The Alibi

Hammond snickered. “I wouldn’t put it past you to jack off on those sheets yourself.”

Smilow looked like he might strike Hammond. With an effort, he pulled air into his nostrils, which were pinched almost shut by rage.

Steffi thought it prudent to step in. “How often would you guess that a Miss Priss like Alex Ladd does her laundry?”

“At least every three or four days,” Smilow said stiffly, his hard eyes still fixed on Hammond.

“I’m not believing this.” Hammond backed against the wall as though trying to distance himself from the discussion.

Steffi said, “That means that in the last few days, Alex Ladd has had sex and then lied about it. When you mentioned a lover, she didn’t simply dec

line to identify him, or ask what bearing her love life had on our murder investigation, or tell us all to take a flying leap. She blanched, she lied, and then when trapped in her lie, she tried qualifying it: ‘What I meant to say is that I’m not presently involved with someone.’ ”

Both men were listening, or appeared to be. But since neither commented, she continued. “It could be semantics. Maybe she’s taking the politician’s way out. Not exactly lying, but not exactly telling the truth, either. Maybe she doesn’t have a steady lover, but she enjoys occasional, recreational sex.”

Smilow’s brows drew together. “I don’t think so. We didn’t find any oral contraceptives in the medicine cabinet. No diaphragm, or even condoms. Nothing to suggest sexual activity on a more or less routine basis. Consequently, that’s why I was frankly surprised when we found those stained items in the hamper.”

“But you must have thought of her in a sexual connotation, Smilow. Otherwise, where were you going with that question about her having sex with Pettijohn?”

“Nowhere in particular,” he admitted. “It was saying more about Lute than her.”

“It was a mean attempt to trip her up.”

Steffi ignored Hammond’s sulky remark. “So you don’t really believe that she went down on her knees in that hotel suite and gave Pettijohn head?”

Smilow grinned. “Maybe that’s what caused his stroke.”

Hammond practically launched himself away from the wall. “Is discussing Dr. Ladd’s sex life going to be the extent of this meeting? Because if it is, I’ve got real work to do.”

Smilow nodded him toward the door. “Feel free to leave.”

“What else is there to talk about?”

“The break-in on her back door.”

“She explained that.”

Steffi was becoming increasingly impatient with Hammond’s obtuseness. “You didn’t believe that explanation, did you? She was obviously lying about that, too. Just as she’s been lying all along, about everything. What’s the matter with you? Usually you can smell a lie a mile away.”

“She claims the break-in occurred months ago,” Smilow said. “But the splintered wood hadn’t weathered. It was raw. The scratches on the metal lock were fresh, too. Besides these signs of a recent break-in, as meticulously as she’s groomed, and as immaculate as the house is, I can’t see her waiting months to have repair work done.”

“It’s still conjecture,” Hammond said. “All of it. Everything.”

“But to dismiss it would be preposterous,” Steffi argued.

“No more preposterous than tying up a bunch of unrelated, unsubstantiated guesses and considering them facts.”

“Some of them are facts.”

“Why do you want so badly for her to be guilty?”

“Why do you want so badly for her not to be?”

The ensuing silence was so sudden and tension-laden that the knock at the door sounded like a cannon blast.

Monroe Mason opened the door and poked his head around. “I heard that Dr. Ladd was being questioned again, and thought I’d come over and see how it was going. Not too well, I gather. I could hear the shouting as soon as I came through the security doors.”

Everyone mumbled greetings, then for half a minute no one said anything.