The Alibi

“He was found by a hotel housekeeper a little after six.”

“Last evening.”

“Hammond, I’m not stuttering. Yes. Yesterday.”

“I’m sorry.”

He listened as she described what the chambermaid had discovered. “The head injury was more than a bump, but John Madison thinks the bullets killed him. Naturally he can’t officially rule cause of death until he’s completed the autopsy. All the particulars won’t be known until then.”

“You talked to the M.E.?”

“Not personally. Smilow filled me in.”

“So he’s on it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course he’s on it,” Hammond muttered. “What does he think happened?”

For the next five minutes, Hammond listened while she gave him the known details of the case. “I thought the office should be in on this one from the beginning, so I spent the night with Smilow—in a manner of speaking.” Her impish smile seemed grossly inappropriate. Hammond merely nodded and gestured impatiently for her to continue. “I was with him as he followed up on some leads, precious few that they are.”

“Hotel security?”

“Pettijohn died without a whimper. No sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle. And we can eliminate camera surveillance. All we’ve got on videotape is a monotonous sound track and writhing naked people.”

“Huh?”

When she told him about the bogus security cameras, he shook his head with dismay. “Jesus. He made such a big deal of that system and how much it had cost. The gall of the man.”

Hammond was well acquainted with the unsavory personality traits and unscrupulous business dealings of Lute Pettijohn. He had been covertly investigating him for the attorney general for six months. The more he had learned about Pettijohn, the more there was to disdain and dislike. “Any witnesses?”

“None so far. The only person in the hotel who had any real contact with him was a masseur in the spa, and he’s a dead end.” She then told him about the outbreak of food poisoning. “Discounting the kids, there are seven adults Smilow wants to question. Neither of us is very optimistic about the outcome, but he’s promised to call as soon as the doctor gives him the green light. I want to be there.”

“You’re becoming very personally involved, aren’t you?”

“It’ll be a huge case.”

The statement lay between them like a thrown gauntlet. The rivalry was unspoken, but it was always there. Hammond humbly conceded that he usually held the advantage over her, and not because he was smarter than she. He’d ranked second in his law school class, but Steffi had been first in hers. Their personalities were what distinguished them. His served him in good stead, but Steffi’s worked against her. People didn’t respond well to her abrasiveness and aggressive approach.

His distinct advantage, he admitted, was Monroe Mason’s blatant favoritism of him. A position had come open soon after Steffi joined the office. Both were qualified. Both were considered. But there was never really any contest as to who would be promoted. Hammond now served as special assistant solicitor.

Steffi’s disappointment had been plain, although she had handled it with aplomb. She wasn’t a sore loser and hadn’t carried a grudge. Their working relationship continued to be more cooperative than adversarial.

Even so, like now, silent challenges were sometimes issued. For the time being neither picked it up.

Hammond changed the subject. “What about Davee Pettijohn?”

“In what regard? Do you mean, What about Davee Pettijohn as a suspect? Or as the bereaved widow?”

“Suspect?” Hammond repeated with surprise. “Does someone think she killed Lute?”

“I do.” Steffi proceeded to tell him about accompanying Smilow to the Pettijohn mansion and why she considered the widow a likely suspect.

After hearing her out, Hammond refuted her theory. “First of all, Davee doesn’t need Lute’s money. She never did. Her family—”

“I’ve done my research. The Burtons had money out the kazoo.”

Her snide tone didn’t escape him. “What’s bugging you?”