Bobby's palms were sweating. He wiped them on
his pants legs. "Listen, I'll tell you anything you want
to know about my sister."
"Useless," Cross said with a wave of dismissal.
"She didn't kill Pettijohn."
"But your own people--"
"She didn't do it," he repeated. Then he smiled,
but it wasn't friendly. "You're out of chips, Bobby.
You've got nothing to bargain with. You're going to
be in one of our jails for a while. And when South
Carolina gets tired of housing and feeding you, the
authorities down in Florida can't wait to have a crack
at you."
"Fuck that! And fuck you," Bobby shouted, lunging
from his chair. "I want to talk to my lawyer."
He took two steps forward before Cross placed his
left palm against his sternum and shoved him back
into the chair with so much impetus it almost tipped
over with him. Then Cross leaned over him so closely
that Bobby had to angle his head back until it strained
his neck.
Cross whispered, "One final thing, Bobby. If you
go near Alex again--ever--I'll break your neck.
And then I'll mess up that pretty face of yours until
you're no longer recognizable. Your days as a ladies'
man will be over. The only looks you'll get from
women will be ones of pity and revulsion."
Bobby was stunned. But only for a few seconds.
Then it all came together--the threat, the prosecutor's
insistence that Alex was innocent. He began to
laugh. "Now I get it. Your cock's twitching for my
baby sister!"
Playfully he poked Hammond in the chest. "Am I
right? Never mind, I know I am. I can read the signs.
Tell you what, Mr. Special Assistant whatever the
hell you call yourself. Whenever you want to fuck
her, you come and see me. Any way you like it, backward,
forward or sideways, I can set it up."
The chair was uprooted, and Bobby was sent flying
backward along with it. Rockets of pain were
launched from the point of contact on his cheekbone.
They detonated inside his skull. His ribs snapped as a
fist with the force of a piston slammed into them.
"Mr. Cross?"
Bobby heard running footsteps and the voices of
the guards. The sounds wafted toward him through a
vast and hollow darkness.
"Everything all right in here, Mr. Cross?"
"I'm fine, thanks. But I'm afraid the prisoner
needs some assistance."
CHAPTER
38
"THIS IS INTERESTING."
Steffi cradled the receiver of her desk phone between
her ear and shoulder. "Hammond? Where are
you?"
"I just left the jail. Bobby Trimble is ours for a
while."
"What about our deal with him?"
"His crimes on Speckle Island superseded that. I'll
fill you in later."
"OK. So what's interesting?"
"Basset," he said. "Glenn Basset? The sergeant
who oversees the evidence warehouse?"
"Okay. I know him, vaguely. Mustache?"
"That's him. He has a sixteen-year-old daughter
who was arrested for drug possession last year. First
arrest. Basically a good kid, but had gotten in with
the wrong crowd at school. Peer pressure. Isolated
--"
"I got it. What does this have to do with anything?"
"Basset went to Smilow for counsel and help.
Smilow intervened with our office on behalf of Basset's daughter."
"They swapped favors."
"That's my guess," Hammond said.
"Only a guess?"
"So far it's just rumor and innuendo. I've been
nosing around. Cops are reluctant to talk about other
cops, and I haven't approached Basset with it yet."
"I'd like to be there when you do, Hammond.
What's next?"
"I've got one more stop to make, then I'm going
over to the Charles Towne."
"What for?"
"Remember the robes?"
"That people wear to and from the spa? White
fluffy things that make everybody look like a polar
bear?"
"Where was Pettijohn's?" he asked.
"What? I'm not--"
"He got a massage early that afternoon. He showered
in the spa, but he didn't dress. I asked the
masseur. He came in wearing a robe, and he left
wearing it. There should have been a used robe and
slippers in his room. They weren't among the evidence
collected. So what happened to them?"
"Good question," she said slowly.
"Here's an even better one. Did you know that
Smilow gets routine manicures in the spa? Get it? No
one would think twice about seeing him wearing one
of those robes. I'm going to check the suite again, see
if we've missed anything. Just wanted to keep you
posted. By the way, have you seen him today?"
"Smilow?" She hesitated, then said, "No."
'If you do, keep him busy so I'm free to operate."
'Sure. Let me know what turns up."
'You'll be the first."
"Thanks for meeting me, Hammond."
He slid into the booth opposite Davee. "What's
up? You said urgent."
"Would you like some lunch?"
"No, thanks, I can't. Busy day. I'll have a club
soda," he told the waiter, who withdrew to fill his
order. He fanned smoke away from his face. "When
did you start smoking again?"
"An hour ago."
"What's going on, Davee? You seem upset."
She took a sip of her drink, which Hammond
guessed correctly wasn't her first, and it wasn't club
soda. He had responded to her page, surprised when
she asked him to meet her at a restaurant downtown.
He was headed that way anyway, which, given his
tight schedule, was the only reason he had agreed to
the spontaneous invitation.
"Rory called me last night. We had a rendezvous.
Not of the romantic sort," she clarified.
"Then what sort?"
"He asked me all kinds of questions about you and
Lute's murder investigation." She waited until the
waiter delivered his club soda before continuing. "He
knows that you met with Lute last Saturday, Hammond.
But I didn't tell him. I swear I didn't."
"I believe you."
"He said you were seen in the hotel. He's guessing
about your appointment with Lute, but as we know,
he's a damn good guesser."
"It's a harmless guess."
"Maybe not, because there's something else you
should know." Her hand was shaking as she lifted the
cigarette to her lips. Hammond took it from her and
ground it out in the ashtray.
"Go ahead."
"I know about you and Alex Ladd."
He considered playing dumb but realized that
Davee of all people would see through the act.
"How?"
He listened as she told him about Alex's visit to
her house that morning. "I don't know the details of
how you met, or when, or where. I didn't ask for any
insider information, and she didn't volunteer any.
And by the way, she's lovely."
"Yes," he said thickly. "She is."
"As I'm sure you're aware," she continued, "this
love affair is ill-timed and most inappropriate."
"Very aware."
"Of all the women in Charleston who've hot for
you, why--"
"I have a pressing schedule today, Davee. I
haven't got time for a lecture. I didn't plan on falling
in love with Alex this week. It just happened that
way. And by the way, you're a fine one to be preaching
sermons about indiscretions."
"I'm only warning you to be careful. I haven't
even been in the same room with the two of you, but
it was evident to me just by the way she spoke your
name that she's in love with you.
"Anyone who has been with you when you're together
is bound to sense those undercurrents. Even
someone as romantically disinclined as Rory. That's
why I called you." Tears filled her eyes, and that
alarmed him, because Davee never cried. "I'm afraid
for you, Hammond. And for her."
"Why, Davee? What are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid that Rory killed Lute, and that he
might kill someone else to cover it up."
He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled
softly. "Thanks, Davee."
"For what?"
"For caring about me. I love you for it. I love you
even more for caring about Alex. I hope you become
best friends." He slid out of the booth, leaned down,
and kissed the top of her head. "You've got nothing
to worry about."
"Hammond?" she cried after him as he rushed
from the booth.
"I'm on top of it," he called back to her. "I
promise."
He jogged from the restaurant to his car. As he
drove toward the hotel, he dialed Alex's home number.
The lock on the kitchen door was still broken. It
was careless of her not to have had it repaired by
now. As he remembered from before, the kitchen was
cozy and neat, although the faucet in the sink had developed
a drip.
He was moving past the telephone when it rang,
startling him. She answered it in another room on the
second ring. Her voice drifted down the hallway toward
him.
"Hammond, are you all right?"
She was in her office, her back to the door opening
into the hall. He could smell the clove-spiked oranges
in the bowl on the console table. She was
seated in an armchair with what appeared to be patients'
files stacked on the end table at her elbow. One
folder lay open in her lap along with a palm-size tape
recorder. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows.
Her hair attracted it like a magnet.
"Don't worry about me, I'm fine.. .. What about
Sergeant Basset? ... So, you were right. In a way I
feel sorry for him. There's no telling what threats
were used to get him to cooperate.... Yes, I will.
Please call me as soon as you can."
She ended her call and set the cordless phone on
the table. Catching movement out of the corner of her
eye, she turned toward him suddenly. The open file
folder slid off her lap onto the floor, scattering its
contents across the Oriental rug. The recorder landed
at her feet with a thud. Clearly, she had thought she
was alone.
Her voice a near gasp, she said, "Detective
Smilow, you startled me."
* * *
Smitty had someone in his chair when Hammond
walked past on his way to the elevators. "Hi, Smitty.
Have you seen Detective Smilow today?"
"No, sir, Mr. Cross. I surely haven't."
Usually gregarious, Smitty didn't look up and
never broke his rhythm as he alternately whisked the
brushes across the toe of his customer's shoe. Hammond
didn't dwell on it. He was preoccupied with
getting to the fifth-floor penthouse suite.
The yellow tape still formed an X across the door.
Having obtained a key from the manager last night,
he stepped through the tape and went inside, leaving
the door slightly ajar.
The drapes were drawn, so the room was dim. He
made a routine check of the parlor where the bloodstain
in the carpet showed up almost black. As he understood
it from the housekeeping staff, replacement
carpet had been ordered.
Standing over the stain, he tried to work up some
feelings of remorse for Pettijohn's death, but he
couldn't garner any. He'd been a bastard in life. Even
in death, he was still wreaking havoc on people's
lives.
Hammond moved into the bedroom and went
straight to the closet. He gazed at the robe, hanging
with the belt tied at the waist. It matched the one Lute
had worn down to the spa. He had left his clothes
here in the suite, showered in the spa, then exchanged
the robe for his clothes when he returned.
"I might never have thought of it if you hadn't
mentioned it that afternoon we had drinks in the
lobby bar," he said.
Turning, he faced Steffi, who had thought she was
sneaking up behind him. Actually he'd been expecting
her.
He continued, "Rhetorically you asked if I could
imagine Lute strutting around in one of the spa robes.
I couldn't. I didn't. Until last night. And when I imagined
it, it caused me to wonder how you knew he had
been strutting around in a spa robe that day. I then
went on to wonder where the used robe was." He
gazed at her thoughtfully. "What I surmise is that you
wore that robe out of the suite over your clothes."
"Workout clothes. Which I had thought were a
good idea. Who goes to a murder dressed like that?
But the robe was even better."
"You dropped it at the spa."
"Along with the towel Pettijohn must have carried
from the spa. I wrapped it turban-style around my
head. Put on sunglasses. I was virtually unidentifiable.
I dropped off the paraphernalia at the spa-- there were a lot of people bringing robes and towels
in from the gym and pool. No one paid me any attention.
I ran a few miles, and by the time I got back, the
body had been discovered and the investigation was