It would have been a production. That was more her
style.
Relying on his powers of concentration and cognitive
skills, he arranged and absorbed all the data the
case file contained. To that information, he added
facts that he knew but of which Smilow was unaware:
1. Hammond himself had been with Lute Petti-john
shortly prior to his murder.
2. The handwritten note Davee had given him indicated
that Hammond wasn't the only visitor Lute
had scheduled last Saturday afternoon.
3. Lute Pettijohn was under covert investigation by the Attorney General's Office.
Alone, none of these facts seemed relevant. Together,
however, they piqued his curiosity as a prosecutor
and prompted him to ask questions . . . and for
reasons beyond his wanting Alex to be innocent.
Even had he not been emotionally involved with her,
he never wanted to wrongfully convict an innocent
person. No matter who the prime suspect was, these
questions warranted further investigation.
In his mind, applying these undisclosed facts, he
replayed each conversation he had had about the case. With Smilow, Steffi, his father, Monroe Mason,
Loretta. He removed Alex from the equation and pretended
that she didn't exist, that the suspect remained
a mystery. That allowed him to listen to every question,
declaration, and offhand remark with a new ear.
Oddly enough, it was one of his own statements
that snagged him, yanking him from this lazy stream
of consciousness. "Your garden-variety bullets from
your garden-variety pistol. There are hundreds of
.38s in this city alone. Even in your own evidence
warehouse, Smilow."
Suddenly he was imbued with renewed energy and
a fierce determination to justify his own irrational behavior
over the last few days. Everything--his career,
his life, his own peace of mind--hinged on
exonerating Alex and proving himself right.
He glanced at his desk clock. If he hurried, he
might have time to begin his own investigation this
afternoon. Hastily gathering up the case file and
stuffing it into his briefcase, he left his office. He
had just cleared the main entrance of the building
and stepped into the blast-furnace heat when he
heard his name.
"Hammond."
Only one voice was that imperative. Inwardly
Hammond groaned as he turned. "Hello, Dad."
"Can we go back into your office and talk?"
"As you see, I'm on my way out, and I'm in somewhat
of a hurry to get downtown before the end of the
business day. The Pettijohn case goes to the grand
jury on Thursday."
"That's what I want to talk to you about."
Preston Cross never took no for an answer. He
steered Hammond toward a sliver of shade against
the building's flat facade. "What happened to your
arm?"
"Too much to explain now," he replied impatiently.
"What's so urgent it can't wait?"
"Monroe Mason called me from his cell phone on
his way to the gym this afternoon. He's deeply troubled."
"What's the problem?"
"I dread even to think about the consequences if
Monroe's speculation is correct."
"Speculation?"
"That you have developed an improper regard for
that Dr. Ladd."
That Dr. Ladd. Whenever his father spoke disparagingly
of someone, he always placed the generic
pronoun in front of their name. The depersonalization
was his subtle way of expressing his low opinion of
the individual.
Stalling, Hammond said, "You know, it's really
beginning to piss me off that every time Mason has a
beef with me, he calls you. Why doesn't he come to
me directly?"
"Because he's an old friend. If he sees my son
about to piss away his future, he respects me enough
to warn me of it. I'm sure he hoped that I would intervene."
"Which you're all too glad to do."
"You're goddamn right I am!"
His father's face had turned red up to the roots of
his white hair. There was spittle in the corner of his
lips. He rarely lost his temper and considered emotional
outbursts of any sort a weakness reserved for
women and children. Removing a handkerchief from
his back pants pocket, he blotted his perspiring forehead
with the neat white square of Irish linen. More
calmly he said, "Assure me that Monroe's notion is
totally groundless."
"Where did he get the idea?"
"Firstly, from your lackadaisical approach to this
case."
"I'd hardly call it that. I've been working my butt
off. Granted, I've exercised caution--"
"To a fault."
"In your opinion."
"And Mason's, too, apparently."
"Then it's up to him to chew my ass, not you."
"From the outset you've been dragging your heels.
Your mentor and I would like to know why. Is it the
suspect that's made you gun-shy? Have you developed
a fondness for this woman?"
Hammond's eyes stayed fixed on his father's, but
he remained stubbornly silent.
Preston Cross's features turned rigid with fury.
"Jesus Christ, Hammond. I can't believe it. Are you
insane?"
"No."
"A woman! You would sacrifice all your ambitions
--"
"Don't you mean all your ambitions?"
"--on a woman? After getting this far, how could
you behave in such a--"
"Behave?" Hammond barked a scornful laugh.
"You've got your nerve, confronting me about a behavior
issue. What about your behavior, Father?
What kind of moral measuring stick did you set as
my example? Maybe I've readjusted mine to match
yours. Although I would definitely draw the line at
cross-burnings."
His father blinked rapidly, and Hammond knew he
had struck a chord.
"Are you Klan?"
"No! Hell, no."
"But you knew about all that, didn't you? You
knew damn well what was happening on Speckle Island.
Furthermore, you sanctioned it."
"I got out."
"Not entirely. Lute did. He got himself murdered,
so he's off the hook. But you're still vulnerable.
You're getting careless, Dad. Your name is on those
documents."
"I've already made reparation for what happened
on Speckle Island."
Ah, his famous quick jab/uppercut. As usual,
Hammond hadn't seen it coming.
"I went to Speckle Island yesterday," Preston told
him calmly. "I met with the victims of Lute's appalling
terrorism, explained to them that I was mortified
when I learned what he was doing, and that I
separated myself from the partnership immediately. I
gave each family a thousand dollars to cover any
damage done to their property and, along with my
heartfelt apology, made a substantial contribution to
their community church. I also established a scholarship
fund for their school." He paused and gave
Hammond a sympathetic smile. "Now, in light of this
philanthropic gesture, do you really think a criminal
case could be made against me? Try it, son, and see
how abysmally you fail."
Hammond felt dizzy and nauseated, and it wasn't
attributable to the heat or to his injuries. "You bought
them off."
Again that beatific smile. "With money taken out
of petty cash."
Hammond couldn't remember a time when he
wanted to hit someone more. He wanted to grind his
fist against his father's lips until they were bruised
and bleeding, until they could no longer form that
condescending smirk. Curbing the impulse, he lowered
his voice and moved his face close to his
father's.
"Don't be smug, Father. It's going to cost you
more than some petty cash to make this go away.
You're not off the hook yet. You are one corrupt son
of a bitch. You define corruption. So do not come to
me with lectures about behavior. Ever again." Having
said that, he turned and headed for the parking
lot.
Preston grabbed his left arm and roughly pulled
him around. "You know, I actually hope it comes to
light. You and this gal. I hope somebody has got
pictures of you between her legs. I hope they publish
them in the newspaper and show them on TV.
I'm glad you're in this fix. It would serve you right,
you goddamn little hypocrite. You and your self-righteous,
do-gooding, Boy-Scouting attitude have
sickened me for years," he said, sneering the
words.
He poked Hammond hard in the chest with his
blunt index finger. "You're as corruptible as the next
man. Up till now you just hadn't been tested yet. And
was it greed that caused you to stumble off the
straight and narrow path? No. The promise of power?
No." He snickered.
"It was a piece of tail. As far as I'm concerned,
that's where the real shame lies. You could have at
least been corrupted by something a little harder to
come by."
The two men glared at each other, their animosity
bubbling to the surface after simmering for
years beneath thick layers of resentment. Hammond
knew that nothing he said would make a
dent in his father's iron will, and suddenly he realized
how little he cared. Why defend himself and
Alex to a man he didn't respect? He recognized
Preston for what he was, and he didn't like him.
His father's opinion of him, of anything, no longer
mattered because there was no integrity or honor
supporting it.
Hammond turned and walked away.
Smilow had to wait half an hour in the Charles
Towne Plaza lobby before one of the shoeshine chairs
became vacant. "Shine's holding up just fine, Mr.
Smilow."
"Just buff them, then, Smitty."
The older man launched into a discussion of the
Atlanta Braves' current slump.
Smilow cut him off. "Smitty, did you see this
woman in the hotel the afternoon Mr. Pettijohn was
killed?" He showed him the photograph of Alex Ladd
that had appeared in the afternoon edition of the
newspaper. He'd enlarged it to better define her features.
"Yes, sir, I did, Mr. Smilow. I saw her on the TV
this afternoon, too. She's the one y'all think murdered
him."
"Whether or not the grand jury indicts her next
week will depend on the strength of our evidence.
When you saw her, was she with anyone?"
"No, sir."
"Have you ever seen him?"
He showed him Bobby Trimble's mug shot.
"Only on the TV, same story, same picture as this
one."
"Never here in the hotel?"
"No, sir."
"You're sure?"
"You know me and faces, Mr. Smilow. I rarely forget
one."
The detective nodded absently as he replaced the
photos in his breast pocket. "Did Dr. Ladd look angry
or upset when you saw her?"
"Not in particular, but I didn't study on her that
long. I noticed her when she came in 'cause she's got
right nice hair, you know. Old as I am, I still like
looking at pretty girls."
"You see a lot of them coming through here."
"Lots o' ugly ones, too," he said, chuckling. "Anyhow,
this one was by herself and minding her own
business. She went straight on through the lobby to
the elevators. Then in a little while she came back
down. Went into the bar over yonder. Little later, I
saw her crossing back to the elevators."
"Wait." Smilow leaned down closer to the man
buffing his shoes. "Are you saying she went upstairs
twice?"
"I reckon."
"How long did she stay the first time?"
"Five minutes, maybe."
"And the second time?"
"I wouldn't know. I didn't see her when she came
back down."
He gave Smilow's shoes one last whisk. Smilow
stepped down and spread his arms to let Smitty go
over his coat with a lint brush. "Smitty, have you
mentioned to anyone that I got a shoeshine that day?"
"It's never come up, Mr. Smilow."
"I'd rather you keep that between us, okay?" As he
turned, he slipped Smitty a sizable tip.
"Sure enough, Mr. Smilow. Sure enough. Sorry
about the other."
"What other?"
"The lady. I'm sorry I didn't see her come back
down."
"You were busy, I'm sure."
The shoeshiner smiled. "Yes, sir. It was like Grand
Central Station through here last Saturday. People
coming and going at all times." He scratched his
head. "Funny, isn't it? All of you being here that same
day."
"All of us?"
"You, that doctor lady, and the lawyer."
Smilow's mind acted like a steel trap that had just
been tripped. "Lawyer?"
"From the D.A.'s office. The one on the TV."
CHAPTER
31
Hammond waited in the corridor until he saw
Harvey Knuckle leave his office at precisely five
o'clock. The computer whiz conscientiously locked
the door behind him, and when he turned around,
Hammond was crowding him. "Hey, Harvey."
"Mr. Cross!" he exclaimed, backing up against the
office door. "What are you doing here?"
"I think you know."