prosecutor of the criminal case in which she's
a prime suspect." She raised the envelope as though
it were a scalp or some other battle trophy. "And we
can prove it."
"With evidence illegally obtained."
"A technicality," she said with a shrug. "For now,
let's look at the big picture. Hammond is in deep doodoo.
Remember that weak lie about who had busted
the lock on her back door? I'm guessing it was Hammond.
He broke into her house--"
"For what purpose? To lift the silver?"
She frowned at his making light of this. "They had
met before. Before she became a suspect. Each pretended
not to know the other. They had to get together
to compare notes, so Hammond went to see
her.... Let's see, that would have been Tuesday
night, after we'd caught her in several lies.
"He couldn't go up to her front door and ring the
bell, so he sneaked in. When he busted the lock, he
cut his thumb. That's what bled on her sheet. I remember
he was wearing a bandage the next day.
"And I think she was with him the night he was
mugged, too. He was evasive when I asked him about
the doctor who had treated his wounds, and why he
hadn't gone to the emergency room. He fabricated
some farfetched explanations."
The detective was still looking at her with skepticism.
"I know him, Smilow," she said insistently. "I
practically lived with him. I know his habits. He's
relatively neat, but he's a guy. He lets things go until
he's forced to straighten up, or he waits on his weekly
maid to clean up after him. The morning after the
mugging, when he was feeling like shit, do you know
what he was worried about? Making up his bed. Now
I understand why. He didn't want me to notice that
someone had slept beside him."
"I don't know, Steffi," he said, his frown dubious.
"As much as I'd like to see this Boy Scout brought
down several pegs, I can't believe Hammond Cross
would do something this compromising. Have you
confronted him about it?"
"No, but I've baited him. Gently. Teasingly. Until
this morning when I received the lab report, it was
only a hunch."
"Blood type isn't conclusive."
"If it comes to proving malfeasance, we could get
a DNA test."
"If you're right--and I'll concede that it has
weight--that explains his reaction to Bobby Trimble's
statement yesterday."
"Hammond didn't want to hear that Alex Ladd is
a whore."
"Was."
"The tense is still up for debate. In any event,
that's why he balked at our using Trimble's testimony."
When Smilow pulled another steep frown,
Steffi said, "What?"
"I tend to agree with him on that. Hammond's ar
guments make a certain amount of sense. Trimble is
so offensive, he could create sympathy for Dr. Ladd.
Here she is, a respected psychologist. There he is, a
drug-using male prostitute who thinks he's God's
special gift to women. He could hurt our case more
than help it, especially if you wind up with a largely
female jury. It would almost be better if he weren't in
the picture."
"If Hammond has his way, there'll be no case
against Alex Ladd. At least it will never go to trial."
"That decision isn't entirely his. Does he plan--"
"What he plans is to pin Pettijohn's murder on
someone else."
"What?"
"You haven't been listening, Smilow. I'm telling
you that he'll go to any lengths to protect this woman.
In one breath he declined to share the leads he's following,
and in the next breath he's asking for my cooperation
and help in building a case against
someone else. Someone who had motive and opportunity.
Someone he would love to see go down for it."
Steffi savored the moment before adding, "And guess
who he has in mind."
"Hammond, I've been trying to locate you all
morning."
"Hey, Mason." He had got the message that
Mason was looking for him, but had hoped to dodge
him. He didn't have time for a meeting, however
brief. "I've been awfully busy this morning. In fact,
I'm on my way out now."
"Then I won't detain you."
"Thanks," Hammond said, continuing on his way
toward the exit. "I'll catch up with you later."
"Just be sure you're free at five o'clock this after
noon."
Hammond stopped, turned. "What happens then?"
"A press conference. All the local stations are
broadcasting it live."
"Today? Five o'clock?"
"City hall. I've decided to formally announce my
retirement and endorse you as my successor. I see no
reason to postpone it. Everybody knows already anyway.
Come the November election, your name will
be on the ballot." He beamed a smile on his protege
and proudly rocked back on his heels.
Hammond felt like he had just been slam-dunked,
head first. "I... I don't know what to say," he stammered.
"No need to say anything to me," Mason boomed.
"Save your remarks for this afternoon."
"But--"
"I've notified your father. Both he and Amelia
plan to be there."
Christ. "You know, Mason, that I'm right in the
middle of this Pettijohn thing."
"What better time? When you're already in the
public eye. This is a great opportunity to make your
name a Charleston household word."
The statement harkened back to a recent conversa
tion. Hammond closed his eyes briefly and shook his
head. "Dad put you up to this, didn't he?"
Mason chuckled. "He bought a few rounds last
night at our club. I don't have to tell you how persuasive
he can be."
"No, you don't have to tell me," Hammond said in
an angry mutter.
Preston never sat back and let the cards fall as they
may. He always stacked the deck in his favor. His
philanthropy on Speckle Island had disarmed Hammond
and practically assured that he would not be
held accountable for any wrongdoing that had taken
place on the sea island. But just in case Hammond
had in mind to continue pursuing it, Preston had
upped the ante, raised the stakes, and increased the
pressure.
"Look, Mason, I've got to run. Lots going on
today."
"Fine. Just remember five o'clock."
"No. I won't forget."
CHAPTER
37
Loretta swished her feet in the tub of cool water
where she'd been soaking them for almost half an
hour.
Bev came down the hallway, yawning and stretching.
"Mom? You're already up? You didn't sleep
long."
"Too much on my mind," she said absently. Then,
looking up at Bev, she asked, "Are you sure you
checked for messages when you came in this morning?
I hope nothing's wrong with our voice mail."
"There's nothing wrong with it, Mom." Bev
turned toward her, a guilty look on her face. "You did
have a message from Mr. Cross. I just didn't want to
give it to you."
"How come? What did he say?"
"He said never mind about the guy from the fair."
Loretta looked at her with patent disbelief. "Are
you sure?"
"I thought he said 'the fair.'"
"No, are you sure he said never mind about him?"
"I'm certain of that part. Pissed me off. After all
the hard work--Careful, Mom, you're sloshing
water on the floor."
Loretta was on her feet, hands planted solidly on
her hips. "Has he gone crazy?"
Bobby Trimble hadn't counted on jail. Jail stunk.
Jail was for losers. Jail was for the old Bobby, maybe,
but not for the one he had become.
He had spent the night sharing a cell with a drunk
who had snored and farted with equal exuberance
throughout the night. He'd been promised that he
would be released first thing this morning, as soon as
he could be processed out. That was part of the deal
he'd struck with Detective Smilow and the bitch from
the D.A.'s office--no more than one night of incarceration.
But come this morning, they were taking their
sweet time. They served breakfast. At the smell of
food, his cell mate rolled off the top bunk barely in
time to make it to the open toilet, where he puked for
five full minutes. When he was finally empty, he
climbed back into the top bunk and passed out again,
but not before stumbling into Bobby and soiling his
clothes so that he, too, smelled like vomit.
Of course, Bobby didn't take any of this mistreatment
quietly. He voiced his complaints loudly and
frequently. He ranted and raved, but to no avail. He
paced the cell. As the hours crawled by, he sank into
a deep funk. Pessimism set in with a vengeance.
It seemed he couldn't buy a break.
Things had been going from sugar to shit ever
since Pettijohn got killed. That hadn't been in
Bobby's game plan. He was no saint, but he wanted
no part of a murder rap. If painting Alex guilty--and
who knew? maybe she was--would get him off the
hook, that's what he would do. But in the meantime,
he would be on a short leash. Until after her trial, his
ass belonged to Charleston County. No partying. No
women. No drugs. No fun.
Nor was he a hundred thousand dollars richer, as
he had expected to be. He had never collected the
blackmail money. It remained unknown whether or
not Alex had collected the cash from Pettijohn, but
that was a moot point. He didn't have it.
His future was looking bleak and uncertain, the
only surety being that he was going nowhere fast as
long as he remained cooped up in here.
Coming off his bunk, he pressed himself against
the bars. "What's taking so freaking long?"
His questions were ignored. The guards were impervious
to his demands.
"You don't understand. I'm not an ordinary prisoner,"
he told a guard as he ambled past his cell. "I'm
not supposed to be here."
"Wish I had a nickel for every time I've heard that
one, Bobby."
Bobby whipped his head around. A newcomer, escorted by another guard, wore a lightweight summer
suit and necktie. He was clean-shaven, but he still
looked a little ragged, probably because of the sling
supporting his right arm. He introduced himself as
Hammond Cross.
"I've heard of you. D.A.'s office, right?"
"Special assistant solicitor for Charleston
County."
"I'm impressed," Bobby said, resuming his modulated
voice. "Frankly, I don't care if you're Tinker-bell,
so long as you came to escort me out of here."
"That was the deal, wasn't it?"
Cross was a smooth customer. Bobby immediately
resented the sophistication that came naturally to
him.
He motioned for the guard to open Bobby's cell,
but then he was ushered into a room reserved for prisoner/solicitor
conferences. "I don't consider this release,
Mr. Cross. I made a deal yesterday. Or have
you conveniently forgotten?"
"I'm aware of the deal, Bobby."
"Well, fine! Then do what you've got to do to set
wheels into motion."
"Not until we've talked."
"If I'm talking to you, I want a lawyer present."
"I'm a lawyer."
"But you're--"
"Sit down and shut up, Bobby."
He was fit, but not all that beefy, this Hammond
Cross. Besides that, he was the walking wounded.
Arrogantly, Bobby rolled his shoulders. "Harsh
words coming from a man with his arm in a sling."
Cross's eyes took on a glint almost as hard and
cold as Smilow's. While it didn't frighten Bobby, exactly,
it intimidated him enough to sit down. He
glared up at Cross. "Okay, I'm sitting. What?"
"You can't possibly appreciate how much I would
love to beat the shit out of you."
Bobby gaped at him, speechless.
Cross's lips had barely moved, and his voice was
soft, but the hostility behind his statement made the
hair on the back of Bobby's neck stand on end. That
and the fact that every muscle in Cross's body was
flexed as though about to split open his skin.
"Look, I don't know what your beef is, but I made
a deal."
"And I made another one," Cross said blandly.
"With one of the investors--make that a former investor --in the Speckle Island project."
He let that sink in a moment. Bobby tried hard not
to squirm in his chair.
"This individual is willing to testify against you in
exchange for clemency. We've got a laundry list of
charges for your activities on Speckle Island that are
irrelevant to the deal you made yesterday. It would
probably bore you for me to list them all, but taking
them in alphabetical order, arson would be first."