face.
Remorsefully he said, "Are you crying because of
that goddamn report? And because of the way I acted
about it? Jesus, Alex, I'm sorry." And he was. For
everything. For the horror of her childhood and adolescence
and his sanctimonious reaction to it. "I
acted like a bastard."
She shook her head. "You saved my life. You
were hurt because of me. If I hadn't been there--"
"Shh." Reaching across his body with his left
hand, he touched her cheek. She clasped his hand
and clutched it to her chest, bending over it and repeatedly
kissing the ridge of knuckles.
"I was so afraid, Hammond." Her lips moved
against his hand. She pressed the back of it to her
cheek, which was moist with tears. "You have been
so hurt because of me. And you will continue to be
hurt."
He struggled to stay awake because this was important.
"Alex ... I love you."
She let go of his hand as though it had burned her.
"What?"
"I love--"
"No, you don't, Hammond," she exclaimed,
softly but adamantly. "Don't say that. You don't
even know me."
"I know you." He closed his eyes for a few precious
seconds of rest and tried to work up the energy
to say what he wanted to say. "I've loved you
from ..." ... from the night I met you. When I saw
you across the dance floor, I knew you immediately.
He thought the words, but wasn't sure whether or
not he actually spoke them out loud. Opening his
eyes and focusing on her face, he smiled sadly.
"Why did it have to be such a fucking mess?"
She licked a tear from the corner of her lips. She
opened her mouth to speak but couldn't find the
words. It must have been as puzzling to her as it was
to him that the first time in his life he was truly in
love, it couldn't be more wrong.
He patted the bed on his left side.
She shook her head no. "I could hurt you."
"Lie down."
Hesitating only a moment longer, she came
around to the far side of the bed and slipped in beside
him. She didn't touch him except for laying her
hand on his chest. "I can't get any closer or I might
bump your leg."
There was more he wanted to say, and much they
needed to talk about, but the drug was taking effect.
Having her close was some consolation. He wanted
to enjoy it. But against his will, he slipped into oblivion.
Some time later he awakened. Partially. Not completely.
He didn't want to awaken completely. He
wasn't in pain. In fact, he was in a sublime state.
Good stuff, those painkillers.
Beside him, Alex stirred. He felt her sit up. "Hammond,
are you awake?"
"Hmm."
"Can I get you anything?"
He mumbled something that she must have taken
as a no because she lay back down. However, a few
moments later he muttered something that even he
couldn't distinguish.
"Pardon?" Her head came back up. At least he
thought so. He still hadn't opened his eyes. "Ham
mond?" Concerned, she placed her hand on his
chest. "Are you in pain? Do you want some water?"
Covering her hand with his, he guided it down beneath
the sheet.
Then he floated backward into a semiconscious
state that was better than the best of dirty dreams. As
in an erotic fantasy, his participation was unnecessary.
All he had to do was give over control and submit
to the sensations. Let it happen. Go with the
flow. Rock adrift on the gentle swells of feeling.
The buildup was deliciously slow. They were on
no timetable, under no deadline. There was no pressure
or recrimination. Dreams were blissfully void
of consequences.
He was aware of her repositioning herself, but a
few preliminary, delicate kisses didn't quite prepare
him for the wet heat that sheathed him. The sensuous
stroking was unlike any other. He held his breath and
let the sensations saturate him. His entire body settled
heavily into the mattress, as into a warm bath,
and soaked in sexual lassitude.
Instinctively he moved his hand. Stretched.
Sought. Found. Softness. Silkiness. Mystery deep.
Center of the universe. Heartbeat of Man. Pathway
to Life.
He had to move his fingers but slightly to elicit
little jumps of excitement. The ball of his thumb was
possessed of an ancient knowledge. Gifted with a
special touch that drew from her soft moans. Not
sounds exactly. Vibrations inside her mouth that
were transmitted back to him.
This living dream, this oblivion, was so sweet, he
didn't leave it, not even after a slow, undulating climax
that left him feeling as though he had dissolved.
On the fringes of his consciousness lurked
something threatening and ugly, but he refused to
acknowledge it. Not now. Not tonight. Tomorrow.
Hammond's tomorrow started three hours later
with an explosive "Jesus Christ!"
THURSDAY
CHAPTER
27
Steffi continued shouting as she bounded up the
stairs. Reaching Hammond's bedroom, she barged in
to find him sitting bolt upright in bed, holding his
head between his hands, and looking like he was
only one heartbeat away from cardiac arrest.
"I thought you'd been murdered. I saw the bloody
towels--"
"Goddammit, Steffi. You nearly gave me a heart
attack."
"You? Myself! Are you all right?"
He glanced anxiously around the room as though
looking for something. "What time is it? What are
you doing here? How'd you get in?"
"I still have a key. Never mind that. What happened
to you?"
"Uh..." He glanced at his bandaged arm as
though seeing it for the first time. "I, uh, got mugged
last night." He motioned toward the bureau. "Get me
a pair of underwear, will you?"
"Mugged? Where?" His boxers were kept in the second drawer from the top. She brought him a pair.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"Your leg is hurt, too?"
"Yeah. Not as bad as the arm." He bent from the
waist and stepped into the shorts, then worked them
up his legs to his thighs. Before standing up, he gave
her a pointed look.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Hammond. I've seen it."
Whisking back the sheet, he stood up and pulled
on the shorts, then reached for a bottle of water on the
nightstand and drained it.
"Are you going to tell me what happened or not?"
"I told you I got--"
"Mugged. I got that part. What about your arm?"
"Slashed. My leg, too."
"My God, you could've been killed. Where were
you?" When he told her, she said, "Well no bloody
wonder. What were you doing in that part of town?"
"Remember Loretta Boothe?"
"The lush?"
He frowned, but nodded. "She's sober, wanting to
do some P.I. work again. She asked me to meet her at
one of her hangouts. On the way back to my car, this
guy jumped me. I resisted. He got slaphappy with his
switchblade. I fought him off long enough to get
away in my car. I drove home and called a doctor. He
stitched my arm."
"Did you notify the police?"
"I didn't want the third degree. Which I'm getting
anyway. From you."
"Why didn't you go to the hospital?"
"Same reason." He hobbled toward the bathroom,
favoring his left leg. "It wasn't that bad."
"Not that bad! Hammond, there's a trash bag of
blood-soaked towels downstairs."
"It looks a whole lot worse than it is. I only needed
two pain pills all night. Do you mind?" She had followed
him into the bathroom.
She went out and he closed the door. Through it,
she hollered, "I've seen you peeing before, too."
Returning to the bed, she sat down where he had
been sitting moments earlier. Along with the now-empty
bottle of spring water and a drinking glass on
the nightstand were a standard-issue cloth sling and
a plastic bottle of pills. It was a pharmaceutical sample;
the doctor's name wasn't on it.
Hammond came out of the bathroom, limped over
to her and nudged her off his bed, then pulled the
duvet up over the sheets.
"When did you get to be so prissy?" she asked.
"When did you get to be so nosy?"
"Don't you think I'm entitled to a little nosiness?
Hammond, the first thing I saw when I came in was
a bagful of bloody towels. Call me sentimental, but it
caused me to wonder if my colleague--not to mention
my former boyfriend, for whom I still have an affectionate
regard--had fallen victim to an ax
murderer."
He raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Who cleans up
after himself?"
"Some of these guys are compulsive. But you're
missing the point."
"No, I'm not, Steffi. You were concerned for my
well-being. If the situation had been reversed, I
would have reacted in a similar fashion. But as you
can see, I am still breathing. Sore, bruised, and battered,
but breathing. I'll feel a lot better after a hot
shower and a few cups of even hotter coffee."
"My cue to leave?"
"Now you're catching on."
She looked at the bandage on his right forearm.
"Who was the doctor?"
"You don't know him. Old college friend. Owed
me a favor."
"What's his name?"
"What difference does it make? You don't know
him."
"Hmm."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Ask."
"Why didn't you want to file a crime report?"
"It wouldn't have been worth the hassle. The mugger
didn't get anything."
"He assaulted you with a deadly weapon."
Looking supremely perturbed and addressing her
as though she were a dimwit, he said, "It wouldn't
have done any good to report it. I couldn't ID the guy.
Honestly I don't even know if he was white or black
or Hispanic, tall or short, thin or fat, hairy or bald. It
was dark. The incident was over in a flash, and all I
really saw was that switchblade coming at me. That's
what made an impression on me, and that's why I got
the hell out of there.
"It would be a waste of time to recount the episode
to the police because all they would do is file the report,
and that would be that. They've got better things
to do, and so do I." With a grimace, he cradled his
right arm in his left. "Now would you please leave so
I can shower and dress?"
"Need any help?"
"Thanks, but I'll manage."
"Why don't you take the day off? I could come by
around noon, fix you some lunch, and tell you what
we learn from this guy."
Hammond opened his drawer of T-shirts. She had
often teased him about his collection of nearly
threadbare T-shirts, which he loved to wear around
the house. He picked the top one from off the stack.
It must have been a real favorite, she thought, because
he smiled and lifted it to his face, breathing it
in. "What guy?"
"I haven't told you!" She slapped her forehead.
"Seeing you like this made me forget what brought
me over. As I was driving to work, Smilow called me
on my cell. There's a guy in our city jail."
His fascination with the T-shirt was lost on her, but
he was still fiddling with it. He remarked absently,
"There are lots of guys in our city jail."
"But only one claims to be Alex Ladd's brother."
Hammond whipped around. His face went chalk-white.
Steffi supposed the sudden blanching was
from pain. Turning so abruptly, he had banged the
elbow of his injured right arm on the corner of the
open drawer. He put his left arm out to stabilize himself.
"I think you're crazy to even consider going into
the office today, Hammond. Look at you. You can
hardly stand up and you're as white as a sheet. Your
arm--"
"Forget my goddamn arm."
"Don't yell at me."
"Then stop mothering me."
"You're hurt."
"I'm fine. What about this guy?"
"His name is Bobby Turnbull. No, that's not it.
Something like that."
"What's he in jail for?"
"Smilow didn't get that far before I cut him off
and came straight here."
"What did he--"
"Hammond, honestly! Talk about third degree. All
I know is that this Trimble--that's it. Bobby Trimble.
He was arrested last night and used his one telephone
call to call Alex Ladd. She wasn't at home. One of the
cops over there at detention was sharp enough to pick
up on the name, knew that she'd been connected to
the Pettijohn murder, and notified Smilow."
Hammond replaced the T-shirt in the drawer, then
slammed it shut. "On second thought, don't leave.
It'll be hard to drive with my arm in a sling, so I'll
hitch a ride with you. Give me five minutes."
While he was getting ready, Steffi went downstairs
to call Smilow and tell him why she was running late.
"Mugged?"
"That's what he says."
After a short pause, Smilow asked, "Do you have