi was expected to
cook and clean and wait on the menfolk, first her
brothers and father, then her husband. Devout Greek
Orthodox family. Not only was she not devout, she
was--is--a nonbeliever. She had no help or encouragement
through university or law school. And when
she graduated at the top of her class, her father said
something like, 'Now maybe you'll stop this foolishness
and get married.'"
"Please, my heart's bleeding," Loretta said sarcastically.
"Look, I know she can be annoying as hell. But
she has good qualities that outweigh the bad. I'm a
big boy. I know what Steffi's about."
"Yeah, well. . .," she muttered, unconvinced,
"then there's Smilow." She reached for her glass of
whiskey, but Hammond reached across the table and
gently removed it from her hands. "Can't I even finish
that one?" she wheedled. "It's a waste of good
whiskey."
"Starting now, you're on the wagon. Two hundred
dollars a day and sobriety. Those are the terms of this
agreement."
"You drive a hard bargain, Solicitor Cross."
"I'll also cover your expenses, and you'll receive
a hefty bonus when the job is finished."
"Ii wasn't referring to the pay. That's generous.
More than I deserve." She wiped the back of her hand
across her mouth. "It's the no-drinking clause that's
causing me to balk."
"That's the rule, Loretta. If you take a single drink
and I find out about it, the deal is off."
"Okay, I got it," she said irritably. "I'll just have to
gut it out, that's all. I need the money to pay Bev
back. Otherwise I'd tell you to stuff your 'terms'
where the sun don't shine."
He smiled, knowing that her gruff act was just
that. She was thrilled to be working again. "What
were you about to say about Smilow?"
"That son of a bitch," she sneered. "He's the reason
I was fired. He gave me an impossible assignment.
Dick Tracy couldn't have done it in the amount of
time Smilow specified. When I couldn't produce, he
blamed my drinking, not his own impossible deadline.
"He went to the chief and said that demoting me
from criminal investigation wasn't good enough. He
wanted me out, period. Called me a disgrace, a blight
on the entire department, a liability. He actually
threatened to quit if they didn't fire me. After being
issued an ultimatum like that, who do you think the
powers that be were going to choose? A woman cop
with a slight drinking problem or an ace homicide detective?"
It could be argued that everything Smilow had alleged
was true, and that Loretta's drinking problem
was more than "slight," and that Smilow had merely
forced his superiors to do what they had needed to do
but were hesitant to do, fearing a sex discrimination
suit or something equally cumbersome.
As unfortunate as it had been to Loretta, Smilow's
ultimatum might have prevented a catastrophe. For
months leading up to her dismissal, she had been perpetually
drunk. She should not have been working as
an armed policewoman, investigating assaults and
crimes against persons, a dangerous beat under the
best of circumstances.
But Hammond understood her need to vent.
"Smilow isn't very tolerant of human weaknesses."
"He has some of his own."
"Such as?"
"His love for his sister and his hatred for Lute Pettijohn."
Recalling the condensed story Davee had told him
the night before, he asked, "What do you know about
that?"
"Same as everybody knows. Margaret Smilow
was one sick ticket. Bipolar, I think. Smilow was a
protective older brother. When she fell hard for Lute
Pettijohn, Rory disliked the idea from the start.
Maybe he was jealous of the new protector in his sister's
life, or maybe he simply saw Pettijohn's true
colors when everybody else was blind to them. For
whatever reason, Rory disapproved of the marriage."
"I understand they had some violent quarrels."
Loretta harrumphed. "One night Rory and I were
investigating a convenience store holdup and murder.
He got paged to call his sister immediately. Margaret
was hysterical and begged him to come right then. He
was so upset, we turned the crime scene over to our
backup team, and I drove him.
"Hammond," she said, shaking her head in disbelief,
"by the time we got there, she had totally
wrecked that house. Hurricane Hugo didn't do that
much damage. There wasn't a piece of glass that wasn't broken. Not a pillow that wasn't ripped open.
Not a shelf that hadn't been swept clean. You
couldn't walk across the floor for all the debris.
"Apparently she had discovered that Pettijohn had
a girlfriend. When we got there, Margaret was in the
bathroom holding a straight razor to her wrist and
threatening to kill herself. Smilow sweet-talked her
out of the razor. He called her doctor, who was kind
enough to come over and medicate her. Then Smilow
had me drive him to Pettijohn's rendezvous.
"Long story short... he barged in and caught
this gal sitting on Lute's face. He and Pettijohn
each got in a few good punches before I intervened.
I had to physically restrain Smilow because nothing
I said was getting through. I honestly believe that
if I hadn't been there to wrestle him down, he
would have killed Pettijohn that night. I've never
seen a man--or woman--that enraged."
Her eyes narrowed and she tapped the ugly Formica
with a jagged, dirty fingernail. "And till the day I die,
I'll believe that's what Rory Smilow holds against me.
To the world he reveals this bloodless persona. He
comes across as being unfeeling. Cold. Passionless.
But I witnessed him being as human as the next man. More human than the next man. He lost control. That's
why he couldn't tolerate having me around every day
as a reminder."
Hammond didn't question her veracity. For all her
flaws, he had never known Loretta to lie or even to
embroider a story. "Why did you tell me this?"
"Just throwing out some possibilities."
"Possibilities? You think Smilow killed Pettijohn?"
"All I'm saying is that he could have. I don't know
about opportunity, but he for damn sure had motivation.
He never forgave Lute for Margaret's suicide.
And these aren't just the delusions of an old drunk,
either. Your friend Steffi thought of it, too. I overheard
her bring it up that night at the hospital. She remarked
on how much Smilow would enjoy seeing
Pettijohn die."
"What did Smilow say?"
"He didn't confess, but he didn't deny it." She
chuckled. "Not in so many words, anyway. As I recall, he turned the tables and dumped the deed on
her."
"On Steffi?"
"He broached the idea that Pettijohn might have
been paving her way into Mason's office when he retires."
Hammond laughed. "Smilow must've been having
an off night. If Lute was doing someone a favor, why
would they kill him?"
"That's what Steffi came back with, and the conversation
died there. Besides, he was only being provoking
because Steffi was of the opinion that Davee
had rid the world of Pettijohn."
"Davee was her first suspect. But now she's got
someone else in her crosshairs."
"This Dr. Ladd?"
Nodding, Hammond passed her an envelope containing
some advance money. "If you drink that—"
"I won't. I swear."
"Find out what you can on Alex Ladd. I want the
skinny as soon as you can get it to me."
"This may sound presumptuous—"
"And I'm sure it is."
Ignoring him, Loretta continued. "Has she been
arrested?"
"Not yet."
"But apparently you think Smilow and company
are off base."
"I'm not sure." He gave her a summary of the
day's events, starting with Daniels's story and ending