with curiosity-seekers drawn to the new complex by
the emergency vehicles parked along the street.
They moved through the curious onlookers without
drawing notice because neither's appearance denoted
"public official." Smilow's suit was still
unwrinkled, his French cuffs unsoiled. Despite the
hullabaloo surrounding Pettijohn's murder, he hadn't
broken a sweat.
No one would suspect Steffi of being an assistant
county solicitor, either. She was dressed in running
shorts and sports bra, both still damp with perspiration
that even the hotel's air-conditioning system
couldn't dry. Her stiff nipples, along with her lean
and muscled legs, attracted several male passersby,
but she wasn't even aware of their appreciative
glances as she motioned Smilow toward her car,
which was illegally parked in a tow-away zone.
He depressed the keyless entry button but didn't go around to open the passenger door for her. She would
have rebuffed the gesture if he had. She climbed into
the back seat. Smilow got behind the wheel. As he
started the car and waited to pull into traffic, Steffi
asked, "Was that the truth? What you told those cops
as we came out?"
"Which part?"
"Ah, so some of it was bullshit?"
"Not the part about us having no apparent motive,
no weapon, and no suspect at this time." He had told
them to keep their mouths shut when reporters started
showing up asking questions. Already he had called a
press conference for eleven o'clock. By scheduling it
at that time, he ensured the local stations going live
with it during their late newscasts and consequently
maximizing his TV exposure.
Impatient with the endless line of cars crawling
down the thoroughfare, he poked Steffi's car into the
narrow lane and earned a loud horn blast from an oncoming
vehicle.
Showing the same level of impatience that Smilow
exhibited with his driving, Steffi whipped the sports
bra over her head. "Okay, Smilow, no one can overhear
you now. Talk. This is me."
"So I see," he remarked, glancing at her in the
rearview mirror.
Unabashed, she wiped her underarms with a hand
towel she took from her gym bag. "Two parents, nine
children, one bathroom. In our house if you were
timid or prissy, you stayed dirty and constipated."
For someone who disclaimed her blue-collar
roots, Steffi frequently referred to them, usually to
justify her crass behavior.
"Well, hurry and dress. We'll be there in a few minutes. Although you don't even need to be there. I
can do this alone," Smilow said.
"I want to be there."
"All right, but I'd like not to get arrested on the
way, so stay low where no one can see you like that."
"Why, Rory, you're a prude," she said, playing the
coquette.
"And you're bloodthirsty. How'd you smell out a
fresh kill so fast?"
"I was running. When I passed the hotel and saw
all the police cars, I stopped to ask one of the cops
what was going on."
"So much for orders not to talk."
"I have my persuasive ways. Besides, he recognized
me. When he told me, I couldn't believe my
ears."
"Same here."
Steffi put on a conventional bra, then peeled off
her shorts and reached into the bag for a pair of
panties. "Stop changing the subject. What have you
got?"
"About the cleanest crime scene I've had in a long
time. Maybe the cleanest I've ever seen."
"Seriously?" she asked with apparent disappointment.
"Whoever did him knew what he was doing."
"Shot in the back while lying face down on the
floor."
"That's it."
"Hmm."
He glanced at her again. She was buttoning up a
sleeveless dress, but her mind wasn't on the task. She
was staring into near space, and he could practically
see the wheels of her clever brain turning.
Stefanie Mundell had been with the County Solicitor's
Office a little more than two years, but during
her tenure she had made quite an impression--not always
a good one. Some regarded her as a royal bitch,
and she could be. She had a rapacious tongue and
wasn't averse to using it. She never, ever backed
down during an argument, which made her an excellent
trial lawyer and a scourge to defense attorneys,
but it didn't endear her to coworkers.
But at least half the men, and perhaps some of the
women, who worked in and around the police department
and county judicial building had the hots for
her. Fantasy alliances with her were often discussed
in crude detail over drinks after work. Not within her
hearing, of course, because no one wished on himself
a sexual harassment rap filed by Stefanie Mundell.
If she was aware of all the closet lusting for her,
she pretended not to be. Not because it would bother
her or make her uneasy to know that men were applying
the lewdest terms to her. She would simply
look upon it as something too juvenile, silly, and trivial
on which to waste time and energy.
Secretly Rory watched her in the mirror now, as
she buckled a slim leather belt around her waist and
then pushed her hands through her hair as a means of
grooming it. He wasn't physically attracted to her.
Watching her operate didn't spark in him any mad,
carnal desire, only a deep appreciation for her keen
intelligence and the ambition that drove her. These
qualities reminded him of himself.
"That was a very meaningful 'hmm,' Steffi. What
are you thinking?"
"How furious the perp must've been."
"One of my detectives commented on that. It was
a cold-blooded killing. The M.E. thinks Lute might
have been unconscious when he was shot. In any
case, he was posing no threat. The killer merely
wanted him dead."
"If you made up a list of all the people who wanted
Lute Pettijohn dead--"
"We don't have that much paper and ink."
She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. "Right.
So, any guesses?"
"Not now."
"Or you just aren't saying?"
"Steffi, you know I don't bring anything to your
office before I'm ready."
"Just promise me--"
"No promises."
"Promise no one else will get first shot."
"No pun intended."
"You know what I mean," she said crossly.
"Mason will assign the case," he said, referring to
Monroe Mason, Charleston County solicitor. "It'll be
up to you to see that you get it."
But looking at her in the mirror and seeing the fire
in her eyes, he had no doubt that she would make that
a priority. He brought the car to a halt at the curb.
"Here we are."
They alighted in front of Lute Pettijohn's mansion.
Its grandiose exterior, befitting its prestigious South
Battery address, was a layering of architecture. The
original Georgian had given way to Federal touches
following the Revolutionary War. There followed the
addition of Greek Revival columns when they were
the antebellum rage. The imposing structure was later
updated with splashes of Victorian gingerbread. This
patchwork of architecture was typical of the Historic
District, and, ironically, made Charleston all the more
picturesque.
The three-story house had deep double balconies
lined with stately pillars and graceful arches. A
cupola crowned its gabled roof. For two centuries it
had withstood wars, crippling economic lulls, and
hurricane winds, before sustaining the latest assault
on it—Lute Pettijohn.
His well-documented restoration had taken years.
The first architect overseeing the project had resigned
to have a nervous breakdown. The second had suffered
a heart attack; his cardiologist had forced him
to retire from the project. The third had seen the
restoration to completion, but it had cost him his marriage.
From the elaborate ironwork front gate with its
historically registered lantern standards, down to the
reproduction hinges on the back doors, Lute had
spared no expense to make his house the most talked
about in Charleston.
That he had achieved. It wasn't necessarily the
most admired restoration, but it was certainly the
most talked about.
He had battled with the Preservation Society of
Charleston, the Historic Charleston Foundation, and
the Board of Architectural Review over his proposal
to convert the ancient and crumbling warehouse into
what was now the Charles Towne Plaza. These organizations,
whose purpose was to zealously preserve
Charleston's uniqueness, control zoning, and limit
commercial expansion, initially had vetoed his proposal.
He didn't receive permits until all were assured
that the integrity of the building's original brick exterior
would not be drastically altered or compromised,
that its well-earned scars would not be camouflaged,
and that it would never be defaced with marquees or
other contemporary signposts that designated it for
what it was.
The preservation societies had harbored similar
reservations about his house renovation, although
they were pleased that the property, which had fallen
into a sad state of disrepair, had been purchased by
someone with the means to refurbish it in a fashion it
deserved.
Pettijohn had abided by the rigid guidelines because
he had no choice. But the general consensus
was that his redo of the house, particularly the interior,
was a prime example of how vulgar one can be
when he has more money than taste. It was unanimously
agreed, however, that the gardens were not to
be rivaled anywhere in the city.
Smilow noticed how lush and well groomed the
front garden was as he depressed the button on the intercom
panel at the front gate.
Steffi looked over at him. "What are you going to
say to her?"
Waiting for the bell to be answered from inside the
house, he thoughtfully replied, "Congratulations."
CHAPTER 4
but
even rory smilow wasn't that heartless and
cynical.
When Davee Pettijohn gazed down the curving
staircase to the foyer below, the detective was standing
with his hands clasped behind his back, staring either
at his highly polished shoes or at the imported
Italian tile flooring beneath them. In any case, he appeared
totally focused on the area surrounding his
feet.
The last time Davee had seen her husband's former
brother-in-law, they were attending a social function
honoring the police department. Smilow had
been presented an award that night. Following the
ceremony, Lute had sought him out to congratulate
him. Smilow had shaken Lute's hand, but only because
Lute had forced it. He had been civil to them,
but Davee surmised that the detective would rather
rip out Lute's throat with his teeth than shake his
hand.
Rory Smilow appeared as rigidly controlled
tonight as he had been on that last occasion. His bearing
and appearance were military crisp. His hair was
thinning on the crown of his head, but that was noticeable
only because of her bird's-eye view.
The woman with him was a stranger to her. Davee
had a lifetime habit of sizing up any other woman
with whom she came into contact, so she would have
remembered if she had met Smilow's companion.
While Smilow never looked up, the woman
seemed avidly curious. Her head was in constant motion,
swiveling about, taking in all the appointments
of the entryway. She didn't miss a single European
import. Her eyes were quick and predatory. Davee
disliked her on sight.
Nothing short of a catastrophe would have brought
Smilow into Lute's house, but Davee chose to deny
that as long as possible. She drained her highball
glass and, making certain not to rattle the ice cubes,
set it on a console table. Only then did she make her
presence known.
"Y'all wanted to see me?"
Following the sound of her voice, they turned in
unison and spotted her up above on the gallery. She
waited until their eyes were fixed on her before starting
her descent. She was barefoot and slightly disheveled,
but she came down the staircase, her hand
trailing along the railing, as though she were dressed
in a ball gown, the princess of the evening, with humble
subjects adoring her and paying homage. She had
been born into a family at the epicenter of Charleston
society. From both sides, she was of the noblesse
oblige. She never forgot it, and she made certain no
one else did, either.
"Hello, Mrs. Pettijohn."
"We don't have to stand on ceremony, do we,