something to you which you're bound by professional
privilege to keep confidential."
"You son of a bitch," Frank said angrily. "I don't
know what you're up to. I don't even want to know,
but I do want you out of my house. Now!"
"Didn't you hear what I said? I said that I
spent--"
He broke off when the open archway behind Frank
filled with people who were curious to see what the
commotion was. Alex's face was the only one that
registered with Hammond.
Frank, following the direction of Hammond's
stare, mumbled, "Maggie, you remember Hammond
Cross."
"Of course," said Frank's wife. "Hello, Hammond."
"Maggie. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. I
hope I didn't interrupt anything."
"Actually, we were having dinner," Frank said.
One of his nine-year-old twin sons had a smear of
what looked like spaghetti sauce near his mouth.
Maggie was a gracious southern lady who had descended
from valiant Confederate wives and widows.
The awkward situation unfolding in her foyer didn't
ruffle her. "We've just now sat down, Hammond.
Please join us."
He glanced first at Frank, then at Alex. "No,
thanks, but I appreciate the offer. I just need a few
minutes of Frank's time."
"It was good to see you again. Boys."
Taking each twin by a shoulder, Maggie Perkins
turned them around and herded them back to where
they had come from, presumably an informal eating
area in the kitchen.
Hammond said to Alex, "I didn't know you were
here."
"Frank was kind enough to invite me to dinner
with his family."
"Nice of him. After today, you probably didn't feel
like being alone."
"No, I didn't."
"Besides, it's good you're here. You need to hear
this, too."
Finally Frank butted in. "Since I'm probably
going to be disbarred over this anyway, I think I'll go
ahead and have the drink I desperately need. Either of
you interested?"
He indicated for them to follow him toward the
rear of the house where he had a home study. The
plaques and framed citations arranged in attractive
groupings on the paneled walls attested to the honorable
man that Frank Perkins was, personally and professionally.
Hammond and Alex declined his offer of a drink,
but Frank poured himself a straight scotch and sat
down behind a substantial desk. Alex took a leather
love seat, Hammond an armchair. The lawyer divided
a look between them that ultimately settled on his
client. "Is it true? Have you slept with our esteemed
assistant county solicitor?"
"There's no call for--"
"Hammond," Frank brusquely interrupted, "you
are in no position to correct me. Or even to cross me,
for that matter. I should kick your ass out of here,
then share your confession with Monroe Mason. Unless
he already knows."
"He doesn't."
"The only reason you're still under my roof is because
I respect my client's privacy. Until I know all
the facts, I don't want to do anything rash which
might embarrass her any more than she's already
been embarrassed by this travesty."
"Don't be angry with Hammond, Frank," Alex
said. There was an honest weariness in her voice that
Hammond hadn't heard before. Or perhaps it was
resignation. Maybe even relief that their secret was
finally out. "This is as much my fault as his. I should
have told you immediately that I knew him."
"Intimately?"
"Yes."
"How far were you willing to let it go? Were you
going to let him indict you, jail you, subject you to a
trial, get you convicted, put you on death row?"
"I don't know!" Alex stood up suddenly and
turned her back to them, hugging her elbows close to
her body. After taking a moment to compose herself,
she faced them again. "Actually I'm more to blame
than Hammond. He didn't know me, but I knew him,
and I pursued him. Deliberately. I made our meeting
look accidental, but it wasn't. Nothing that happened
between us was by chance."
"When did this meeting-by-design occur?"
"Last Saturday evening. Around dusk. After the
initial contact, I exercised every feminine wile I
knew to entice Hammond to spend the night with me.
Whatever I did," she said, her voice growing husky,
"worked." She looked across at him. "Because he
did."
Frank finished his drink in one swallow. The
liquor brought tears to his eyes and caused him to
cough behind his fist. After clearing his throat, he
asked where all this had taken place. Alex talked him
through the chain of events, beginning with their
meeting in the dance pavilion and ending in his
cabin. "I sneaked out the following morning before
dawn, prepared never to see him again."
Frank shook his head, which seemed to have become
muddled either by a sudden infusion of alcohol
or by conflicting facts he was finding difficult to
sort out. "I don't get it. You slept with him, but it
wasn't. . . you didn't. . ."
"I was her insurance," Hammond said. It was still
hard for him to hear her admit that she had set him
up, that their meeting wasn't kismet or the romantic
happenstance he wished it had been. But he had to get
past that. Circumstances demanded that he focus on
matters that were much more important. "If Alex
found herself in need of an alibi, I was to be it. I was
the perfect alibi, in fact. Because I couldn't expose
her without implicating myself."
Frank gazed at him with unmitigated puzzlement.
"Care to explain that?"
"Alex followed me to the fair from the Charles
Towne Plaza, where I'd met with Lute Pettijohn."
Frank stared at him for several beats before looking
to Alex for confirmation. She gave a small nod.
Frank got up to pour himself another drink.
While he was at it, Hammond took the opportunity
to look at Alex. Her eyes were moist, but she wasn't
crying. He wanted to hold her. He also wanted to
shake her until all the truths came tumbling out.
Or maybe not. Maybe he didn't want to know that
he had been as gullible as the horny young boys and
dirty old men who had paid half-brother Bobby for
her favors.
If he loved her, as he professed, he would have to
get past that, too.
Frank returned to his chair. Twirling his refilled
glass on the leather desk pad, he asked, "Who's going
to go first?"
"I had an appointment with Pettijohn on Saturday
afternoon," Hammond stated. "At his invitation. I
didn't want to go, but he had insisted that we meet,
guaranteeing that it would be in my best interest."
"For what purpose?"
"The A.G. had appointed me to investigate him.
Pettijohn had got wind of it."
"How?"
"More on that later. For now, suffice it to say that
I was close to turning my findings over to a grand
jury."
"I assume Pettijohn wanted to make a deal."
"Right."
"What was he offering in exchange?"
"If I reported back to the A.G. that there was no
case to be made, and let Lute carry on his business as
usual, he promised to support me as Monroe Mason's
successor, including sizable contributions to my campaign.
He also suggested that once I achieved the office,
we would continue to have a mutually beneficial
arrangement. A very cozy alliance which would have
enabled him to continue breaking laws and me to
look the other way."
"I gather you turned him down."
"Flat. That's when he brought out the heavy artillery.
My own father was one of his partners on the
Speckle Island project. Lute produced documents
proving it."
"Where are those documents now?"
"I took them with me when I left."
"They're valid?"
"I'm afraid so."
Frank was no dummy. He figured it out. "If you
proceeded with your investigation of Lute, you'd be
forced to bring criminal charges against your father,
too."
"That was the essence of Lute's warning, yes."
Alex's face was soft with compassion. Frank said
quietly, "I'm sorry, Hammond."
He knew the commiseration was genuine, but he
waved it aside. "I told Lute to go to hell, that I intended
to uphold my duty. When I turned my back on
him, he was screaming invectives and issuing threats.
The temper tantrum might have brought on the
stroke. I don't know. I never turned around. I wasn't
in there for more than five minutes. Max."
"What time was this?"
"We had a five o'clock appointment."
"Did you see Alex?"
They shook their heads simultaneously. "Not until
I got to the fair. I was so pissed off at Pettijohn, I was
in quite a temper when I left the hotel. I didn't notice
anything."
He paused to take a deep breath. "I had planned to
go to my cabin for the night. On the spur of the moment
I decided to stop at the fair for a while. I saw
Alex in the dance pavilion and ..." He looked from
Frank to her, where she was seated on the love seat,
listening intently. "It went from there."
The room grew so silent that the ticking clock on
Frank's desk sounded ponderous. After a time, the
lawyer spoke. "What did you hope to accomplish by
coming here and telling me this?"
"It's been weighing heavily on my conscience."
"Well, I'm not a priest," Frank said testily.
"No, you're not."
"And we're on opposite sides of a murder trial."
"I'm aware of that, too."
Then back to my original question: Why did you
come here?"
Hammond said, "Because I know who killed
Lute."
CHAPTER
33
Davee languidly answered her telephone.
"Davee, you know who this is." It wasn't a question.
For lack of anything better to do, she had been
stretched out on the chaise lounge in her bedroom,
drinking vodka on the rocks and watching a black
and white Joan Crawford film on a classic movie
channel. The urgency behind the caller's voice
brought her up into a sitting position, which caused a
wave of dizziness. She muted the television set.
"What--"
"Don't say anything. Can you meet me?"
She checked the clock on the antique tea table beside
the chaise. "Now?"
In her wild teenage years a call late at night would
have spelled adventure. She would have sneaked out
of the house to meet a boyfriend or a group of girls
for some forbidden cruising until dawn, skinny-dipping
at the beach, beer drinking, or pot smoking.
Those escapades never failed to get her parents in an
uproar. Getting caught and defying punishment had
been part of the fun.
Even following her marriage to Lute, it wasn't all
that uncommon for her to carry on one-sided telephone
conversations that led to late-night excursions.
However, those had never caused a disturbance in the
household. Either Lute was indifferent to her comings
and goings or he was out on a lark of his own.
They hadn't been nearly as much fun.
Although this one didn't promise to be fun, her curiosity
was piqued. "What's going on?"
"I can't talk about it over the telephone, but it's
important. Do you know where the McDonald's on
Rivers Avenue is?"
"I can find it."
"Near the intersection with Dorchester. As soon as
you can get there."
"But--"
Davee stared at the dead cordless phone in her
hand for a few moments, then dropped it onto the
chaise and stood up. She swayed slightly and put her
hand on the table in order to regain her balance. Her
equilibrium gradually returned and brought her reason
with it.
This was nuts. She'd had a lot to drink. She
shouldn't drive. And, anyway, who the hell did he
think he was to summon her to a McDonald's in the
middle of the freaking night? No explanation. No
please or thank you. No worry that she wouldn't acquiesce.
Why couldn't he come to her with whatever
was so damned important? Whatever it was must
surely relate to Lute's murder investigation. Hadn't
she made it clear that she didn't want to become in volved in that any more than was absolutely necessary?
Nevertheless, she went into the bathroom,
splashed cold water on her face, and gargled a mouthful
of Scope. She slipped off her nightgown, then,
without bothering with underwear, pulled on a pair of
white pants and a matching T-shirt made of some
clingy, synthetic microfiber knit that left little to the
imagination--which served him right. She didn't
bother with shoes. Her hair was a mess of unbrushed
curls. If anyone spied them together, her dishabille
alone would raise eyebrows. She didn't give a damn,
of course, but this recklessness was uncharacteristic
of him.
Sarah Birch was watching TV in her apartment off
the kitchen. "I'm going out." Davee informed her.