The Alibi

His colleague never stopped working. In an oversize briefcase, she carried aroun

d with her what amounted to a miniature desk. Upon joining the Charleston County Solicitor’s Office, she’d had a police scanner installed in her car, and she listened to it like other motorists listened to music or talk radio. It was a standing joke among the other attorneys and police officers that Steffi was the prosecution’s equivalent of an ambulance-chasing defense attorney.

She dumped her plethora of belongings into a chair, stepped out of her high heels, and pulled her shirttail from her skirt waistband. She fanned her midriff with the loose blouse. “God, it’s stifling outside. I’m smothering. Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

“I told you I was going to be at my cabin.”

“I called there. About a million times.”

“I turned off the ringer.”

“For heaven’s sake why?”

Because I was totally involved in a woman and didn’t want to be disturbed, he thought. But he said, “You must have the radar of a bat. I just came in through the back door. How’d you know I was here?”

“I didn’t. Your place is closer to CPD than mine. I figured you wouldn’t mind me waiting here until I heard something.”

“About what? Who were you talking to? What’s so urgent?”

“Urgent? Hammond?” Facing him, hands on hips, she appeared at first to be mystified. Then her expression changed to one of profound amazement. “Oh, my God, you don’t know.”

“Apparently not.” Her dramatics didn’t impress him. Steffi was always dramatic.

So much for sailing. He didn’t want to invite Steffi to come along, and she wasn’t easy to shake, especially when her spirits were running this high. He suddenly felt very tired. “I need something to drink. What can I get you?”

He retraced his steps into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Water or beer?”

She padded along behind him. “I can’t believe it. You honestly don’t know. You haven’t heard. Where is that cabin of yours, Outer Mongolia? Doesn’t it have a TV?”

“Okay, beer.” He took two bottles from the refrigerator, opened the first one, and extended it to her. She took it, but she continued staring at him as though his face had just broken out in oozing sores. He opened the second beer and tipped the bottle toward his mouth. “The suspense is killing me. What’s got you so hyped?”

“Somebody murdered Lute Pettijohn yesterday afternoon in his Charles Towne Plaza penthouse.”

The beer bottle never made it to Hammond’s mouth. He lowered it slowly, staring at her with total disbelief. Seconds ticked by. Gruffly, he said, “That’s impossible.”

“It’s true.”

“Can’t be.”

“Why would I lie?”

At first immobilized by shock, he eventually moved. He ran his hand around the back of his neck where tension had already gathered. Operating on autopilot, he set his beer on the small bistro table, pulled a chair away from it, and lowered himself into it. When Steffi sat down across from him, he blinked her into focus. “You did say murdered?”

“Murdered.”

“How?” he asked, in that same dry voice. “How did he die?”

“Are you okay?”

He gazed at her as though he no longer understood the language, then he nodded absently. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just…” He spread his hands.

“Speechless.”

“Flabbergasted.” He cleared his throat. “How’d he die?”

“Gunshot. Two bullets in the back.”

He lowered his eyes to the granite tabletop, staring sightlessly at the condensation forming on the cold beer bottle while he assimilated the staggering news. “When? What time?”