The Alibi

“Not yet.”

He chuckled. “Sleep tight, Steffi.”

“Wait, are you going to call Hammond with this update?”

“Are you?”

After a pause, she said, “See you tomorrow.”

* * *

Hammond seriously considered not answering the telephone. He changed his mind seconds before the machine kicked in. Immediately he regretted it.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to answer.” His father’s tone of voice turned the simple statement into a reprimand.

“I was in the shower,” Hammond lied. “What’s up?”

“I’m in my car on my way back home. I just dropped your mother off at her bridge game. I didn’t want her driving in this rain.”

His parents had an old-fashioned marriage. The roles were traditional, clearly defined, and the lines never blurred. His father made all the major decisions independently; it would never have occurred to Amelia Cross to challenge that arrangement. Hammond couldn’t understand her blind devotion to an archaic system that robbed her of individuality, but she seemed perfectly content with it. He would never enflame his father or hurt his mother by pointing out the inequities of their relationship. Besides, his opinion of it didn’t matter. It had worked for them for more than forty years.

“How are things going with the Pettijohn case?”

“Fine,” Hammond replied.

Preston chuckled. “Could you elaborate a little?”

“Why?”

“I’m curious. I played nine holes with your boss this afternoon before it started raining. He said Smilow has questioned a female suspect twice, and that you were present both times.”

His father was more than idly curious. He wanted to know if his son was performing competently. “I’d rather not discuss it over a cell phone.”

“Don’t be silly. I want to know what’s going on.”

Trying to keep from sounding too defensive, Hammond gave him the highlights of Alex’s interrogation. “Her lawyer—”

“Frank Perkins. Good man.”

Preston was well apprised of the details. Hammond knew he wasn’t violating any confidentiality because it had already been violated. Preston’s friendship with Monroe Mason dated back to prep school days. If they had played nine holes of golf today, Mason would have already divulged the details, and there would be little left for Hammond to disclose.

“Perkins thinks we’ve got nothing on her.”

“What do you think?”

Hammond chose his words carefully, not knowing when something he said would come back to haunt—or trap—him. Unlike Alex, he wasn’t an accomplished liar. It wasn’t his habit to lie, and he disdained even the slightest fib. Yet he already had two whoppers of omission to his credit. He discovered he could lie to his father with relative ease.

“She’s been caught in a couple of lies, but in Frank’s able hands, they would probably be disregarded.”

“Why?”

“Because of our side’s failure to produce hard evidence linking her to the crime.”

“Mason says she lied about where she was that night.”

“Mason didn’t leave anything out, did he?” Hammond said under his breath.

“What’s that?”