“Hammond, honestly! Talk about third degree. All I know is that this Trimble—that’s it. Bobby Trimble. He was arrested last night and used his one telephone call to call Alex Ladd. She wasn’t at home. One of the cops over there at detention was sharp enough to pick up on the name, knew that she’d been connected to the Pettijohn murder, and notified Smilow.”
Hammond replaced the T-shirt in the drawer, then slammed it shut. “On second thought, don’t leave. It’ll be hard to drive with my arm in a sling, so I’ll hitch a ride with you. Give me five minutes.”
While he was getting ready, Steffi went downstairs to call Smilow and tell him why she was running late.
“Mugged?”
“That’s what he says.”
After a short pause, Smilow asked, “Do you have reason to doubt him?”
“Not really. It’s just…” She stared thoughtfully at the doorway of the powder room, now blocked by a Hefty bag stuffed with blood-soaked towels. “It just seems uncharacteristic for our Mr. Crime and Punishment to dismiss an assault with a switchblade. He tried to minimize his injuries, but he looks like he went fifteen rounds with a grizzly.”
“Maybe he’s just embarrassed for being so careless.”
“Maybe. Anyway, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
She didn’t tell him about Hammond’s lame excuse for not going to a hospital for treatment. The “old college friend” doctor was a transparent lie. Hammond had never been good at lying. He should take lying lessons from Alex Ladd. He seemed to admire that lady’s penchant for—
Steffi’s mind slammed on the brakes.
Staring into near space, her eyes unfocused, her head was assailed by unthinkable thoughts that whizzed through her consciousness with the speed of light. Holding those thoughts was like trying to catch comets.
Hammond came clumping down the stairs.
She joined him at the front door, but not before snatching one of the bloody hand towels from the trash bag and stuffing it into her satchel.
* * *
Bobby Trimble was scared spitless. But he would be damned before he let them see his fear. Fucking cops.
He owed his present situation to a dowdy, overweight, old-maid schoolteacher. It was an insult to his pride that such a pushover could bring about his downfall. She’d been no challenge at all. Her seduction had been boring and routine. He had struggled to stay awake through it. It had been all he could do to keep from dozing off.
Who would have guessed that the frump would turn out to be a femme fatale in the strictest sense?
Last night he had been well on his way to scoring big time with a widow lady from Denver who had diamonds as big as headlights in her ears and on both hands. They would have financed a luxurious lifestyle for a long time. Immediately she had revealed a raunchy sense of humor and spirit of adventure, so that’s what he had appealed to. With his hand up her skirt, he had been describing to her the hard-on she’d given him, sparing no anatomical details, when two cops grabbed him under the arms and hauled him out of the nightclub.
Outside, they had spread-eagled him against the hood of the squad car, frisked him and cuffed him like he was a common criminal, and read him his rights. Out the corner of his eye, he had spotted the Indiana schoolmarm standing nearby clutching a pair of patent leather shoes in one hand.
“Damn bitch,” he muttered now, just as the door swung open.
“What’s that, Bobby? Did you say something?”
The guy looked vaguely familiar, although Bobby couldn’t place him. He wasn’t tall, but he gave off that impression as he strode into the room. He was wearing a three-piece suit, which Bobby recognized as quality goods. His cologne smelled pricey, too.
He shook hands with Bobby’s pro bono lawyer, a guy named “Heinz, like the ketchup,”
who looked like a loser, and whose advice to Bobby so far had been to keep his trap shut until they knew what was going on. He then had sat down at the end of the small table and politely covered his yawns behind his hand. However, the man who’d just come in had made him sit up and look sharp.
Taking the chair across from Bobby, he introduced himself as Detective Rory Smilow. Bobby didn’t trust his smile any further than he could have thrown the suave son of a bitch. He said, “I’m here to make your life a whole lot easier, Bobby.”
Bobby didn’t trust the promise, either. “Is that a fact? If so, you can start by hearing my side of this story. That bitch is lying.”
“You didn’t rape her?”
Bobby’s facial features went slack. In contrast, his sphincter tightened. “Rape?”
“Mr. Smilow, my client and I were under the impression that this was a purse-snatching offense. Miss Rogers’s complaint doesn’t mention rape,” Heinz nervously pointed out.