The Alibi Page 17

  She counted out the agreed-upon amount and placed the money in a zippered bag. Because of what it represented, the sack felt inordinately heavy in her hand.

  Her hatred for Bobby Trimble was so intense it frightened her. She didn’t begrudge giving him the money. Happily she would give him even more if it meant that she never had to see him again. It wasn’t the amount that she resented, it was his intrusion into the life she had built for herself.

  Two weeks ago, he had materialized out of nowhere. Unaware of what awaited her, she had blithely answered her ringing doorbell to discover him on her threshold.

  For a moment she hadn’t recognized him. The changes were startling. His flashy, cheap clothes had been replaced by flashy, expensive fashions. There was a sprinkling of gray at his temples, which would have made any other man appear distinguished. It only made Bobby seem more sinister, as though his youthful meanness had matured into pure evil.

  The sardonic grin, however, was all too familiar. It was a triumphant, gloating, suggestive smile that she had spent years trying to eradicate from her recall. When countless therapy sessions and seas of tears hadn’t rid her of it, she had begged God to remove it. Now, only on rare occasions, it resurfaced in a bad dream, from which she would awaken bathed in sweat and shivering in terror. Because that smile was representative of the control he had wielded over her.

  “Bobby.” Her voice had carried the hollow tone of a death knell. His unheralded reappearance in her life could only mean disaster, especially since the subtle changes in him underscored the threat he embodied.

  “You don’t sound very glad to see me.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Well, it wasn’t easy.” His voice was also changed. It was smoother, more refined, absent the twang. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’ve been hiding from me all these years. As it turns out, it was a fluke that brings me to your door. A twist of fate.”

  She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Fate could have played this cruel trick on her. On the other hand, Bobby was resourceful. He might have been tracking her relentlessly for years. Either way, it didn’t matter. He was here, exhuming her worst memories and darkest fears from the deep places of her soul where she had buried them.

  “I want nothing to do with you.”

  Stacking his hands over his heart, he had pretended her words were wounding. “After all we meant to each other?”

  “Because of what we meant to each other.”

  He found her far more poised and self-assertive than she had been as a youth, and his face had turned dark with anger. “Do you really want to start comparing our past experiences? You want to match up what happened to who? Remember, I was the one who—”

  “What do you want? Besides money. I know you want money.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Dr. Ladd. You’re not the only one to make good. Since we last saw each other, I’ve prospered, too.”

  He had boasted about his career as a nightclub emcee. When she had heard all she could stomach about his glory days at the Cock’n’Bull she said, “I have a patient in fifteen minutes.”

  She had hoped to bring the reunion to a quick close. Bobby, however, had been building up to a big flash. As though playing a winning ace, he proudly disclosed the scheme that had brought him to Charleston.

  Without question, he was stark, staring mad, and she had told him so.

  “Be careful, Alex,” he said with terrifying softness. “I’m not as nice as I used to be. And I’m much smarter.”

  Fighting her fear, she said, “Then you don’t need me.”

  But his scheme did involve her. “In fact, you’re key to its success.”

  When he told her what he wanted her to do, she had said, “You’re delusional, Bobby. If you think I would give you so much as the time of day, you’re sorely mistaken. Go away and don’t come back.”

  But he had come back. The next day. And the day after that. For a week he persisted, showing up at all hours, interrupting her sessions with patients, leaving repeat messages on her voice mail that grew increasingly threatening. He had reattached himself to her life like the parasite he was.

  Finally she had agreed to meet with him. Thinking that she had capitulated, his pleasure turned to rage when she declined to participate. “You may have more polish, Bobby. More refinement. But you haven’t changed. You’re the same as you were when hustling in the streets for pocket change. Scratch the surface of this thin veneer, and you’re still scum underneath.”

  Infuriated by the truth, he removed one of her diplomas from the office wall and hurled it to the floor, splintering the frame and shattering the glass. “You listen to me,” he said in a voice more like the one she remembered. “You had better reconsider and do me this little favor. Otherwise, I’ll mess up your life real good. Real good.”

  She realized then that he wasn’t just a street hustler any longer. Not only was he capable of damaging her, he could destroy her.

  So she had agreed to play her small role in his ridiculous scheme—but only because she had already devised a way to thwart it.

  But, as with all Bobby’s schemes, it had gone awry.

  Terribly awry.

  She had been unable to implement her own plan. Now it was imperative that she disassociate herself from Bobby. If that meant paying him what he demanded, it was a small sacrifice to make compared to the enormity of what she could lose if their alliance was exposed.

  Feeling that this decision was justified, she closed the wall safe, moved the painting back into place, and left her office, relocking the door behind her. As though on cue, her doorbell chimed. Bobby was right on time. She slipped the zippered bag behind a vase on the foyer table, stepped out onto the piazza, and answered the street door.

  But it wasn’t Bobby on the threshold. Two uniformed policemen stood on either side of a man with pale eyes and a thin, unsmiling mouth. Alex’s heart plummeted, knowing already what had brought them to her home. Once again, her life was about to be pitched into chaos.

  To conceal her anxiety, she smiled pleasantly. “Can I help you?”

  “Dr. Ladd?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sergeant Rory Smilow, a homicide detective with Charleston P.D. I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Lute Pettijohn.”

  “Lute Pettijohn? I’m afraid I don’t know—”

  “You were seen outside his penthouse suite on the afternoon he was murdered, Dr. Ladd. So please don’t waste my time by pretending that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  She and Detective Smilow stared at one another, taking each other’s measure. It was Alex who finally relented. She stood aside. “Come in.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you would come with us.”

  She swallowed, although her mouth was dry. “I’d like to call my lawyer.”

  “That isn’t necessary. This isn’t an arrest.”

  She looked pointedly at the stoic policemen flanking him.

  Smilow’s lips lifted in what could have passed as a wry smile. “Volunteering to be questioned without an attorney present would go a long way toward convincing me that you’re innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  “I don’t believe that for an instant, Detective Smilow.” She scored a point. Her directness seemed to take him aback. “I’ll be happy to accompany you as soon as I notify my lawyer.”

  Chapter 15

  Rory Smilow sat on the corner of his desk. Unlike all other desks in the Criminal Investigation Division, his was uncluttered. The files and paperwork were neatly stacked. Thanks to Smitty’s shoeshine early that morning, his lace-up shoes reflected the overhead lights. His suit jacket remained on.

  Alex Ladd was seated with her hands calmly clasped in her lap, legs decorously crossed. Smilow thought she was remarkably composed for someone who, appearance-wise at least, seemed out of place in a homicide detective’s office.

  For half an hour they had been waiting for her solicitor, who had ag
reed to meet her there. If she was uncomfortable with the prolonged silence and Smilow’s close scrutiny, she gave no sign of it. She exhibited no fear or nervousness, merely a grudging tolerance for the inconvenience.

  Solicitor Frank Perkins arrived looking flushed, rushed, and apologetic. Except for cleats, he was dressed for the golf course. “I’m sorry, Alex. I was on the tenth hole when I got your page. I came as soon as I could. What’s this about, Smilow?”

  Perkins had a solid reputation and an excellent track record. Rarer than that, he was known to be a decent human being with unimpeachable integrity. Smilow wondered in what capacity the defense attorney had served Alex Ladd before, so he asked.

  “It’s a rude question,” Perkins replied, “but I don’t mind answering if Alex doesn’t.”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Up till now, we’ve been social friends. We met a couple of years ago when she and Maggie, my wife, served on a Spoleto committee together,” he explained, referring to Charleston’s renowned arts festival in May.

  “Then, to your knowledge, Dr. Ladd has never been faced with criminal charges before?”

  “Come to the point, Smilow.” Perkins’s tone demonstrated why prosecutors considered him a tough adversary in the courtroom.

  “I wish to question Dr. Ladd in connection to the Lute Pettijohn murder.”

  Perkins’s jaw dropped. He gaped at them like he was waiting for the punch line. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Unfortunately, no, he’s not,” Alex said. “Thank you for coming, Frank. I’m terribly sorry I interrupted your golf game. Were you winning?”

  “Uh, yeah, yeah,” he replied absently, still trying to digest what Smilow had told him.

  “Then I’m doubly sorry.” Glancing at Smilow, she said, “This is all so ridiculous. It’s a waste of time. I just want to get through it and get out of here.”

  In a manner that looked like she was granting him permission to proceed, she nodded at Smilow. He leaned across his desk, clicked on a tape recorder, then stated their names, the time, and the date.

  “Dr. Ladd, the attendant of a public parking lot on East Bay Street identified you by an artist’s sketch. Since the lot doesn’t have an automated ticketing system, he keeps a record of each car by writing down the license plate number and the time it came in.”

  Unfortunately for Smilow, no record was kept of the time a car exited the lot. The charge was based on the time of entry. For any stay under two hours, the fee was five dollars. Incremental charges didn’t start until after that first one hundred twenty minutes. The charge was noted, but not the exact exit time.

  “We traced you through your car tag. On Saturday afternoon you left your car in that lot for up to two hours.”

  Perkins, who had been listening intently, laughed. “That’s your earthshaking discovery? That’s your big breakthrough on this case?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “One hell of a slow start. How does the parking lot business connect Dr. Ladd to the murder?”

  “I tipped—”

  Perkins held up his hand in caution, but she waved it down. “It’s okay, Frank. I gave that young man at the parking lot a ten-dollar bill, which was the smallest denomination I had. That represented a five-dollar tip. I’m sure that’s why he remembered me well enough to describe me to a sketch artist.”

  “He wasn’t the one who provided us with the description,” Smilow told them. “That was a Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia. His room in the Charles Towne Plaza was located down the hallway from the penthouse suite briefly occupied by Lute Pettijohn on Saturday afternoon. Did you know him?”

  “You don’t have to answer, Alex,” the attorney told her. “In fact, I recommend that you don’t say anything else until we’ve had a chance to speak privately.”

  “It’s all right,” she repeated, this time with a small laugh. Looking back to Smilow, she said, “I’ve never heard of Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia.”

  She was not only cool, but clever, thought Smilow. “I was referring to Mr. Pettijohn. Did you know him?”

  “Everyone in Charleston has heard of Lute Pettijohn,” she said. “His name was constantly in the news.”

  “You knew he had been murdered.”

  “Of course.”

  “You saw it on TV?”

  “I was out of town for a portion of the weekend. But when I got back, I heard it on the news.”

  “You didn’t know Pettijohn personally?”

  “No.”

  “Then why were you standing outside his hotel suite near the time he was murdered?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Alex, please, don’t say anything more.” Placing his hand beneath her elbow, Perkins indicated the door. “We’re leaving.”

  “It won’t look good.”

  “Detective, you’re the one who doesn’t look good. You owe Dr. Ladd an apology.”

  “I don’t mind answering the questions, Frank, if it means stopping this nonsense here and now,” she said.

  Perkins looked at her for a long moment. He obviously disagreed, but he turned toward Smilow. “I insist on consulting with my client before this goes any further.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you a moment alone.”

  “Be sure and turn off the microphone before you leave.”

  “Believe me, Frank, I want this to go by the books. I don’t want a murderer to be set free on a technicality.” Looking pointedly at Alex, he switched off the recorder and left her alone with her solicitor.

  “Can you believe it?” Steffi Mundell was outside in the narrow hall, staring through the two-way mirror into Smilow’s private office. “The artist was right on. What’s she like?”

  “Don’t you have any other cases, Steffi? I thought all of you A.D.A.s were overworked and underpaid. At least that’s what you would have everyone believe.”

  “With Mason’s sanction, I’ve lightened my caseload so I can concentrate on this one. He wants me to assist Hammond any way I can.”

  “Where is the boy wonder?” He watched Alex Ladd adamantly shake her head to one of Frank Perkins’s inquiries.

  “Barricaded inside his office. I haven’t seen him since we left the hospital this morning. I left him a message that I was coming over here to take a gander at our suspect. Good work on the capture, by the way.”

  “Duck soup. Will Hammond be joining us?”

  “Would you mind?”

  Smilow shrugged. “I’d like to gauge his reaction.”

  “To Dr. Ladd?”

  “It might be interesting to see if Saint Hammond could demand the death penalty for a beautiful woman.”

  Steffi reacted with a start. “You think she’s beautiful?”

  Before Smilow could answer, Frank Perkins opened the door and, after giving Steffi a blunt greeting, waved them inside.

  * * *

  Bobby Trimble breathed deeply in an effort to bring his heart rate under control. It had been racing ever since he saw Alex talking to cops on her front door step.

  That was bad. Very bad. Were the cops wise to his Pettijohn plot? Had Alex called them with the intention of turning him in to save herself?

  He had cruised past her house at a moderate speed with studied indifference. What he saw in his peripheral vision, however, was cause for alarm—two uniforms, a plainclothesman, and a vindictive woman who made no secret of despising him. A foolproof recipe for disaster.

  There was one positive sign. Alex hadn’t fingered him. She hadn’t pointed to him and shouted, “Get him!” But he wasn’t sure what that signified, or where it left him. It might mean only that she hadn’t seen him driving past.

  Deliberating his next move, he aimlessly wove the convertible through downtown Charleston’s midday traffic. Last night he had thought he was home free. After a lot of arm-twisting, Alex had agreed to give him the money he demanded.

  “If you think you can steal my idea and use it for your own gain, you’ve got another thing coming, missy!
” When agitated, his accent returned. Hating the sound of that hick whine, he had paused to modulate his voice. “Don’t even think about double-crossing me, Alex,” he told her in a softer, but no less threatening tone. “That money belongs to me, and I want it.”

  Alex had cleaned up her act, too. She spoke better. Dressed better. Lived well. But for all her snooty high-and-mighty airs, she hadn’t really changed. No more than he had. Just as she knew his true nature, he knew hers. Did she think he was born yesterday? He saw what was happening. She had seized on his brainstorm and was trying to cheat him out of his half.

  When he accused her of it, she had said, “For the last time, Bobby: I don’t have any money to give you. Leave me alone!”

  “That’s simply not going to happen, Alex. I’m in your life until I get what I came for. If you want me to disappear, pay up.”

  Her weary sigh had been as good as a waving white flag. “Be at my house at noon tomorrow.”

  So he was at her house at noon, and guess what? She had cops for company. There might already be a warrant out for his arrest.

  Although maybe not, he thought, forcing himself to calm down. If she and the police had been laying a trap for him, why was the patrol car parked in plain sight? And how could she rat on him without ratting out herself, too?

  In any event, until he knew for certain what was going on, it would be wise for Bobby Trimble to lay low. Boring.

  Stopping for a red light, he folded his hands over the steering wheel and contemplated his immediate future. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another convertible pull up alongside his. He turned his head.

  The two faces looking back at him were partially concealed by sunglasses with bright yellow lenses. The coeds were young and attractive. Their grins were saucy and challenging. Spoiled, rich daddy’s girls looking for mischief on a hot summer afternoon.

  In other words, prey.

  The light changed, and with a screech of tires, their car shot forward. They made a right turn at the next corner. Bobby switched lanes and made the same turn. The girls, glancing over their bare shoulders, were aware he was following them. He saw them laughing.