Knuckle's prominent Adam's apple slid up, then
down the skinny column of his neck. His hard swallow
was audible. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the
vaguest."
"You lied to Loretta Boothe," Hammond said,
playing his hunch. "Didn't you?"
Harvey tried to disguise his guilty nervousness
with petulance. "I don't know what you're talking
about."
"What I'm talking about is five-to-ten for computer
theft."
"Huh?"
"I could get you on several counts without breaking
a sweat, Harvey. That is unless you cooperate
with me now. Who asked you to check out Dr. Alex
Ladd?"
"Pardon?"
Hammond's eyes practically nailed him to the office
door behind him. "Okay. Fine. Get yourself a
good defense lawyer." He turned.
Harvey blurted, "Loretta did."
Hammond came back around. "Who else?"
"Nobody."
"Harveee?"
"Nobody!"
"Okay."
Harvey relaxed and wet his lips with a quick
tongue, but his sickly smile folded when Hammond
asked, "What about Pettijohn?"
"I don't know--"
"Tell me what I want to know, Harvey."
"I'm always willing to help you, Mr. Cross, you know that. But this time I don't know what you're
talking about."
"Records, Harvey," he said with diminishing patience.
"Who asked you to dig up Pettijohn's records?
Deeds. Plats. Partnership documents, things like
that."
"You did," Harvey squeaked.
"I went through legal channels. I want to know
who else was interested in his business dealings. Who
asked you on the sly to go into his records?"
"What makes you think--"
Hammond took a step nearer and lowered his
voice. "Whoever it was had to come to you for information, so don't stall, and don't try and bullshit me
with that phony innocent, quizzical expression, or
I'm liable to get angry. Prison can be tough on a guy
like you, you know." He paused to let the implied
threat sink in. "Now, who was it?"
"T-two different people. At different times,
though."
"Recently?"
Harvey nodded his head so rapidly his teeth
clicked together. "Within the last couple of months or
thereabout."
"Who were the two?"
"D-detective Smilow."
Hammond kept his expression unreadable. "And
who else?"
"You ought to know, Mr. Cross. She said she was
asking on your behalf."
A news junkie by habit, Loretta Boothe watched
the early evening newscasts, flipping back and forth
between channels and comparing their coverage of
the Alex Ladd story.
She was dismayed to see Hammond facing TV
cameras looking the worse for wear, his arm in a
sling. When had he got hurt? And how? She had seen
him just last night.
About the time the news ended and Wheel of Fortune began, her daughter Bev came through the living
room dressed for work. "I made a macaroni casserole
for my lunch, Mom. There's plenty left in the fridge
for your supper. Salad makings, too."
"Thanks, honey. I'm not hungry just yet, but
maybe later."
Bev hesitated at the front door. "Are you okay?"
Loretta saw the worry in her daughter's eyes, the
wariness. The harmony between them was still tentative.
Both wanted desperately for things to go well
this time. Both feared that they wouldn't. Promises
had been made and broken too many times for either
of them to trust Loretta's most recent pledges. Everything
depended on her staying sober. That was all she
had to do. But that was a lot.
"I'm fine." She gave Bev a reassuring smile. "You
know that case I was working on? They're taking it
to the grand jury next week."
"Based on information you provided?"
"Partially."
"Wow. That's great, Mom. You still have the
knack."
Bev's compliment warmed her. "Thanks. But I guess this means I'm out of work again."
"After this success, I'm sure you'll get more." Bev
pulled open the door. "Have a good evening. See you
in the morning."
After Bev left, Loretta continued watching the
game show, but only for lack of something better to
do. The apartment felt claustrophobic this evening,
although the rooms were no smaller today than they
had been yesterday or the day before. The restlessness
wasn't environmental; it came from within.
She considered going out, but that would be risky.
Her friends were other drunks. The hangout places
she knew were rife with temptation to have just one
drink. Even one would spell the end of her sobriety,
and she would be right back where she had been before
Hammond had retained her to work on the Pettijohn
case.
She wished that job weren't over. Not just because
of the money. Although Bev made an adequate salary
to support them, Loretta wished to contribute to the
household account. It would be good for her self-esteem,
and she needed the independence that came
with earning her own income.
Also, as long as she was working, she wouldn't
notice her thirst. Idle time was a peril she needed to
avoid. Having nothing constructive to do made her
crave what she couldn't have. With time on her
hands, she began thinking about how trivial her life
really was, how it really wouldn't matter if she drank
herself to death, how she might just as well make
things easy on herself and everyone associated with
her. A dangerous train of thought.
Now that she thought about it, Hammond hadn't
specifically told her he no longer needed her services.
After she gave him the scoop on Dr. Alex Ladd, he
had fled that bar like his britches were on fire. Although
he had seemed somewhat downcast, he
couldn't wait to act upon the information she had
provided, and his action must have paid off because
now he was taking his murder case to the grand jury.
Contacting Harvey Knuckle today had probably
been superfluous. Hammond had seemed rushed and
not all that interested when she passed along her
hunch that Harvey had lied to her this morning. But
what the hell? It hadn't hurt her to make that additional
effort.
Despite Hammond's injuries, whatever they were,
his voice had been strong and full of his conviction
when he addressed the reporters on the steps of police
headquarters. He explained that Bobby Trimble's appearance
had been the turning point of the case.
"Based on the strength of his testimony, I feel confident
that Dr. Ladd will be indicted."
Conversely, Dr. Ladd's solicitor, whom Loretta
knew by reputation only, had told the media that this
was the most egregious mistake ever made by the
Charleston RD. and Special Assistant County Solicitor
Cross. He was confident that when all the facts
were known, Dr. Ladd would be vindicated and that
the powers-that-be would owe her a public apology.
Already he was considering filing a defamation suit.
Loretta recognized lawyerese when she heard it,
although Frank Perkins's statements had been particularly
impassioned. Either he was an excellent orator
or he was genuinely convinced of his client's innocence.
Maybe Hammond did have the wrong suspect.
If so, he would be made to look like a fool in the
most important case of his career thus far.
He had alluded to Alex Ladd's unsubstantiated
alibi, but he hadn't been specific. Something
about... what was it?
"Little Bo Peep Show," Loretta said mechanically,
solving the Before and After puzzle on Wheel of Fortune with the ts, the ps, and the w still missing.
A fair on the outskirts of Beaufort. That was it.
Suddenly on her feet, she went into the kitchen
where Bev stacked newspapers before conscientiously
bundling them for recycling. Luckily tomorrow
was pickup day, so a week's worth was there.
Loretta plowed through them until she located last
Saturday's edition.
She pulled out the entertainment section and
quickly leafed through it until she found what she had
hoped to. The quarter-page advertisement for the fair
provided the time, place, directions, admission fees,
attractions to be enjoyed, and--wait!
"Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evening
through the month of August," she read out loud.
Within minutes she was in her car and on her way
out of the city, driving toward Beaufort. She didn't
know what she would do when she got there. Follow
her nose, she supposed. But if she could--by a stroke
of luck or an outright miracle--shoot a hole in Alex
Ladd's alibi, Hammond would forever be in her debt.
Or, if the psychologist's alibi held up, at least he
would be forewarned. He wouldn't be unpleasantly
surprised in the courtroom. Either way, he would owe
her. Big time.
Until he officially dismissed her, she was technically
still on retainer. If she came through for him on
this, he would be undyingly grateful and wonder
what he had ever done without her. He might even
recommend her for a permanent position in the
D.A.'s office.
If nothing else, he would appreciate her for seizing
the initiative and acting on her own razor-sharp instincts,
which not even oceans of booze had dulled.
He would be so proud!
"Sergeant Basset?"
The uniformed officer tipped down the corner of
the newspaper he was reading. When he saw Hammond
standing on the opposite side of his desk, he
shot to his feet. "Hey, Solicitor. I have that printout
you requested right here."
The CPD's evidence warehouse was Sergeant
Glenn Basset's domain. He was short, plump, and
self-effacing. A bushy mustache compensated for his
bald head. Lacking aggressiveness, he had been a
poor patrolman, but was perfectly suited for the desk
job he now held. He was a nice guy, not one to complain,
satisfied with his rank, an affable fellow,
friendly toward everyone, enemy to none.
Hammond had called ahead with his request,
which the sergeant was flattered to grant. "You didn't
give me much notice, but it was only a matter of
pulling up the past month's records and printing them
out. I could go back further--"
"Not yet." Hammond scanned the sheet, hoping a
name would jump out at him. It didn't. "Do you have
a minute, Sergeant?"
Sensing that Hammond wished to speak to him
privately, he addressed a clerk working at a desk
nearby. "Diane, can you keep an eye on things for a
minute?"
Without removing her eyes from her computer terminal,
she said, "Take your time."
The portly officer motioned Hammond toward a
small room where personnel took their breaks. He offered
Hammond a cup of the viscous coffee standing
in the cloudy Mr. Coffee carafe.
Hammond declined, then said, "This is a very delicate
subject, Sergeant Basset. I regret having to ask."
He regarded Hammond inquisitively. "Ask what?"
"Is it within the realm of possibility--not even
probable, just possible--that an officer could ... borrow
... a weapon from the warehouse without your
knowledge?"
"No, sir."
"It's not possible?'
"I keep strict records, Mr. Cross."
"Yes, I see," he said, giving the computer printout
another quick scan.
Basset was getting nervous. "What's this about?"
"Just a notion I had," Hammond said with chagrin.
"I've turned up empty on the weapon that killed Lute
Pettijohn."
"Two .38s in the back."
"Right."
"We've got hundreds of weapons in here that fire
.38s."
"You see my problem."
"Mr. Cross, I pride myself on running a tight ship.
My record with the force--"
"Is impeccable. I know that, Sergeant. I'm not
suggesting any complicity on your part. As I said, it's
a delicate subject and I hated even to ask. I simply
wondered if an officer could have fabricated a reason
to take a weapon out."
Basset thoughtfully tugged on his earlobe. "I suppose
he could, but he would've still had to sign it
out."
Nowhere. "Sorry to have bothered you. Thanks."
Hammond took the records with him, although he
didn't think they would yield the valuable clue he had
hoped they might. He had left Harvey Knuckle on a
high, having got the computer whiz to admit that both
Smilow and Steffi had coerced him into getting them
information on Pettijohn.
But now that he reflected on it, what did that
prove? That they were as interested as he in seeing
Lute get his comeuppance? Hardly a breakthrough.
Not even a surprise.
He wanted so desperately for Alex to be innocent,
he was willing to cast doubt on anyone and everyone,
even colleagues who, these days, were doing more to
uphold law and order than he was.
Despondently, he let himself into his apartment,
moved straight into the living room, and turned on