with Alex's denial that she even knew Pettijohn.
"They've found no connection. Speaking as a prosecutor,
his case is weak."
"And speaking otherwise?"
"There is no otherwise."
"Huh." Loretta was watching him like she didn't
believe him, but she let it drop. "Well, God help this
Dr. Ladd if she didn't kill Pettijohn."
"Don't you mean, God help her if she did?"
"No, I meant what I said."
"I don't follow," Hammond said, puzzled.
"If Dr. Ladd was at the scene, but didn't kill him,
she could be a witness."
"A witness? Wouldn't she have told us?"
"Not if she was afraid."
"What could she fear more than being accused of
murder?"
Loretta replied, "The murderer."
CHAPTER
18
Alex drove with one eye on her rearview mirror.
She recognized her symptoms as paranoia, but she
figured she was entitled, having spent most of the
day being questioned in connection with a homicide.
With Hammond Cross in the room. Knowing she
was lying.
Of course, he had been lying, too, by omission. But why? Curiosity? Perhaps he had wanted to see
how far she would carry her lies about her whereabouts
on Saturday night. But when she concluded
her false story about Hilton Head, she had fully expected
him to denounce her as a liar.
He hadn't. Which indicated to her that he was protecting
his own reputation. He hadn't wanted his colleague
Ms. Mundell and the frightening Detective
Smilow to know that he had slept with their only lead
in the Pettijohn murder case on the very night of the
murder. For today, at least, he had been more interested
in keeping their meeting a secret than he had
been in nailing her as a suspect.
But that could change. Which left her vulnerable.
Until she knew how Hammond intended to play this
out, she must do everything possible to protect her
self from incrimination. It might not come to that, but
if it did, she must be prepared.
She arrived at her destination, but eschewed the
porte cochere and valets and instead pulled into the
public parking lot. Bobby had gone upscale. When
she had known him, he'd been no stranger to flophouses.
Now he was registered in a chain suite hotel
near downtown. She hadn't called first to notify him
that she was on her way. Surprising him might give
her a slight advantage over what would doubtless be
an unpleasant confrontation.
In the elevator, she closed her eyes and rolled her
head around her shoulders. She was exhausted. And
terribly afraid. She wished she could turn back the
clock and rewrite the day Bobby Trimble had reentered
her life after twenty years of freedom from him.
She wished she could delete that day and all the subsequent
ones.
But that would mean also deleting her night with
Hammond Cross.
She hadn't known much happiness in her life.
Even as a child. Particularly as a child. Christmas had been just another day on the calendar. She'd never
had a birthday cake, or an Easter basket, or a Halloween
costume. Not until her late teens had she
learned that ordinary people, not just people in magazines
and on television, were allowed to participate
in holiday celebrations.
Her young adulthood had been spent undoing the
damage of the past and creating a new individual.
She had been greedy to absorb everything she had
been denied. At university she had applied herself to
her studies with such diligence that little time was left
for dating.
By the time her practice was established, her energy
had been devoted to it. Through her volunteer
and charity work she met eligible men. With some
she had forged friendships, but romance had never
been an element in these relationships, and that had
been her choice.
She had settled on being content with her accomplishments,
and with the satisfaction that came from
helping troubled people to work through their problems
and realize their worth.
Real happiness, the giddy, effervescent kind of joy
she had experienced with Hammond that night, had
escaped her. It was an elusive stranger to her, so up
till now she hadn't realized its addictive powers. Or
its potential hazards. She wondered now: Was happiness
always this costly?
As soon as the elevator doors opened, she heard
music and figured it was probably coming from
Bobby's room. She was right. She approached the
door and knocked, waited a moment, then knocked
again, harder this time. The music was killed.
"Who is it?"
"Bobby, I need to see you."
A few seconds later the door was opened. He was
naked except for a towel around his hips. "If you're
bringing the heat on me, so help me God, I'll--"
"Don't be absurd. The last thing I want is for the
police to know I was ever associated with you."
His eyes scanned the hallway. Finally satisfied that
she was alone, he said, "I'm relieved to hear that,
Alex. For a while today, I was afraid you had double-crossed
me again."
Movement behind him drew her gaze beyond his
shoulder. First one girl, then a second, appeared. He
glanced over his shoulder and, when he saw the girls,
smiled and pulled them forward, keeping an arm
around the waist of each. If either was eighteen, it
wasn't by much. One was wearing a pair of thong underwear,
nothing on top. The other was wrapped in a
sheet that Alex assumed had been stripped from the
bed.
"Alex, this is--"
"I don't care," she interrupted. "I need to talk to
you." She leveled an impatient stare on him.
"Okay." He sighed. "But you know what they say
about all work and no play."
Shooing both girls back into the room, he swatted
their fannies and asked them to give him a few minutes
alone with Alex. "We've got business to settle.
Then the party will really begin. Okay? Go on, now."
With their whining admonitions not to keep them
waiting long, he stepped out into the hallway and
closed the door.
Alex said, "You're stoned, aren't you?"
"Don't I have a right to be? Seeing cops at your
front door wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I
came to see you today."
"Where did you buy the dope?"
"I didn't have to buy it. I know how to pick my
friends."
"Your victims."
He grinned, taking no offense. "These girls were
well supplied. Quality stuff. Why don't you have
some?" He reached out and gave her knotted shoulder
a squeeze. "You're all tense, Alex. How about a
little pick-me-up?"
She slapped his arm away.
"Suit yourself," he said with an affable shrug.
"Where's my money?"
"I don't have it."
His smile slipped a notch. "You're fucking with
me, right?"
"You saw the policemen at my house, Bobby. How
could I possibly bring you that cash now? I came here
to warn you not to come near me again. I don't want
to see you. I don't want you to drive past my house.
I don't want to know you."
"Hold on just one goddamn minute. We agreed, remember?"
He waggled his hand between his chest
and hers. "We made a deal."
"The deal is off. Circumstances have changed.
They questioned me about Lute Pettijohn's murder."
"That isn't my fault, Alex. You can't blame me for
your screwup."
"I told you last night--"
"I know what you told me. That doesn't mean I believe it."
It was pointless to argue with him. He hadn't believed
her yesterday, and he wasn't going to believe
her now. Not that she cared what he believed. She
just wanted to be rid of him.
"As agreed, I'll give you the hundred thousand."
"Tonight."
She shook her head. "In a few weeks. As soon as
this is cleared up. It would be crazy to give it to you
now when the police are watching me so closely."
Placing his hands on his lean hips, he leaned forward
from the waist, bringing his face down to the
level of hers. "I warned you to be careful. Didn't I
warn you?"
"Yes, you warned me."
"So how'd they mark you?"
She wasn't going to stand in the hallway of a family
hotel with a nearly naked man and discuss her police
interrogation. Besides, he didn't really care how
the police had linked her to Pettijohn. He cared about
only one thing. "You'll get your money," she said.
"I'll contact you when I feel it's safe for us to meet.
Until then, stay away from me. If you don't, you'll
only be shooting yourself in the foot."
Apparently his high was wearing off, because his
expression was no longer cool and congenial, but belligerent.
"You must think I'm really dense. Do you
honestly believe that you can get rid of me just because
you want to, Alex?"
He snapped his fingers hard only inches from her
nose. "Think again. Until I get my cut of that cash,
I'm your shadow. You owe me this."
"Bobby," she said evenly, "if I repaid you what
you were owed, I would have to kill you."
"Threats, Alex?" he said silkily. "I don't think so."
Then he surprised her by poking her hard in the chest
with his index finger, causing her to fall back several
steps. "You're in no position to be threatening me.
You're the one with the most to lose. Remember that.
Now, I'm going to say it for the last time. Get me that
money."
"Don't you understand that I can't? Not now."
"Like hell. You've got an alphabet soup of letters
strung out behind your name. You've got all the
smarts you need to figure this one out." His eyes narrowed
into mean slits. "You get that money to me.
That's the only way I'll disappear."
Hatred burned red-hot inside her. "Do those girls
realize that they'll wake up tomorrow morning without
their jewelry and money?"
"They'll get what they want in return." He
winked. "And then some."
Disgusted, Alex turned and headed for the elevator.
"Stay away from me until I notify you."
Softly he called after her, "Your shadow, Alex.
Look around. I'll be there."
Hammond switched on the bedside lamp, bathing the pastel striped walls with a warm glow. Looking
around, he had to hand it to Lute Pettijohn--he had
hired a good decorator for his Charles Towne Plaza
and hadn't skimped on amenities. At least not in the
penthouse suite.
The room was spacious and laid out to be user
friendly. Behind the doors of the French armoire was
a twenty-seven-inch TV, larger than standard
hotel/motel issue and equipped with a VCR. Inside
the cabinet were also a CD player and a selection of
disks, last week's issue of TV Guide, and a remote
control for the television. Nothing else.
He moved into the bathroom. The towels appeared
not to have been touched since the housekeeper had
placed them on the decorative bars. A small silver
basket on the marble dressing table still contained
bottles of shampoo and other grooming products, a
miniature sewing kit, a shoeshine cloth, a shower
cap.
He switched out the light and went back into the
bedroom, his footsteps muted by the plush carpeting.
The bedroom had its own minibar in addition to the
one in the parlor. The contents had already been inventoried
by the CSU. All the same, he gloved his
hand with a handkerchief and opened the refrigerator.
A quick inventory checked against the printed menu
of stocked items revealed that none were missing.
When he closed the door, the motor kicked on and it
began to hum.
He welcomed the sound. The suite, its luxurious
decor and abundant amenities notwithstanding, was
now a crime scene. Its eerie silence pressed in on him
from all sides.
He had left the Shady Rest Lounge with the intention
of going home and putting an end to this terrible
Monday. Instead, he had felt drawn here. He didn't
need to guess the reason for this compulsion.
Loretta's last comment had found a foothold in his
mind and wouldn't let go.
Had Alex Ladd been here last Saturday? Had she
witnessed something that she was reluctant to reveal
because it might put her life at risk? He would rather
believe that than entertain the idea of her being the
murderer, although neither was a cheery prospect.
Subconsciously he had come here in the hope of finding
something that had been previously overlooked,
something that would exonerate Alex Ladd and possibly
implicate someone else. Irrationally, he felt
compelled to protect a woman who had proved to be
an elaborate and unconscionable liar.
It hadn't been easy to return to this suite of rooms
where last Saturday he had met Lute and exchanged
heated words. He hadn't gone beyond the parlor,
hadn't really gone far beyond the threshold. He had