The Alibi

In other words, prey.

The light changed, and with a screech of tires, their car shot forward. They made a right turn at the next corner. Bobby switched lanes and made the same turn. The girls, glancing over their bare shoulders, were aware he was following them. He saw them laughing.

The BMW convertible whipped into the parking lot of a trendy luncheon restaurant. Bobby followed. He watched them as they made their way toward the entrance. They were dressed in short shorts that showed an inch of butt cheek and seeming miles of tanned legs. Their halter tops left little to the imagination. They were a walking, giggling, flirting reminder to Bobby of what he did best.

He made his way through the crowded restaurant and spotted them seated at a table on the patio beneath the shade of an umbrella, giving their drink order to a waitress. When she left, Bobby dropped into an empty chair at their table.

Their lips were glossy, framing very white, very straight teeth. Diamond studs glittered in their ears. They smelled of expensive perfume.

“I’m a vice cop,” he said in a sexy drawl. “Are you young ladies old enough to drink?”

They giggled.

“Don’t worry about us, officer.”

“We’re way past the age of consent.”

“Consent to do what?” he asked.

“We’re on vacation, so we’re open to just about anything.”

“And we do mean anything.”

He gave them a smile of naughty intent. “Is that right? And here I figured y’all for traveling missionaries.”

That brought on another round of giggles. The waitress arrived with two drinks. Bobby leaned back in his chair. “What are we drinking, ladies?”

He had scored.

* * *

The intrepid receptionist finally broke the invisible barrier into Hammond’s office. “That sketched suspect? She’s been identified as Dr. Alex Ladd. As we speak, she’s in Detective Smilow’s office undergoing questioning.”

His palms broke a cold sweat. “Did he arrest her?”

“Came in voluntarily is what Ms. Mundell said. But she has her solicitor with her. Are you on the way over there, or what?”

“Maybe later.”

The receptionist withdrew.

The ramifications of this news rebounded as quickly as echoes. Hammond was assailed by them. Smilow’s interrogation tactics could have wrung a confession from Mother Teresa. Hammond had no way of knowing how Alex Ladd might respond to them. Would she be hostile or cooperative? Would she have something to confess? When she saw him again, what might she reveal? What might he reveal?

To be on the safe side, he wanted to postpone an inevitable face-to-face meeting for as long as possible. Until he knew more about Alex Ladd, and learned the nature and extent of her involvement with Pettijohn, it was best for him to keep his distance from the case.

Ordinarily, that would have been doable. Except for rare exceptions, his office didn’t become directly involved until the detectives felt they had enough evidence to press formal charges, or for Hammond to make a case to the grand jury. Unlike Steffi, who didn’t know the meaning of finesse, he let the police department do its job until it was time for him to take over.

But this was one of those rare exceptions. His involvement was required, if for no other reason than politics. City and state officials, some of whom had been Pettijohn’s avowed enemies in life, others his cohorts, were using his murder as a political platform. Through the media, they were demanding a quick arrest and prosecution of his murderer.

Fanning public interest, an editorial in this morning’s paper had sounded a wake-up call to the sad truth that no one, not even a seemingly invulnerable individual like Lute Pettijohn, was safe from violence.

On the noon edition of the news, a reporter had conducted a man-on-the-street poll, asking people if they were confident that Pettijohn’s killer would be captured and justly punished.

The case was creating the media frenzy his father wished for.

What Hammond wished for was to avoid joining the fray for as long as possible. To that end, he spent another half hour creating busywork for himself.

Monroe Mason appeared immediately upon his return from lunch. “I hear Smilow’s already got a suspect.” His booming voice bounced off the walls of Hammond’s office like a racquetball.