reason to doubt him?"
"Not really. It's just..." She stared thoughtfully at
the doorway of the powder room, now blocked by a
Hefty bag stuffed with blood-soaked towels. "It just
seems uncharacteristic for our Mr. Crime and Punishment
to dismiss an assault with a switchblade. He
tried to minimize his injuries, but he looks like he
went fifteen rounds with a grizzly."
"Maybe he's just embarrassed for being so careless."
"Maybe. Anyway, we'll be there in fifteen minutes."
She didn't tell him about Hammond's lame excuse
for not going to a hospital for treatment. The "old college
friend" doctor was a transparent lie. Hammond
had never been good at lying. He should take lying
lessons from Alex Ladd. He seemed to admire that
lady's penchant for--
Steffi's mind slammed on the brakes.
Staring into near space, her eyes unfocused, her
head was assailed by unthinkable thoughts that
whizzed through her consciousness with the speed of
light. Holding those thoughts was like trying to catch
comets.
Hammond came clumping down the stairs.
She joined him at the front door, but not before
snatching one of the bloody hand towels from the
trash bag and stuffing it into her satchel.
* * *
Bobby Trimble was scared spitless. But he would
be damned before he let them see his fear. Fucking
cops.
He owed his present situation to a dowdy, overweight,
old-maid schoolteacher. It was an insult to his
pride that such a pushover could bring about his
downfall. She'd been no challenge at all. Her seduction
had been boring and routine. He had struggled to
stay awake through it. It had been all he could do to
keep from dozing off.
Who would have guessed that the frump would
turn out to be a femme fatale in the strictest sense?
Last night he had been well on his way to scoring
big time with a widow lady from Denver who had diamonds
as big as headlights in her ears and on both
hands. They would have financed a luxurious
lifestyle for a long time. Immediately she had revealed
a raunchy sense of humor and spirit of adventure,
so that's what he had appealed to. With his hand
up her skirt, he had been describing to her the hard-on
she'd given him, sparing no anatomical details,
when two cops grabbed him under the arms and
hauled him out of the nightclub.
Outside, they had spread-eagled him against the
hood of the squad car, frisked him and cuffed him
like he was a common criminal, and read him his
rights. Out the corner of his eye, he had spotted the
Indiana schoolmarm standing nearby clutching a pair
of patent leather shoes in one hand.
"Damn bitch," he muttered now, just as the door
swung open.
"What's that, Bobby? Did you say something?"
The guy looked vaguely familiar, although Bobby
couldn't place him. He wasn't tall, but he gave off
that impression as he strode into the room. He was
wearing a three-piece suit, which Bobby recognized
as quality goods. His cologne smelled pricey, too.
He shook hands with Bobby's pro bono lawyer, a
guy named "Heinz, like the ketchup," who looked
like a loser, and whose advice to Bobby so far had
been to keep his trap shut until they knew what was
going on. He then had sat down at the end of the
small table and politely covered his yawns behind his
hand. However, the man who'd just come in had
made him sit up and look sharp.
Taking the chair across from Bobby, he introduced
himself as Detective Rory Smilow. Bobby didn't
trust his smile any further than he could have thrown
the suave son of a bitch. He said, "I'm here to make
your life a whole lot easier, Bobby."
Bobby didn't trust the promise, either. "Is that a
fact? If so, you can start by hearing my side of this
story. That bitch is lying."
"You didn't rape her?"
Bobby's facial features went slack. In contrast, his
sphincter tightened. "Rape?"
"Mr. Smilow, my client and I were under the impression
that this was a purse-snatching offense. Miss
Rogers's complaint doesn't mention rape," Heinz
nervously pointed out.
"She's talking it over with a policewoman,"
Smilow explained. "She was too embarrassed to dis-
cuss the details of the offense with the arresting male
officers."
"If she's alleging rape, then I need to consult further
with my client."
Bobby, having recovered from the initial shock,
looked at his attorney with scorn. "There's nothing to
consult about. I didn't rape her. Everything we did
was consensual."
Smilow opened a folder and skimmed the written
report. "You picked her up in a nightclub. According
to Miss Rogers, you plied her with liquor and intentionally
got her intoxicated."
"We had a few drinks. And, yes, she was tipsy. But
I never forced alcohol on her."
"You accompanied her back to her hotel room and
had sex with her." He glanced up at Bobby. "Is that
true?"
Bobby couldn't resist meeting the silent challenge
of the other man's eyes. "Yes, it's true. And she loved
every minute of it."
Heinz cleared his throat uneasily. "Mr. Trimble,
I'm advising you not to say anything more. Anything
you say can be used against you. Remember that."
"Do you think I'm going to let some dumpy broad
accuse me of rape and not defend myself?"
"That's what a trial is for."
"Fuck a trial. And fuck you." Bobby turned back to
Smilow. "She's lying through those buck teeth of hers."
"You didn't have sex with her while she was under
the influence?"
"Of course I did. With encouragement from her."
Looking pained, Smilow sighed and rubbed his
eyebrow. "I believe you, Mr. Trimble. I do. But from
a legal standpoint you're walking a high wire. The
laws have changed. Definitions have been sharpened
to a fine point. Because of increased public awareness
on the mistreatment of rape victims, prosecutors
and judges take a hard line. They don't want to be
held responsible for releasing a rapist--"
"I've never had to rape a woman," Bobby exclaimed.
"Just the opposite, in fact."
"I understand," Smilow returned calmly. "But if
Miss Rogers alleges that she was mentally incapacitated
by the alcohol which you urged her to drink,
then technically and legally, in the hands of a good
D.A., a case could be made for rape."
Bobby folded his arms across his chest, partially
because it was a nonchalant pose, but mostly because
he was on the brink of panic. When he was eighteen,
he'd been sentenced to goddamn prison. He hadn't
liked it. Not one freaking bit. He had vowed that he
would never go again. Afraid that his voice would
give away his fear, he said nothing.
Smilow continued. "You were in possession of
drugs when you were arrested."
"A few joints. I didn't give what's-her-name any."
Smilow looked hard at him. "No?"
"I wouldn't have wasted good smoke on her. She
was too easy."
"Nevertheless, you still have a problem. Who do
you think a jury would believe? A simple, sweet-looking
lady like her? Or a worldly stud like you?"
While Bobby was composing a suitable answer,
the door opened and a woman came in. She was petite,
with short dark hair and bright, black eyes. Good
legs. Small pointed tits. But a ball-breaker if Bobby
had ever seen one.
She said, "I hope the slime-bucket hasn't confessed."
Smilow introduced her as Stefanie Mundell from
the County Solicitor's Office. Heinz had gone a little
green around the gills and was swallowing convulsively.
It wasn't a good sign that his own lawyer
was quaking at the sight of this bitch and looked
ready to heave.
Smilow offered her a chair, but she said she preferred
to stand. "I won't be here that long. I just
wanted to make Mr. Trimble aware that rape cases
are my specialty, and that I advocate castration for
first-time offenders. And not the chemical kind, either."
Placing her palms down on the table, she
leaned over it until she was nose to nose with him.
"For what you did to poor Ellen Rogers, I can't wait
to get your balls on the chopping block."
"I didn't rape her."
His sincere denial didn't faze Ms. Mundell, who
smirked at him and said, "See you in court, Bobby."
Turning on her high heels, she went out, slamming
the door behind her.
Smilow was massaging his jaw and shaking his
head sorrowfully. "I feel for you, Bobby. If Steffi
Mundell is prosecuting, I'm afraid you're in for a
world of hurt."
"Maybe Mr. Trimble would consider pleading
guilty to a lesser charge."
Bobby glared at Heinz, who had tentatively offered
the suggestion. "Who asked you? I'm not
pleading guilty to anything, understand?"
"But stealing--"
"Gentlemen," Smilow said, interrupting. "It has
just occurred to me that since Ms. Mundell is involved,
there might be a way around this."
With affected calmness, Bobby asked, "What's on
your mind?"
"She's prosecuting the Pettijohn murder case."
Red alert!
Suddenly he remembered where he had seen
Smilow before. On TV the night following Pettijohn's
murder. He was the homicide detective in
charge of the investigation. Bobby leaned back in his
chair and tried to pretend that he wasn't suddenly
sweating like a cracker in a cornfield. "Pettijohn murder
case?"
Smilow gave him a long, hard, withering stare.
Then he sighed and closed the folder. "I thought we
might be able to help each other, Bobby. But if you're
going to play dumb, you leave me no choice but to let
Ms. Mundell have at you."
He scraped back his chair and left the room without
another word, closing the door firmly behind him.
Bobby looked over at Heinz-like-the-ketchup and
raised his shoulders. "What did I do?"
"You tried to mind-fuck Rory Smilow. Bad idea."
CHAPTER
28
For half an hour Smilow and Steffi had been patting
one another on the back for the excellent job
they'd done of manipulating Bobby Trimble. Their
self-congratulations were almost more than Hammond
could stomach.
"I gave him over an hour to think about it,"
Smilow told him for what must have been at least the
tenth time.
"So you've said."
"As soon as we walked back into the room," Steffi
chimed in, "he started talking."
"You must've played the bad cop very well."
"If I do say so myself," she boasted. "Bobby was
convinced that he was facing a rape charge."
Ellen Rogers had never alleged rape. On the contrary,
she had acknowledged her own culpability for
the theft of her credit cards and money. She had
wanted only to see Bobby Trimble captured and put
out of commission, sparing other women a similar
humiliating experience.
She had made arrangements to return to Indianapolis
immediately, although she made it clear she
was willing to testify against Trimble in court if the
case came to trial. She left the city, never knowing the
gift she had handed the Charleston Police Department.
"I can't wait to see the expression on Alex Ladd's
face when she hears this tape recording. Hammond,
you won't believe it," Steffi enthused. "You asked for
motive and, brother, did you get it. In spades."
He breathed through his mouth to stave off nausea.
It had been threatening since he was informed that
Alex's half-brother was in police custody. Steffi and
Smilow were so proud of their goddamn tape recording.
They were salivating in anticipation of his hearing
it, when he already knew the substance of it. He'd
heard the incriminating story from Loretta Boothe
last night.
The raw facts alone painted an unflattering picture
of Alex. By the time Bobby Trimble had embellished
the story to suit his own purposes, it would be a character
assassination. As Steffi had noted, it provided
the motivation the case had lacked. In spades.
Hammond had hoped that Smilow's investigators
wouldn't be as resourceful or as diligent as Loretta,
and that he could continue stalling the case indefinitely
until he determined the nature of Alex's connection
to Pettijohn and explained to her about his
own meeting with Lute.
He was going to suggest that they both come clean
with Smilow. He should have told the detective about
his meeting with Pettijohn immediately. But it had
been a delicate issue, one he had hoped to avoid anyone
knowing about. He was also going to advise Alex
to inform Smilow of her past, before he had a chance
to uncover it himself and jump to his own conclusions