one stunned second before Hammond stepped in and
punched the button to go down.
The doors closed, sealing them inside the small,
confined space. He could smell her fragrance. He
noted everything at once--hair, face, form. Her tousled
hairstyle, soft makeup, and compact figure lent
femininity to the tailored business suit she was wearing.
The jacket was sleeveless. Her skin looked
smooth and soft. Her skin was smooth and soft. On
her arms. Breasts. Behind her knees. Everywhere.
Her eyes were as busy as his, touching on every
feature of his face, exactly as they had at the gas station
seconds before he kissed her. That was part of
her sexiness, that seemingly total absorption in whatever
her eyes focused on. The intensity with which
she looked at him made him feel as though his face
were the most captivating visage in the world.
He began. "Saturday night--"
"Please don't ask me--"
"Why did you lie about where you were?"
"Would you rather I had told them the truth?"
"What is the truth? Did that man see you standing
outside Lute Pettijohn's hotel suite?"
"I can't discuss this with you."
"The hell you can't!"
The doors opened on the first floor. No one was
waiting for the elevator. Hammond stepped out, but
kept his hand on the rubber bumper to keep the door
from closing behind him. "Sarge, did Ms. Mundell
leave a file down here?"
"File? I haven't seen anything, Mr. Cross," he
called back. "If I see it, I'll have it run up."
"Thanks."
Stepping back into the elevator, he depressed the
button for them to go back up. The doors closed.
"The hell you can't," he repeated in a harsh whisper.
"We've got a few precious seconds. Is this what
you want to be talking about?"
"No. Hell, no." He took one step nearer and
growled softly, "I want to be all over you."
She raised her hand to the base of her throat. "I
can't breathe."
"That's what you said the second time you came.
Or was it the third?"
"Stop. Please stop."
"That's one thing you didn't say. Not the whole
damn night. So why did you sneak out on me?"
"For the same reason I had to lie about being with
you."
"Pettijohn? I know you didn't kill him. The time
doesn't fit. But in some way you're culpable."
"I had to leave you that morning. And we can't be
caught talking privately now."
"If you weren't somehow implicated," he said,
taking another step closer, "why would you need to
establish an alibi by spending the night fucking me?"
Anger sparked in her eyes. Her lips parted as
though she were about to refute him. The elevator
came to a stop. The doors opened. Steffi Mundell was
waiting for it.
"Oh," she exclaimed softly when she saw the two
of them together. She sliced her eyes over to Alex,
then back to Hammond. "Uh, I was just coming to get
you. I found it," she said, absently raising her hand to
show him the file she had mistakenly sent him to retrieve.
"Sorry."
"Doesn't matter."
"Excuse me," Alex said, stepping between them so
she could get out.
"Mr. Perkins is already here, Dr. Ladd," Steffi told
her as she moved past.
She acknowledged that information with a dignified
thank-you, then continued down the hallway toward
the secured double doors.
"Where did you two hook up?"
Steffi's question set his teeth on edge, but he tried
not to show it. "She was downstairs waiting on the elevator,"
he lied.
"Oh. Well, I guess everybody's here now, so we
can start."
"Stall them a few minutes longer. I gotta use the
men's room."
Hammond went into the rest room, glad to see that
it wasn't in use. At the sink, he bent from the waist
and splashed cold water onto his face, then braced his
hands on the cool porcelain and hung his head between
his shoulders, letting the water drip from his
face into the basin. He took several deep breaths, releasing
them on a stream of low curses.
He had requested a few minutes, but it was going
to take longer than that to restore himself. Actually he
would probably never be free of the tight band of
guilt squeezing his chest and restricting his breathing.
What was he going to do? This time last week, he
had never even heard of this woman. Now Alex Ladd
was the eye of a maelstrom that threatened to suck
him under and drown him.
He saw no way out. He hadn't committed just one malfeasance; he had compounded it, and he continued
to. If he had come clean when he first saw the
sketch of her, he might have redeemed himself.
"Smilow, Steffi, you are not going to believe this!
I spent the night with this woman Saturday night.
Now you're telling me that she bumped off Lute Pettijohn
before luring me into bed?"
He might have weathered the storm if he had admitted
his culpability early on. After all, when he
took her to his cabin he hadn't known she would later
be implicated in a crime. He had been the innocent
victim of a carefully planned seduction.
He might have been ridiculed for taking a total
stranger to bed. He might have been censured for
being indiscreet. His father would have accused him
of being just plain stupid. Hadn't he taught him better
than to have sexual intercourse with a woman he
didn't know? Hadn't he warned him about the
calamities that could befall a young man at the hands
of a devious female?
It would have been embarrassing for him, his family,
and the solicitor's office. He would have been the
hot topic of gossip and the butt of a thousand lewd
jokes, but he would have survived it.
But the point was moot. He hadn't revealed her
identity, and he hadn't exposed her when she lied
about a nonexistent trip to Hilton Head. He had stood
there, juggling duty and desire, and desire had won.
He had consciously and deliberately withheld information
that could be a key element to a homicide
case, just as he had omitted telling Monroe Mason
about his Saturday afternoon meeting with Pettijohn.
According to any prosecutor's rule book, his conduct
over the last few days was unforgivable.
What was even worse, given the opportunity to rethink
those decisions, he feared he would make the
same wrong choices.
Alex distrusted the polite manner in which
Smilow pulled out a chair for her. He wanted to know
if she was comfortable, if she would like something
to drink.
"Mr. Smilow, please stop treating this like a social
visit. The only reason I'm here is because you requested
it, and I felt it was my civic responsibility to
grant that request."
"Very commendable."
Frank Perkins said, "Let's dispense with the pleasantries
and get on with it, shall we?"
"Fine." Smilow resumed his position of the day
before on the corner of his desk, a distinct and calculated
advantage because it forced Alex to look up at
him.
When the door opened behind her, she knew that
Hammond had come in. His vitality stirred the air in
a particular way. She hadn't fully recovered from
being alone with him again. Those moments in the elevator
had been brief, but their impact was profound.
Her reaction had been physical and apparently noticeable,
because when she joined Frank Perkins, he
had commented on her flushed cheeks and asked if
she was feeling all right. She had blamed the heat
outside. But the weather hadn't caused her blush any
more than it had brought on the tingling in the erogenous
parts of her body.
Those sexual and emotional stirrings were coupled
with the guilt she harbored for unfairly placing Hammond
in such a dilemma. She had deliberately compromised
him.
Initially, she emphasized to her conscience. Only
initially. Then biology had taken over.
And she could feel the tug of it now that he had entered
the room.
She curbed the impulse to turn around and look at
him, afraid that Steffi Mundell might detect that
something was afoot. The prosecutor had seemed
avidly inquisitive when she saw them together in the
elevator. Alex had tried to seem unperturbed as she
alighted, but she'd felt Steffi's stare like a branding
iron between her shoulder blades as she walked down
the hallway. If anyone picked up the signals she and
Hammond inadvertently gave off, it would be Steffi
Mundell. Not only because she came across as being
sharp as a razor, but because, generally speaking,
women were more attuned to romantic frequencies
than men.
Alex was brought back to attention when Smilow
turned on the tape recorder and recited the day and
time along with the names of those present. He then
handed her a laminated newspaper clipping. "I'd like
for you to read this, Dr. Ladd."
Curious, her eyes scanned the short headline. She
had to read no further than that to realize that she had
made a dreadful blunder and that it was going to cost
her dearly.
"Why don't you read it out loud?" Smilow suggested. "I'd like for Mr. Perkins to hear it also."
Knowing the detective was trying to humiliate her,
she kept her voice even and emotionless as she read
the story about the evacuation and shutdown of Harbour
Town on Hilton Head, at the precise time she
had told them she was there taking in the attractions.
When she finished, a long, weighty silence ensued.
Finally, in a very quiet voice, Perkins asked to see
the clipping. She passed it to him, but she kept her
eyes on Smilow, refusing to submit to his accusatory
gaze. "Well?"
"Well, what, Detective?"
"You lied to us, didn't you, Dr. Ladd?"
"You don't have to answer," Frank Perkins told
her.
"Where were you late Saturday afternoon and
evening?"
"Don't answer, Alex," her attorney instructed
again.
"But I would like to, Frank."
"I strongly urge you not to say anything."
"There's no harm in my answering." Heedless of
his advice, she said, "I had planned to go to Hilton
Head, but at the last minute I changed my mind."
"Why?"
"Caprice. I went instead to a fair outside of Beaufort."
"A fair?"
"A carnival, which can be easily checked out, Mr.
Smilow. I'm certain it was advertised. It was a large
event. That's where I went after leaving Charleston."
"Can anyone vouch for that?"
"I doubt it. There were hundreds of people there.
It's unlikely anyone would remember me."
"Sort of like that ice-cream scooper on Hilton
Head."
Smilow didn't seem to appreciate Steffi Mundell's
remark any more than Alex did. They both shot her
an angry look before Smilow continued. "If you saw
advertisements for the fair, you could be making this
up, couldn't you?"
"I suppose I could, but I'm not."
"Why should we believe this when we've already
caught you in one lie?"
"It doesn't make any difference where I was. I've
told you that I didn't even know Lute Pettijohn. I certainly
know nothing about his murder."
"She didn't even know the method by which he
died," Frank Perkins interjected.
"Yes, we all remember your client's stunned reaction
to the fact that Pettijohn was shot."
Alex burned under Smilow's sardonic gaze, but
she maintained her composure. "I left Charleston
with every intention of going to Hilton Head. When I
came upon the fair, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision
to stop there instead."
"If it was so innocent, why did you lie about it?"
First for my own protection. Then to protect Hammond
Cross.
If they wanted the truth, that was it. But Hammond
Cross's obligation for truth-telling was more binding
than hers, and he had maintained his silence. Upset
following her encounter with Bobby last night, she
had lain awake thinking about her predicament.
After torturous deliberation, she had concluded
that if she could keep Bobby at arm's length, she
would be all right. No connection could be made between
her and Pettijohn. As long as Hammond believed
in her innocence, her whereabouts on Saturday
night would remain their secret, because he would
think it irrelevant.
But if ever he was convinced of her guilt, it would
be his obligation as a prosecutor ...
She didn't allow herself to think about that. For
now, she would continue cooperating with Smilow until, she hoped, he gave up on her having any involvement
and redirected his investigation.
"It was silly of me to lie, Mr. Smilow," she said. "I
guess I thought that a trip to Hilton Head sounded
more convincing than a stop-over at a county fair."
"Why did you feel the need to convince us?"
Frank Perkins held up a hand, but Alex said, "Because