The Alibi

“I don’t remember exactly. A few months ago, I think.”

“Were you robbed?”

“No, I think it was just some neighborhood kids up to mischief.”

“Hmm. Okay, thanks.” He turned off the recorder.

Perkins held her chair for her as she stood up. “This is getting very old, very fast, Smilow.”

“No apologies, Frank. I’ve got a murder to solve.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. You’re harassing Dr. Ladd while the culprit’s trail grows colder.”

He nudged his client toward the door. Hammond tried to keep his eyes off her but couldn’t. She must have felt his stare because she looked over at him as she moved past. Consequently they were looking at each other when Smilow said, “Who’s your boyfriend?”

She turned quickly toward the detective. “Boyfriend?”

“Your lover.”

This time the barb worked. Alex’s self-control slipped. She didn’t exercise her customary caution, or hear her lawyer’s admonishment for her not to speak. She reacted on reflex. “I don’t have a lover.”

“Then how do you account for the sheets we found in your dirty clothes hamper that are stained with blood and semen?”

* * *

“That story about covering for a patient was pure fiction,” Steffi chortled. “I recommend that you charge her without further delay.”

She, Smilow, and Hammond had remained behind after Frank Perkins had furiously hustled his client out. The two men weren’t listening to anything Steffi had to say, however. They were squared off like gladiators about to engage in a fight to the finish. Last one to die wins.

Hammond got in the first thrust. “Where the hell do you get off—”

“I don’t give a damn what you think about my tactics. I’ll do this my way.”

“You want her to walk?” Hammond fired back. “You keep up that bullshit about her personal life, Frank Perkins will be all over that. A sheet in her clothes hamper? Jesus,” he said, sneering in disgust.

“Don’t forget the robe,” Steffi interjected. That was the part she found most amusing. “Miss Goody-two-shoes fucks with her robe on.”

Hammond looked at her with fire in his eyes, but Smilow demanded his attention. “Why did she lie about having a boyfriend?”

“How the hell do I know?” Hammond yelled. “How the hell do you know? She explained that she wasn’t presently involved with anyone. Enough said.”

“Hardly,” Steffi threw in. “The semen stains—”

“Have nothing to do with her seeing Pettijohn last weekend!”

“Maybe not,” she said curtly. “It’s plausible that she nicked her leg shaving, as she explained. Okay, that accounts for the blood, although I think it should be typed. But sperm is sperm. Why would she deny having a personal relationship with a man if it doesn’t somehow relate to Pettijohn?”

“There could be a thousand reasons.”

“Name one.”

Hammond pushed his face close to hers. “Okay, here’s one. It’s none of your goddamn business who she sleeps with.”

The cords in his neck were strained. His face was red, and a vein in his forehead was ticking. She had seen him furious with cops, judges, juries, her, himself. But she had never seen him this angry before. It raised questions in her mind, questions that she would mull over when she was alone and had time to think about them carefully. Now she said, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

“Because I know what he’s capable of.” He pointed at Smilow. “He finesses evidence to make his case.”

“We gathered this evidence during a legal search,” Smilow said, straining the words through his teeth.