The Alibi

Silly or not, she allowed herself the same weaknesses she would have advised a patient to allow himself. When one’s carefully constructed world begins to fall apart, one is entitled to a few natural reactions, including bitter anger, even rage, certainly childlike fear.

She remembered being a child afraid. The bogeyman had nothing on Bobby Trimble. Very capably he could destroy lives. He had nearly destroyed hers once, and he was threatening to destroy it again. That’s why she feared him, now even more than before.

That’s why she could be startled at bathrobes, and lie, and do irresponsible things such as involve a decent man like Hammond Cross in something ugly.

But only at first, Hammond. Only at the start.

She stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain. For a long while, she stood beneath the spray, head bowed, letting the hot water drum against her skull while the rising steam swirled around her.

A Saturday night in Harbour Town had seemed like such a safe lie. It placed her a credible distance from Charleston, in a crowded place where it was plausible that no one would remember seeing her. Damn the luck!

What she had told them about the pistol was the truth, but there was little chance of them believing that story now. Having been trapped in one lie, everything she said thereafter would sound untrue.

Steffi Mundell wanted her to be guilty. The prosecutor hated other women. Alex had determined that the instant they met. Her studies had covered personalities like Mundell’s. She was ambitious and shrewd and competitive to a fault. Individuals like Steffi were rarely happy because they were never satisfied, not with others, but especially not with themselves. Expectations were never met because the bar was continually being raised. Satisfaction was unattainable. Steffi Mundell was an overachiever to the extreme and to her detriment.

Rory Smilow was harder to read. He was cold, and Alex had no doubt he could be cruel. But she also detected in him an inner demon with which he constantly struggled. The man never knew a moment of inner peace. His outlet was to torment others in an effort to make them as miserable as he. That kernel of discontent left him vulnerable, but he battled it with a vengeance that made him dangerous to his enemies—such as murder suspects.

Between the two of them, it would be hard to choose whom she feared most.

Then there was Hammond. The others thought of her as a murderer. His opinion of her must be even lower than that. But she couldn’t dwell on him or she would become immobilized by despondency and remorse. She had no surplus time or energy to devote to regretting what might have been had they met at another time and place.

If ever a man had a chance of touching her—her mind and heart, the spot in her spirit where Alex Ladd really lodged—it might have been him. He might have been the one allowed to relieve the self-imposed loneliness and solitude, fill the emptiness, relieve the silence, share her life.

But romantic notions were a luxury she couldn’t afford. Her priority must be to get out of this predicament with her practice, her reputation, and her life intact.

She squeezed fragrant gel into a scrubbing sponge and used the lather liberally. She shaved her legs. She shampooed he

r hair. She rinsed for a long time, letting the hot water ease her muscles even if it couldn’t ease her anxiety.

Eventually she turned off the faucets and sluiced off excess water with her hands, then she whisked back the curtain.

Never one to scream, she did.

Chapter 21

Bobby was in the chips again.

He considered it only a temporary setback that he hadn’t yet collected his money from Alex. She would produce. She had too much at stake not to.

In the meantime, however, he wasn’t without funds. Thanks to the two coeds with whom he had spent the night, he was several hundred dollars richer. While they lay snoring in his bed, he had packed his belongings and sneaked out. The experience should teach them a valuable lesson. He had felt almost altruistic.

Finding other accommodations was a minor inconvenience when weighed against the reward. As soon as he was settled in another hotel across town, in a room with a river view, he ordered an enormous room-service breakfast of eggs, ham, grits and tasso gravy, a short stack, and an extra portion of hash browns, which he hadn’t particularly wanted, but ordered just because he was feeling so flush.

Next on his agenda was a shopping expedition. A new suit of clothes wasn’t an extravagance. It was a business expense. If he paid income taxes, he could have counted his wardrobe as an allowable deduction. In his line of work, one had to look sharp.

He had spent the remainder of the afternoon lounging around the hotel pool, working on his tan.

Now, decked out in his new suit of cream-colored linen with a royal blue silk shirt underneath, he entered a bar that had come highly recommended by a cabbie. “Where can I find some action?”

“Action?” Then, sizing Bobby up in the rearview mirror, the taxi driver had drawled, “You’re hustling pussy, aren’t you, sport?”

Flattered, Bobby smiled in reply.

“I know just the place.”

The moment Bobby entered the bar, he realized the driver knew his stuff. This was a place for prime pickings. The music was blaring. Lights flashing. Dancers sweating. Waitresses scrambling to fill the drink orders being placed by people on a desperate quest for fun. Lots of single women. Fair game.

It took him two watered-down drinks before he homed in on his target. She sat at a table alone. No one had asked her to dance. She smiled a lot, to whomever happened to be passing, evidence that she was feeling self-conscious, conspicuous, and in need of someone to talk to. Best of all, she had glanced his way several times while he pretended not to notice.