The Alibi

“You don’t know him. Old college friend. Owed me a favor.”

“What’s his name?”

“What difference does it make? You don’t know him.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Ask.”

“Why didn’t you want to file a crime report?”

“It wouldn’t have been worth the hassle. The mugger didn’t get anything.”

“He assaulted you with a deadly weapon.”

Looking supremely perturbed and addressing her as though she were a dimwit, he said, “It wouldn’t have done any good to report it. I couldn’t ID the guy. Honestly I don’t even know if he was white or black or Hispanic, tall or short, thin or fat, hairy or bald. It was dark. The incident was over in a flash, and all I really saw was that switchblade coming at me. That’s what made an impression on me, and that’s why I got the hell out of there.

“It would be a waste of time to recount the episode to the police because all they would do is file the report, and that would be that. They’ve got better things to do, and so do I.” With a grimace, he cradled his right arm in his left. “Now would you please leave so I can shower and dress?”

“Need any help?”

“Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

“Why don’t you take the day off? I could come by around noon, fix you some lunch, and tell you what we learn from this guy.”

Hammond opened his drawer of T-shirts. She had often teased him about his collection of nearly threadbare T-shirts, which he loved to wear around the house. He picked the top one from off the stack. It must have been a real favorite, she thought, because he smiled and lifted it to his face, breathing it in. “What guy?”

“I haven’t told you!” She slapped her forehead. “Seeing you like this made me forget what brought me over. As I was driving to work, Smilow called me on my cell. There’s a guy in our city jail.”

His fascination with the T-shirt was lost on her, but he was still fiddling with it. He remarked absently, “There are lots of guys in our city jail.”

“But only one claims to be Alex Ladd’s brother.”

Hammond whipped around. His face went chalk-white. Steffi supposed the sudden blanching was from pain. Turning so abruptly, he had banged the elbow of his injured right arm on the corner of the open drawer. He put his left arm out to stabilize himself.

“I think you’re crazy to even consider going into the office today, Hammond. Look at you. You can hardly stand up and you’re as white as a sheet. Your arm—”

“Forget my goddamn arm.”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“Then stop mothering me.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine. What about this guy?”

“His name is Bobby Turnbull. No, that’s not it. Something like that.”

“What’s he in jail for?”

“Smilow didn’t get that far before I cut him off and came straight here.”

“What did he—”