his superior's office, scrolling through his personal
finance files and sipping from his secreted bottle of
brandy.
The little man had been mortified to be caught red-handed
doing the very thing he vowed never to do for
someone else. Barely able to contain her laughter,
Loretta had assured him that she had no intention of
tattling and had wished him good luck on his treasure
hunt.
The next time she approached him needing a
favor, Harvey didn't hesitate to grant it. From that
night on, whenever she needed information, she went
to Harvey. He never failed to produce. She had been
tapping that valuable resource ever since.
"I know I can count on you, Harvey."
"I'm making no promises," he said prissily.
"You're no longer with the police department. That
changes things significantly."
"This is very important." She scooted forward on
her bench and whispered confidentially, "I'm working
on the Pettijohn murder case."
He gaped at her, absently thanked the bartender
who delivered his drink to the table, and took a quick
sip. "You don't say?"
"It's very hush-hush. You can't breathe a word of
this to a single soul."
"You know you have my confidence," he whispered
back. "Who've you working for?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"They haven't made an arrest yet, have they? Are
they close to making one?"
"I'm sorry, Harvey. I can't discuss it. It would violate
my client's confidence if I did."
"I understand the necessity for confidentiality, I
do."
He wasn't all that disappointed. The intrigue kindled
his unappeased sense of adventure. Being let in
on a secret, to any extent, gave him a place in an inner
circle when he was excluded from most. It twinged
Loretta's conscience a little to manipulate him this
way, but she was willing to do just about anything to
please Hammond and make up for her past mistake.
"What I need is everything you can unearth on a
Dr. Alex Ladd. Middle initial E. I also have her Social
Security number, driver's license number, and so
on. She's a psychologist who practices here in
Charleston."
"A shrink? Is that her connection to Pettijohn?"
"I can't tell you."
"Loretta," he whined.
"Because I don't know. I swear. So far all I've got
on her is the run-of-the-mill stuff. Income tax returns,
banking records, credit cards. Nothing out of joint on
any of them. She owns her home, has no major debts.
No one's suing her. She hasn't even had a traffic
ticket. Her university and postgrad transcripts are impressive.
She was an excellent student and had offers
to join several existing practices. However, she opted
to set up her own."
"Just starting out? She must come from money."
"She inherited a wad from her adoptive parents,
one Dr. Marion Ladd, a general practitioner in
Nashville. Wife Cynthia, a teacher turned homemaker.
They had no other children. They were killed
several years ago in a commuter plane crash during a
skiing trip in Utah."
"Was foul play suspected?"
Loretta hid her smile behind a sip of her club soda.
Harvey was getting into the spirit of the project.
"No."
"Hmm. It sounds to me as though you have quite
a lot already."
Loretta shook her head. "I know nothing about her
early life. She wasn't adopted until she was fifteen."
"That old?"
"Oddly, that's when it seems her life began. The
circumstances of her adoption and her life prior to it
are a black hole. It's giving up no information, and
I've had no luck trying to penetrate it."
"Huh," Harvey said, taking another quick slurp of
his drink.
"She attended a private high school. The people I
talked to there--and I worked my way up the chain
of command--were nice and polite but tightlipped.
They wouldn't even commit to sending me a yearbook
of her graduating year. Very into protecting the
Ladds' privacy and wouldn't talk about them at all.
"According to everything I read about them, they
were highly respected and above reproach. Cynthia
Ladd was awarded Teacher of the Year before she left
the profession. Dr. Ladd's patients mourned him
when he died. He was a church deacon. She...
Never mind, you get the idea. No scandal or even
close to one."
"So what can I do?"
"Get into the juvenile records."
Again he groaned theatrically. "I was afraid you
were going to say that."
"There's probably nothing there. I just want you to
take a look."
"Just looking could get me fired. You know how GPS is," he whined. "They guard those records like
they're holy relics. They're not to be tampered with."
"Not by anyone less than a genius who won't get
caught. I need them from Tennessee, too."
"Forget it!"
"I know you can do it," she said, reaching across
the table to pat his hand.
"If Child Protection finds out what I was doing, I
could get into a lot of trouble."
"I have every confidence in you, Harvey."
He was viciously gnawing his lip, but she could
see that he was enticed by the challenge it presented.
"I'll agree to try, that's all. I'll try. Also, something
this delicate can't be rushed."
"I understand. Take your time. But hurry." She
downed her club soda and belched softly. "And Harvey,
while you're at it..."
He grimaced. "Uh-oh."
"I want you to check on something else for me."
"It's Smilow."
"You'll have to speak up," Steffi told him. "I'm on
my cell."
"So am I. A guy at SLED just called."
"Good news?"
"For everybody except Dr. Ladd."
"What? What? Tell me."
"Remember the unidentified particle John Madison
took off Pettijohn?"
"You told me about it."
"Clove."
"The spice?"
"When did you last see a spike of clove?"
"Easter. On my mother's ham."
"I saw some yesterday morning when I went to
Alex Ladd's house. There was a cut-glass bowl of
fresh oranges on her entry table. They were spiked
with cloves."
"We've got her!"
"Not yet, but we're getting closer."
"What about the hair?"
"Human, not Pettijohn's. But we don't have one to
compare it to."
"Not yet."
He chuckled. "Sleep tight, Steffi."
"Wait, are you going to call Hammond with this
update?"
"Are you?"
After a pause, she said, "See you tomorrow."
Hammond seriously considered not answering the
telephone. He changed his mind seconds before the
machine kicked in. Immediately he regretted it.
"I was beginning to think you weren't going to an
swer." His father's tone of voice turned the simple
statement into a reprimand.
"I was in the shower," Hammond lied. "What's
up?"
"I'm in my car on my way back home. I just
dropped your mother off at her bridge game. I didn't
want her driving in this rain."
His parents had an old-fashioned marriage. The
roles were traditional, clearly defined, and the lines
never blurred. His father made all the major decisions
independently; it would never have occurred to
Amelia Cross to challenge that arrangement. Hammond
couldn't understand her blind devotion to an
archaic system that robbed her of individuality, but
she seemed perfectly content with it. He would never
enflame his father or hurt his mother by pointing out
the inequities of their relationship. Besides, his opinion
of it didn't matter. It had worked for them for
more than forty years.
"How are things going with the Pettijohn case?"
"Fine," Hammond replied.
Preston chuckled. "Could you elaborate a little?"
"Why?"
"I'm curious. I played nine holes with your boss
this afternoon before it started raining. He said
Smilow has questioned a female suspect twice, and
that you were present both times."
His father was more than idly curious. He wanted
to know if his son was performing competently. "I'd
rather not discuss it over a cell phone."
"Don't be silly. I want to know what's going on."
Trying to keep from sounding too defensive, Hammond
gave him the highlights of Alex's interrogation.
"Her lawyer—"
"Frank Perkins. Good man."
Preston was well apprised of the details. Hammond
knew he wasn't violating any confidentiality
because it had already been violated. Preston's
friendship with Monroe Mason dated back to prep
school days. If they had played nine holes of golf
today, Mason would have already divulged the details,
and there would be little left for Hammond to
disclose.
"Perkins thinks we've got nothing on her."
"What do you think?"
Hammond chose his words carefully, not knowing
when something he said would come back to haunt—
or trap—him. Unlike Alex, he wasn't an accomplished
liar. It wasn't his habit to lie, and he disdained
even the slightest fib. Yet he already had two whoppers
of omission to his credit. He discovered he could
lie to his father with relative ease.
"She's been caught in a couple of lies, but in
Frank's able hands, they would probably be disregarded."
"Why?"
"Because of our side's failure to produce hard evidence
linking her to the crime."
"Mason says she lied about where she was that
night."
"Mason didn't leave anything out, did he?" Hammond
said under his breath.
"What's that?"
"Nothing."
"Why would she lie if she doesn't have something
to hide?"
Feeling cavalier and ornery, Hammond said,
"Maybe she had a secret rendezvous that night, and
she's lying to protect the man she was with."
"Maybe. In any event she's lied, and Smilow is
{ right on top of it. I know you don't like him, but
you've got to admit that he's an excellent detective."
"I can't argue that."
"He's got a law degree, you know."
Hammond recognized that as one of those statements
that his father threw out like a quick jab to the
face. It was intended to distract you from the right uppercut
that was coming.
"I hope he never decides to move from the police
department over to the solicitor's office. You might
find yourself out of a job, son."
Hammond ground his teeth to keep from saying
the two words that flashed through his mind.
"I told your mother--"
"You discussed the case with Mom?"
"Why not?"
"Because ... because it's unfair."
"To whom?"
"To everybody concerned. The police, my office,
the suspect. What if this woman is innocent, Dad?
Her reputation will have been trampled for nothing."
"Why are you so upset, Hammond?"
"I hope Mom doesn't regale her bridge club with
all the juicy details of the case."
"You're overreacting."
Maybe he was, but the longer this telephone conversation
got, the more it was pissing him off. Mostly
because he didn't want his father monitoring him
through every step of this case. A murder trial of this
magnitude consumed a lawyer's life. Hours stretched
into days, and days into weeks, sometimes months.
He could handle it. He would relish handling it. But
he wouldn't welcome being critiqued at the end of
each day. That could become demoralizing and cause
him to start second-guessing every strategy.
"Dad, I know what I'm doing."
"No one ever questioned--"
"Bullshit. You bring my ability into question every
time you consult with Mason and ask him for a report.
If he weren't pleased with the work I've done,
he wouldn't have assigned me to this case. He certainly
wouldn't be touting me as his successor."
"Everything you've said is true," Preston said with
maddening control. "All the more reason for me to be
worried that you'll blow it."
"Why would you think I might blow it?"
"I understand the suspect is a beautiful woman."
Hammond hadn't seen that one coming. If it had
been an actual uppercut, it would have been a knockout
and he would be on the mat. He reeled from the
impact. One hundred percent of the time, his father
seemed to know where to strike him where he would
feel it the most.
"That's the most insulting thing you've ever said
to me."
"Listen, Hammond, I'm--"
"No, you listen. I will do my job. If this case warrants
the death penalty, that's what I'll ask for."
"Will you?"
"Absolutely. Just as I'll indict you if my investigation
warrants it."
After a slight pause, Preston said softly, "Don't
bluff me, Hammond."
"Call it, Dad. See if I'm bluffing."
"Then do it. Just be sure to examine your motives