the death penalty for a woman such as Dr. Ladd."
"It's only a guess." She lowered her eyes as
though relieved that a terrible task was now behind
her.
Covertly she watched her boss tug thoughtfully on
his lower lip. Several moments passed. Her theory,
and the reluctant manner in which she had vocalized
it, had been perfect. She failed to tell him that Hammond
had gone to the crime scene last night. Mason
might regard that as a favorable sign. Steffi wasn't
certain how she regarded it. Ordinarily Hammond let
the detectives do their job without his interference, so
this turnabout struck her as odd. It was something to
think about, but later.
Right now, she was anxious to hear Mason's response
to what she had told him. Saying anything
more would be overkill, so she sat quietly and gave
him plenty of time to cogitate.
"I disagree."
"What?" Her head came up with an almost audible
snap. So confident had she been that she'd successfully
made her point, his disagreement was totally
unexpected.
"Everything you've said about Hammond's upbringing
is correct. The Crosses drilled manners into
that boy. I'm sure those lessons included a code of
behavior toward women--all women--that harkens
back to the days of knights in armor. But his parents,
Preston in particular, also instilled in him an unshakable
sense of responsibility. I believe that would
override the other."
"Then how do you explain this ennui?"
Mason shrugged. "Other cases. A full court calendar.
A toothache. Something in his private life. There
could be any number of reasons for his distraction. But
we're only a few days distant from the murder. The
investigation is still in the preliminary stage. Smilow
admits that he doesn't have enough evidence to make
an arrest." He smiled and his boom returned. "I'm
confident that when Smilow does charge Dr. Ladd-- or whomever--with this crime, Hammond will step to the plate, bat in hand, and if I know the boy, he'll
knock a home run."
Although Steffi felt like gnashing her teeth, she
expelled a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad you see it that
way. I was reluctant to bring this to your attention."
"That's what I'm here for." Clearly dismissing her,
he stood up and retrieved his jacket from a coat tree.
Following him to the door of his office, Steffi
pressed on. There was more he needed to hear. "I was
afraid you would become dissatisfied with Hammond's
performance and assign the case to someone
else. Then I would no longer be working on it, either,
and I would hate that because I'm finding the case
absolutely fascinating. I'm anxious for the police to
give us a suspect. I can't wait to sink my teeth into the
trial preparation."
Amused by her enthusiasm, Mason chuckled.
"Then you'll be happy to hear what Smilow's been
up to this morning."
"My time is almost up--"
A groan of protest went up from the medical students
who had filled the hall to standing-room-only
capacity to hear Alex's lecture.
"Thank you," she said, smiling. "I appreciate your
attention. Before we're forced to dismiss, I want to
comment on how vital it is that the patient suffering
panic attacks not be dismissed as a hypochondriac.
Sadly, that's too often the case. Family members
can--understandably--become intolerant of the patient's
chronic complaints.
"The symptoms are sometimes so bizarre, they
seem ridiculous and are frequently believed to be
imaginary. So, even as the patient is receiving treatment
and learning ways in which to cope with acute
anxiety disorder, his family should also be instructed
on how to deal with this phenomenon.
"Now I really must let you go, or your other instructors
will have my head. Thank you for your attention."
They applauded enthusiastically before they began
filing out. Several came up to speak with her, shake her hand, and tell her how interesting and informative
her talk had been. One even presented her a copy of
an article she had authored and asked her to autograph
it.
Her host didn't come forward until the last student
departed. Dr. Douglas Mann was on the faculty at
Medical University of South Carolina. He and Alex
had met in med school and had been friends ever
since. He was tall and lanky, as bald as a billiard ball,
an excellent basketball player, and a confirmed bachelor
for reasons he had never shared with Alex.
"Maybe I should charter a fan club," he remarked
as he joined her.
"I'm just relieved I held their attention."
"Are you kidding? They were hanging on to every
word. You've made me the hero of the hour," he told
her with a broad smile. "I love having famous
friends."
She laughed at what she considered to be a misplaced
compliment. "They were easy. A good audience.
Were we that bright when we were their age?"
"Who knew? We were stoned."
"You were stoned."
"Oh, yeah." He shrugged bony shoulders. "That's
right, you were no fun. All work, no play."
"Excuse me. Dr. Ladd?"
Alex turned to find herself face-to-face with
Bobby Trimble. Her heart lurched.
Reaching for her hand, he pumped it enthusiastically.
"Dr. Robert Trimble. Montgomery, Alabama.
I'm on vacation here in Charleston, but I saw a notice
about your lecture this morning and just had to come
and meet you."
Doug, unaware of her discomfiture, introduced
himself and shook Bobby's hand. "Colleagues are always
welcome at our lectures."
"Thanks." Back to Alex, Bobby said, "Your studies
on anxiety have been of particular interest to me.
I'm curious as to what made you focus on that particular
syndrome. Something in your own experience,
perhaps?" He winked. "Afraid past sins will
catch up with you?"
"You'll have to excuse me, Dr. Trimble," she said
frostily. "I have patients scheduled."
"I apologize for detaining you. It's been a plea
sure."
Turning abruptly, she headed for the exit. Doug
mumbled a hasty goodbye to Bobby, then rushed to
catch up with her. "One ardent fan too many, huh?
Are you all right?"
"Of course," she replied brightly. But she wasn't
all right. She was anything but all right. Bobby's unexpected
appearance was his way of letting her know
that he could intrude at any time. Easily. There wasn't
an area of her life that he couldn't penetrate if he
wanted to.
"Alex?" Doug asked if she would join him for a
late breakfast. "By way of thanks, the least I can do
is buy you a plate of shrimp and grits."
"That sounds delicious, Doug, but I have to pass."
She couldn't have swallowed a bite of food if her life
depended on it. Seeing Bobby in what she had considered
a safe realm had left her terribly shaken and
upset, as was most certainly his intention. "I've got a
patient scheduled in fifteen minutes. I'll barely get
there in time as it is."
"We're on our way."
Doug had insisted on picking her up that morning
and driving her to the MUSC Medical Center because
parking spaces near the sprawling complex
were scarce. On the way downtown, he thanked her
again.
"No need. I enjoyed it." Until Bobby ruined it, she
thought.
"Anytime I can return a favor, I owe you one," he
said earnestly.
"I'll remember that."
Trying to hide her agitation, she kept the conversation
light. They exchanged gossip about friends
and colleagues they had in common. She inquired
about the AIDS research paper he was working on.
He asked if anything new and exciting was going on
in her life.
If she told him, he wouldn't believe her. Or maybe
he would, she amended when they turned onto her
street.
"What the hell?" Doug exclaimed. "You must've
had a burglary."
She knew instantly, with a sinking sense of dread,
that the police car parked in front of her house had
nothing to do with a burglary. Two uniformed policemen
were flanking her front door like sentinels. A
plainclothesman was peering into the front windows.
Smilow was talking with her patient, who apparently
had arrived early for her appointment.
Doug pulled his car to a stop and was about to get
out when Alex forestalled him. "Don't get involved
in this, Doug."
"Involved in what? What the hell's going on?"
"I'll fill you in later."
"But--"
"Please. I'll call you."
She squeezed his arm, then got out and hastily
went through her gate and up her walkway, noting as
she went that the scene being played out at her front
door had attracted the attention of several passersby.
A tourist was taking photographs of her house, which
was nothing out of the ordinary. The street was featured
on all the walking tours. While similar in design,
each house on her block boasted at least one
distinctive feature of historical significance. This
morning, her house was set apart from the others by
the police car parked in front.
"Dr. Ladd!" Her patient rushed forward. "What's
going on? I got here just as these policemen arrived."
Alex glared at Smilow over the shoulder of the
woman in distress. "I'm terribly sorry, Evelyn, but
I'll have to reschedule your appointment."
Placing her arm around the woman's shoulders,
she turned her about and walked her to her car. It took
several minutes for Alex to reassure her that everything
was all right and that her appointment would be
rescheduled for the earliest possible time.
"Are you okay?" Alex asked kindly.
"Are you, Dr. Ladd?"
"I'm fine. I promise. I'll call you later today. Don't
worry."
Not until she drove away did Alex turn back. This
time, as she strode up her walkway, she had Smilow
in her sights.
"What the hell are you doing here? I had a patient
and--"
"And I have a search warrant."
He produced the document from the breast pocket
of his suit jacket.
Alex looked toward the three other officers loitering
on her porch before her eyes swung back to
Smilow. "I see my last patient at three o'clock. Can
this wait until after that session?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I'm calling Frank Perkins."
"Be my guest. But we don't need his permission to
come inside. We don't even need yours."
Without further ado, he motioned his men forward.
Perhaps the thing Alex found most offensive was
the plastic gloves they pulled on before entering her
home, as though it and she were contaminants that
needed to be guarded against.
First she cried.
Waking up and finding herself in the worst nightmare
a single woman can fathom--at least a single
middle school teacher from suburban Indianapolis-- Ellen Rogers sat up in bed, clutched the sheet to her
throat, and sobbed her heart out.
Hungover. Naked. Violated. Abandoned.
Reliving the events of last night, it first had
seemed that she had dropped into one of her own fantasies,
in which a good-looking stranger had chosen
her over the younger, prettier, thinner girls in the
nightclub. He had made the initial move. He had chosen
her to dance with and buy drinks for. The attraction
had been instantaneous and mutual, just as she
had always imagined it would be when "it" finally
happened to her.
Furthermore, he wasn't vapid and shallow. He had
a story. His was a tale of love and loss that had
wrenched her heart. He had loved his wife to distraction.
When she became ill, he had dedicated himself
to her care until she finally succumbed. Despite the
hardship it had imposed on him and his business, he
had done all the cooking and cleaning and laundry.
He had performed personal tasks for his wife, even
the most unpleasant ones. On the rare occasions that
she was able to go out, he had applied her makeup.
Such sacrifice! That was what love was all about.
This was a man worth knowing. This was a man worthy of all the love Ellen had been storing up for years
and wished desperately to share.
I He had also been a fantastic lover.
Even with her experience being limited to an older
male cousin who had once forced a French kiss on
her, a sweetheart who had talked of love through two
awkward couplings in his car before jilting her, and a
married teacher with whom she had carried on an ex citing but unconsummated flirtation until he was
transferred to another school, she had recognized that
Eddie--that was his name--was exceptional in bed.
He had done things to her that she had only read
about in the novels she collected in labeled boxes in : her basement. He had exhausted her with his passion.