The Alibi

Bobby, losing interest, said louder, “I need a drink here.”

“I heard ya,” the bartender replied querulously.

“Your service could stand some improve—”

The complaint died on Bobby’s lips when the picture on the TV screen switched from the guy with the cold eyes to a face that Bobby recognized and knew well. Lute Pettijohn. He strained to catch every word.

“There was no sign of forced entry into Mr. Pettijohn’s suite. Robbery has been ruled out as a motive. At this time we have no suspects.” The live special report ended and they returned to the eleven o’clock news anchor desk.

Confidence once more intact, grinning from ear to ear, Bobby raised his fresh drink in a silent salute to his partner. Evidently she had come through for him.

* * *

“That’s all I have to tell you at this time.”

Smilow turned away from the microphones, only to discover more behind him. “Excuse me,” he said, nudging his way through the media throng.

He ignored the questions shouted after him and continued wedging a path through the reporters until it became evident to them that they were going to get nothing further from him and they began to disperse.

Smilow pretended to hate media attention, but the truth was that he actually enjoyed doing live press conferences like this one. Not because of the lights and cameras, although he knew he looked intimidating when photographed. Not even for the attention and publicity they generated. His job was secure and he didn’t need public approval to keep it.

What he liked was the sense of power that being filmed and quoted evoked.

But as he approached the team of detectives who had gathered near the registration desk in the lobby of the hotel, he grumbled, “I’m glad that’s over. Now what’ve you got for me?”

“Zilch.”

The others nodded agreement to Mike Collins’s summation.

Smilow had timed his return to Charles Towne Plaza from the Pettijohns’ home to coincide with the eleven o’clock news. As he had predicted, all the local stations, as well as others from as far away as Savannah and Charlotte, had led with a live telecast from the hotel lobby, where he imparted the rudimentary facts to the reporters and viewers at home. He didn’t embellish. Primarily because all he knew were the rudimentary facts. For once he wasn’t being coy when he had declined to give them more information.

He was as anxious for information as the media. That’s why the detective’s terse summation of their success took him aback. “What do you mean, zilch?”

“Just that.” Mike Collins was a veteran. He was less intimidated by Smilow than the others, so by tacit agreement he was generally the spokesperson. “We’ve got nothing so far. We—”

“That’s impossible, Detective.”

Collins had dark rings around his sunken eyes, proof of just how tough his night had been. He turned to Steffi Mundell, who had interrupted him, and looked at her like he would like to strangle her, then pointedly ignored her and continued his verbal report to Smilow.

“As I was saying, we’ve put these folks through the ringer.” Guests and employees were still being detained in the hotel’s main ballroom. “At first they kinda enjoyed it, you know. It was exciting. Like a movie. But the new wore off hours ago. They’ve given the same answers to the same questions several times over, so now they’re getting surly. We’re not getting much out of them except a lot of bellyaching about why they can’t leave.”

“I find it hard to believe—”

“Who invited you, anyway?” Collins fired at Steffi when she interrupted again.

“That out of all those people,” she said, speaking over him, “somebody didn’t see something.”

Smilow held up his hand to squelch a full-fledged quarrel between his discouraged detective and the outspoken prosecutor. “Okay, you two. We’re all tired. Steffi, I see no reason for you to hang around. When we’ve got something, you’ll be notified.”

“Fat chance.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared defiantly at Collins. “I’m staying.”

Reluctantly, Smilow gave the go-ahead for the hotel guests to be allowed to return to their rooms. He then assembled his detectives in one of the meeting rooms on the mezzanine level and ordered pizzas to be delivered. While they decimated the pizzas, he reviewed the scanty amount of information they had gleaned after hours of exhaustive interrogation.

“Pettijohn had a massage in the spa?” he asked, reviewing the notes.

“Yeah.” One of the detectives swallowed a large mouthful of pizza. “Right after he got here.”

“Did you question the masseur?”