“Jealousy and money.”
He shook his head in disagreement. “She has her own lovers, Steffi. Why would she be jealous of Lute’s? And she has her own money. Probably more than Lute.”
“Well, I’m not ready to mark her off the list just yet.”
Leaving the other two to their speculations, Hammond wandered toward the bed. A book of sketches lay open on Daniels’s lap, picturing what seemed an endless variety of eye shapes. Hammond glanced down at Endicott’s rendering, but so far she was still working to get the shape of the face correct.
“Maybe a little thinner through here,” Mr. Daniels said, stroking his own cheek. The artist made the suggested adjustment. “Yeah, more like that.”
When they progressed to eyebrows and eyes, Hammond rejoined Steffi and Smilow. “What about former business associates?” he asked the detective.
“Naturally they’re being questioned,” Smilow answered with cool civility. “That is, those who don’t have prison as their alibi.”
Unless the cases had fallen under federal jurisdiction, Hammond had helped put some of those white-collar criminals behind bars. Lute Pettijohn had bent the rules often enough, frequently coming a hairbreadth away from criminal wrongdoing. He flirted with it, but never crossed the line.
“One of Pettijohn’s most recent ventures involves a sea island,” Smilow told them.
Steffi scoffed. “What else is new?”
“This one’s different. Speckle Island is about a mile and a half offshore and is one of the few that has escaped development.”
“That’s enough to give Pettijohn a hard-on,” Steffi remarked.
Smilow nodded. “He had set things in motion. His name isn’t on any of the partnership documents. At least not the documents we’ve been able to find. But be assured that we’re checking it out.” Looking at Hammond, he added, “Thoroughly.”
Hammond’s heart sank like a lead ball inside his chest. Smilow wasn’t telling him anything about Pettijohn’s Speckle Island venture that he didn’t already know. He knew much more, more than he wanted to know.
About six months ago, he had been asked by South Carolina’s attorney general to conduct a covert investigation into Pettijohn’s attempt to develop the island. His discoveries had been alarming, but none as much as seeing his own father’s name listed among the investors. Until he learned what connection, if any, Speckle Island had to Pettijohn’s murder, he was keeping his knowledge of this under wraps. Just as Smilow had rudely said to him, he would give the detective those details only when the time was right.
Steffi said, “One of those former associates might have held a grudge so strong that it drove him to commit murder.”
“It’s a viable possibility,” Smilow said. “The problem is, Lute operated in a circle of movers and shakers that included government officials on every level. His friends were men who wielded power of one kind or another. That complicates my maneuverability, but it doesn’t keep me from digging.”
If Smilow was digging, then Hammond knew the name of Preston Cross was lying out there like a buried treasure waiting to be disinterred. It was only a matter of time before his father’s alliance with Pettijohn was uncovered.
Silently Hammond cursed his father for placing him in this compromising position. Soon he might be forced to choose between duty and family loyalty. At the very least, Preston’s dirty dealing could cost Hammond the Pettijohn murder case. If it came to that, Hammond would never forgive him.
He glanced at the hospital bed, where the artist seemed to be making progress.
“Her hair. Was it long or short?”
“About here,” Daniels said, indicating the top of his shoulder.
“Bangs?”
“On her forehead, you mean? No.”
“Straight or curly?”
“More curly, I guess. Fluffy.” Again he used his hands to illustrate.
“She was wearing it down, then?”
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know too much about hairstyles.”
“Thumb through this magazine. See if there’s a picture in there that resembles her hair.”
Daniels frowned and worriedly glanced at the clock, but he did as instructed and began listlessly turning the pages of the hair fashion magazine.