The Alibi

Only rarely did a muscle-flexing case like the Lute Pettijohn murder come along. That’s why he needed it. That’s why he had omitted telling Monroe Mason about his meeting with Pettijohn. He simply had to have this case, and he was unwilling to let anything stand in his way of taking it to trial. It was the perfect vehicle to gi

ve him the public exposure he needed before November.

It was also the perfect vehicle to spite his father.

That was the most compelling reason of all. Several years before, Hammond had made a career decision to move from defender to prosecutor. Preston Cross had vociferously opposed that decision, citing the differences in earning potential and telling Hammond he was crazy to settle for a public servant’s salary. Not long ago Hammond had learned that a prosecutor’s income level wasn’t his father’s major hang-up.

The switch had placed them in opposite camps. Because Preston was partners with Lute Pettijohn in some unscrupulous land deals, he had feared being prosecuted by his own son. Only recently had Hammond made that discovery. It had sickened him. Their confrontation over it had been bitter, adding a new dimension to the enmity between them.

But he couldn’t think about that right now. Whenever he dwelled on his father, he became mentally bogged down. Peeling away the layers of their relationship for closer examination was time-consuming, emotionally draining, and ultimately unproductive. He held out little hope for a complete reconciliation.

For the time being, he shelved that problem and focused on what had immediately become his priority—the case.

The timing of his breakup with Steffi had been fortuitous. He was free of an encumbrance that was making him unhappy and might have hindered his concentration. She would be pissed to learn that she’d been assigned the copilot’s seat, but he could deal with her peevishness as the need arose.

For Hammond Cross, today spelled a new start—which actually had begun last night.

Steering his car away from the Pettijohn mansion with one hand, he reached into his breast pocket for the slip of paper he had tucked there earlier and consulted the address he’d written down.

* * *

Breathlessly, Steffi barged into the hospital room. “I got here as fast as I could. What’ve I missed?”

Smilow had reached her on her cell phone shortly before she left Hammond’s place. As promised, he had called when the attending physician granted permission for his patients to be questioned.

“I want in on this, Smilow,” she had told him over the phone.

“I can’t wait on you. The doctor might rescind the offer if I don’t jump on it.”

“Okay, but go slow. I’m on my way.”

Hammond’s condominium neighborhood wasn’t far from the hospital complex. Even so, she had exceeded every speed limit to get here. She was very anxious to know if the food poisoning patients had seen anyone near the penthouse suite of Pettijohn’s hotel.

Following her abrupt arrival, she paused in the doorway for a moment, then crossed the tile floor toward the hospital bed. The patient in it was a man about fifty years old, whose face was the color of bread dough and whose eyes were sunken into his skull and rimmed with dark circles. His right hand was hooked up to an IV drip. A bedpan and a kidney-bean-shaped basin were within easy reach on the bedside table.

A woman that Steffi presumed was his wife was seated in a chair beside the bed. She didn’t look sick, just exhausted. She was still dressed for sight-seeing, wearing sneakers, walking shorts, and a T-shirt on which was spelled out in glittering letters: GIRLS RAISED IN THE SOUTH.

Smilow, who was standing beside the bed, made the introductions. “Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, Steffi Mundell. Ms. Mundell is from the district attorney’s office. She’s closely involved with the investigation.”

“Hello, Mr. Daniels.”

“Hi.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I’ve stopped praying for death.”

“I guess that indicates some improvement.” She looked across him at his wife. “You didn’t get sick, Mrs. Daniels?”

“I had the she-crab soup,” she replied with a wan smile.

“The Daniels are the last ones I’ve talked to,” Smilow said. “The others in their group couldn’t help us.”

“Can they?”

“Mr. Daniels is a definite maybe.”

Seeming none too happy about it, the man in the bed grumbled, “I might have seen somebody.”