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  To what extent remained to be seen. But even the slightest extent could be calamitous for his burgeoning career. Even a hint of scandal would be a stumbling block. One of this magnitude would certainly damage, if not destroy, his hopes of ever succeeding Monroe Mason and distinguishing himself as the top-ranking law enforcer of Charleston County.

  Leaning over his desk, he buried his face in his hands again. Too good to be true. A trite but sound adage. During law school he and his friends had hung out in a bar called Tanstaafl, an acronym for “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” His fantasy evening with the most exciting woman he had ever met not only came with strings attached, those strings were probably going to form a noose that would ultimately hang him.

  What an idiot he had been not to recognize the carefully baited trap for what it was. Ironically, he didn’t blame the person, or persons—if she was in league with Pettijohn—who had trapped him as much as he blamed himself for being so goddamn callow.

  With both eyes wide open, he had walked into the oldest snare known to man. Sex was a trusty method by which to compromise a man. Countless times throughout recorded history, it had proven itself to be timely, reliable, and effective. He wouldn’t have thought himself that gullible, but obviously he was.

  Gullibility was forgivable. Obstruction of justice wasn’t.

  Why hadn’t he immediately admitted to Smilow and Steffi that he recognized the woman in the sketch?

  Because she could be completely blameless. This Daniels could be mistaken. If in truth he had seen Alex Ladd in the hotel, the timing of his seeing her would become critical. Hammond knew almost to the minute when she had appeared in the dance pavilion. Given the distance she would have driven to get there, and taking the traffic congestion into consideration, she couldn’t have made it if she had left the hotel… He did a quick calculation. Say, after five-thirty. If the coroner pinpointed the time of death anytime after that, she couldn’t be the murderer.

  Good argument, Hammond. In hindsight. A terrific rationalization.

  But the fact of the matter was, it had never entered his mind to identify Alex Ladd.

  From the heart-stopping instant he looked at the drawing and knew with absolute certainty who the subject was, he knew with equal certainty that he wasn’t going to reveal her name.

  When he saw the face on the artist’s sketch pad and remembered it from the vantage point of his pillow, he didn’t weigh his options, didn’t deliberate the pros and cons of keeping silent. His secret had been instantly sealed. At least for the time being, he was going to protect her identity. Thereby, he had consciously breached every rule of ethic he advocated. His silence was a deliberate violation of the law he had sworn to uphold, and an intentional attempt to impede a homicide investigation. He couldn’t even guess at the severity of the consequences he might pay.

  All the same, he wasn’t going to turn her over to Smilow and Steffi.

  The loud rap on his office door came a millisecond before it opened. He was about to rebuke the secretary for disturbing him after expressly asking not to be bothered, but the harsh words were never spoken.

  “Good morning, Hammond.”

  Fuck. This is all I need.

  As always when in his father’s presence, Hammond put himself through something similar to a pre-flight inspection. How did he look? Were all systems and parts in optimum working condition? Were there any malfunctions that required immediate correction? Did he pass muster? He hoped his father wouldn’t be examining him too closely this morning.

  “Hello, Dad.” He stood and they formally shook hands across his desk. If his father had ever hugged him, Hammond had been too young to recall it.

  He gathered up his suit coat and hung it on a wall hook, set his briefcase on the floor, and invited his father to sit down in the only spare chair in the cramped room.

  Preston Cross was considerably stockier and shorter than his son. But his lack of stature didn’t reduce the impact he made on people, whether in a crowd or one-on-one. His ruddy complexion was kept perpetually sunburned by outdoor activities that included tennis, golf, and sailing. As though on command, his hair had gone prematurely white when he turned fifty. He wore it like an accessory to ensure he was given the respect he demanded.

  He had never known a day of illness, and actually disdained poor health as a sign of weakness. He had given up cigarettes a decade ago, but smoked cigars. He drank no less than three tall bourbons a day. He considered it a sacrilege not to have wine with dinner. He always had a snifter of brandy before bedtime. Despite these vices, he thrived.

  In his mid-sixties, he was more robust and in better shape than most men half his age. But it wasn’t his imposing physicality alone that created a powerful aura. It was also his dynamic personality. He took his good looks as his due. He intimidated men who were usually self-confident. Women adored him.

  In both his professional and personal life he was rarely second-guessed and never contradicted. Three decades ago, he had combined several small medical insurance companies into a large one that, under his leadership, had grown huge, now boasting twenty-one branches statewide. Officially, he was semi-retired. Nevertheless, he was still CEO of the company, and it was more than a titular position. He monitored everything down to the price of bulk pencils. Nothing escaped him.

  He served on numerous boards and committees. He and Mrs. Cross were on every invitation list that mattered. He knew everyone who was anyone in the southeastern United States. Preston Cross was well connected.

  While Hammond wished to love, admire, and respect his father, he knew Preston had taken full advantage of his God-given qualities to do ungodly things.

  Preston began his unannounced visit by saying, “I came as soon as I heard.”

  The words ordinarily prefaced a condolence. Hammond was filled with cold dread. How could his father possibly have found out about his indiscretion with Alex Ladd this soon? “What’d you hear?”

  “That you’ll be prosecuting Lute Pettijohn’s murder case.”

  Hammond tried to hide his relief. “That’s right.”

  “It would have been nice to hear that kind of good news directly from you, Hammond.”

  “No slight intended, Dad. I only spoke with Mason last night.”

  Ignoring Hammond’s explanation, his father continued. “Instead, I had to hear it from a friend who attended a prayer breakfast with Mason this morning. When he casually mentioned it to me later at the club, he naturally assumed that I already knew. I was embarrassed that I didn’t.”

  “I went to my cabin on Saturday. I was told about Pettijohn as soon as I returned last evening. Since then, things have been happening so quickly I haven’t had a chance to absorb them all myself.” An understatement if ever there was one.

  Preston brushed an invisible piece of lint off the knife-blade crease of his trousers. “I’m sure you appreciate what an incredible opportunity this is for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The trial will generate a lot of publicity.”

  “I’m aware—”

  “Which you should exploit, Hammond.” With the zeal of a fire-and-brimstone evangelist, Preston raised his hand and closed it into a tight fist as though grasping a handful of radio waves. “Use the media. Get your name out there on a routine basis. Let the voters know who you are. Self-promotion. That’s the key.”

  “Winning a conviction is the key,” Hammond countered. “I hope my performance in court will speak for itself, and that I won’t need to rely on media hype.”

  Preston Cross waved his hand in a gesture of impatient dismissal. “People don’t care how you handle the case, Hammond. Who really gives a damn whether the killer goes to prison for life, or gets the needle, or gets off scot-free?”

  “I care,” he said heatedly. “And the citizenry should.”

  “Maybe at one time closer attention was paid to how public officials performed. Now all folks care about is how good they perform on TV.” Preston lau
ghed. “If polled, I doubt most people would even have a basic understanding of what a district attorney does.”

  “Yet those same people are outraged over the crime statistics.”

  “That’s good. Appeal to that,” Preston exclaimed. “Talk a good talk and the public will be pacified.” He eased back in his chair. “Schmooze the reporters, Hammond, and get on their good side. Always give them a statement when they ask for one. Even if it’s bullshit, you’ll be amazed to see how a little goes a long way. They’ll start giving you free air time.” He paused to wink. “Get yourself elected first, then you can crusade to your heart’s content.”

  “What if I can’t get elected?”

  “What’s to stop you?”

  “Speckle Island.”

  Hammond had dropped a bombshell, but Preston didn’t even flinch. “What’s that?”

  Hammond didn’t even try to hide his disgust. “You’re good, Dad. You’re very good. Deny it all you want, but I know you’re lying.”

  “Watch your tongue with me, Hammond.”

  “Watch my tongue?” Hammond angrily sprang from his chair and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’m not a child, Father. I’m a county prosecutor. And you’re a crook.”

  Bourbon-flushed blood rushed to the capillaries of Preston’s face. “Okay, you’re so smart. What do you think you know?”

  “I know that if Detective Smilow or anyone else discovers your name in conjunction with the Speckle Island project, it could cost you a hefty fine, maybe even jail time, and spell the end of my career. Unless I prosecute my own father. Either way, your alliance with Pettijohn has placed me in an untenable situation.”

  “Relax, Hammond. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m out of Speckle Island.”

  Hammond didn’t know whether to believe him or not. His father’s face was calm, implacable, giving off no telltale signs of dishonesty. He was talented that way. “Since when?” he asked.

  “Weeks ago.”

  “Pettijohn didn’t know that.”

  “Of course he did. He tried to talk me out of withdrawing. I got out anyway, and took my money with me. Pissed him off something fierce.”

  Hammond felt his face growing warm with embarrassment. Pettijohn had told him last Saturday afternoon that Preston was up to his neck in Speckle Island. He had shown him signed documents on which his father’s signature was readily recognizable. Had Pettijohn been playing with him? “One of you is lying.”

  “When did you exchange confidences with Lute?” Preston wanted to know.

  Hammond ignored the question. “When you pulled out, did you sell your partnership for a profit?”

  “It wouldn’t have been good business not to. There was a buyer wanting to get in on the deal, and ready to pay my price for my share.”

  The sour coffee in Hammond’s stomach roiled. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re out now or not. If you were ever connected to that project, you’re tainted. And by association, so am I.”

  “You’re making far too much of this, Hammond.”

  “If it ever becomes public knowledge—”

  “It won’t.”

  “It might.”

  Preston shrugged. “Then I’ll tell the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I was unaware of what Lute was doing out there. When I found out, I disapproved and pulled out.”

  “You’ve got it figured from all angles.”

  “That’s right, I do. Always have.”

  Hammond glared at his father. Preston was practically daring him to make a case out of it—literally. But Hammond knew it would be futile to do so. Probably even Lute Pettijohn had known that Preston would have all his ducks in a row. He had used Preston’s temporary affiliation with the Speckle Island project to manipulate Hammond.

  “My advice to you, Hammond,” Preston was saying, “is to learn a valuable lesson from this. You can get by with just about anything, as long as you leave yourself a dependable escape hatch.”

  “That’s your advice to your only son? Fuck integrity?”

  “I didn’t make the rules,” he snapped. “And you might not like them.” Leaning forward in his chair, he punctuated his words by stabbing the air with a blunt index finger. “But you’ve got to abide by them, or those who aren’t so high-minded will leave you choking on their heel dust.”

  This was familiar territory. They’d tramped over it a thousand times. When Hammond became old enough to question his father’s infallibility and to dispute some of his principles, it soon became apparent that they differed. A line had been drawn in the sand. These were arguments that neither could win because neither would concede an inch.

  Now that Hammond had seen written proof of his father’s involvement in one of Pettijohn’s more nefarious schemes, he realized how vastly different their viewpoints were. He didn’t believe for an instant that Preston was ever unaware of what was taking place on that sea island. Conscience had played no part in his decision to pull out when he did. He had merely waited for an opportunity to make a profit on his own investment.

  Hammond saw the gulf between them yawning wider. He saw no way to span it.

  “I have a meeting in five minutes,” he lied, coming around the corner of his desk. “Tell Mom hi. I’ll try and call her later today.”

  “She and some of her friends are calling on Davee this afternoon.”

  “I’m sure Davee will appreciate that,” Hammond said, remembering how Davee had scorned the whole idea of receiving callers who would flock to her house more out of curiosity than to pay their respects.

  At the door, Preston turned. “I made no secret of how I felt when you left the law firm.”

  “No, sir, you didn’t. You made it abundantly clear that you thought it was the wrong choice,” Hammond said stiffly. “But I stick by my decision. I like my job here, on this side of the law. Beyond that, I’m good at it.”

  “Under Monroe Mason’s tutelage you’ve done well. Exceptionally well.”

  “Thank you.”

  The compliment didn’t warm Hammond because he no longer valued his father’s opinion. Furthermore, Preston’s praise always came with a qualifier attached.

  “I like the looks of all those A’s, Hammond. But that B-plus in chemistry is unacceptable.”

  “The runners you batted in on that triple won the game. Too bad you couldn’t have made it a grand slam. That would have really been something!”

  “Second in your law school class? That’s wonderful, son. Of course, it’s not as good as placing first.”

  That had been the pattern since his childhood. His father didn’t break with tradition this morning.

  “You now have a chance to validate your decision, Hammond. You abandoned the promise of a full partnership in a prestigious criminal law firm and went into public service. That would make a whole lot more sense if you were the boss.” With false affection, his hand landed on Hammond’s shoulder like a sack of cement. Already he had forgotten, or had chosen to disregard, their recent argument.

  “This is the case that could earn you your spurs, son. Pettijohn’s murder case is an open-door invitation to the solicitor’s office.”

  “What if your misdeeds cancel my chances, Father?”

  With obvious impatience he said, “That’s not going to happen.”

  “But if it does, considering your ambition for me, wouldn’t that be a cruel irony?”

  * * *

  Dr. Alex Ladd didn’t see patients on Mondays.

  She used that day to catch up on paperwork and personal business. Today was a special Monday. Today she was paying off Bobby Trimble and getting rid of him, she hoped forever. That was the deal they had struck last night. She would give him what he demanded, and he would disappear.

  However, she had learned through experience that Bobby’s promises were worthless.

  As she unlocked the door to her office, she wondered how many times in the future she would be forced to go to her safe to extract
cash. For the rest of her life? That was a bleak prospect, but a valid one. Now that Bobby had found her again, it was unlikely he would leave her alone.

  Her well-appointed office reminded her of all she stood to lose if Bobby were to expose her. With her patients’ comfort uppermost in mind, she had selected understated but expensive furnishings. Like the other rooms of the house, it was a blend of traditional styling with a few antique pieces used for accent.

  The Oriental rug muted her footsteps. Sunlight shone in through the windows that overlooked the downstairs piazza and, beyond that, the walled garden, which she kept beautifully maintained through all four seasons. The blooming plants and flowers that thrived in Charleston’s semi-tropical climate were at their peak. Basking in the humidity, they provided patches of vibrant color in the cultivated beds.

  She had been fortunate to find the house already restored and renovated with modern conveniences. It had needed only personal touches to make it hers. At one time this front corner room had been the formal parlor of the single house. The matching room adjacent to it, originally a dining room, now functioned as her living room. When she entertained, she took her guests out. Meals at home were eaten in the kitchen, which was the back room on the first floor. Upstairs were two large bedroom suites. Each room in the house opened onto one of the two shady piazzas. The jasmine-covered wall surrounding the garden guaranteed privacy.

  Alex swung aside the framed painting that concealed her wall safe. Deftly she spun the dial on the combination lock and when she heard the tumblers line up, she cranked the handle down and pulled open the heavy door.

  Inside were several stacks of currency, banded together according to denomination. Perhaps because she had known want, even hunger, in her early years, she was never without cash on hand. The habit was childish and unreasonable, but one she forgave herself, considering the basis of it. It wasn’t sound economics to keep the money in a safe where it earned no interest. But it gave her a sense of security to know that it was there, available should an emergency arise. Such as now.