The Alibi

“Yes, Hammond,” she replied solemnly.

“And you kept quiet about it.”

“It was his crime, not yours. Preston couldn’t be punished without you getting hurt. I didn’t want that to happen. You know I would love to have the top job. I’ve made no secret of it.”

“But not if it meant getting into bed with Pettijohn.”

She shuddered. “I hope you meant that figuratively.”

“I did. Thanks for coming clean.”

“Actually, I’m glad it’s out in the open. It’s been like a fester.” She dropped the paper clip. “Now what’s up?”

He sat down across from her, balancing on the edge of the seat and leaning forward as he spoke. “What I’m about to tell you must remain strictly between us,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “Do I have your confidence?”

“Implicitly.”

“Good.” He took a deep breath. “Alex Ladd did not kill Lute Pettijohn.”

That was the big proclamation? After that grand buildup, she’d been expecting a heart-rending confession of their affair, maybe an earnest plea for forgiveness. Instead his verbal drumroll had heralded only another pathetic petition for his secret lover’s innocence.

Her temper surged, but she forced herself to lean back in her chair in a deceptively relaxed posture. “Yesterday you were gung-ho to take the case to the grand jury. Why this sudden reversal of opinion?”

“It’s not sudden, and I was never gung-ho. All along I’ve felt we had the wrong person. There are too many factors that don’t add up.”

“Trimble—”

“Trimble’s a pimp.”

“And she was his whore,” she fired back. “It appears she still is.”

“Let’s not go there again, okay?”

“Agreed. It’s a tired argument. I hope you’ve got a better one.”

“Smilow killed him.”

Her jaw involuntarily went slack. This time, she truly couldn’t believe that she had heard him correctly. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

“Hammond, what in God’s name—”

“Listen for a minute,” he said, patting the air between them. “Just listen, and then if you disagree, I’ll welcome your viewpoint.”

“Save your breath. I can almost assure you that my viewpoint is going to differ.”

“Please.”

Last Saturday evening when she had teasingly asked Smilow if he had murdered his former brother-in-law, she had intended it as a joke, albeit a bad one. She had asked him out of pure orneriness, trying to provoke him. But Hammond was deadly serious. Obviously he considered Smilow a viable suspect. “Okay,” she said with an exaggerated shrug of surrender. “Lay it on me.”

“Think about it. The crime scene was practically sterile. Smilow himself has made several references to how pristine it was. Who would know better how to leave no trace of himself than a homicide detective who makes his living picking up after murderers?”

“It’s a good point, Hammond, but you’re reaching.”

He was reaching in order to protect his new lover. It was deeply insulting that he would go to such lengths for Alex Ladd’s sake. All that schoolboy stammering about intimacy and entrusting her with his secrets, and clearing the air, and their special, elevated relationship had been just so much bullshit. He was trying to use her to get his lady love off the hook.

She wanted to tell him that she knew about their inappropriate affair, but that would be an impetuous and foolish move. While it would be gratifying to see him humbled, she would sacrifice a long-term advantage. Her knowledge of their secret affair was a trump card. Playing it too soon would reduce its effectiveness.