The Alibi

“Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evening through the month of August,” she read out loud.

Within minutes she was in her car and on her way out of the city, driving toward Beaufort. She didn’t know what she would do when she got there. Follow her nose, she supposed. But if she could—by a stroke of luck or an outright miracle—shoot a hole in Alex Ladd’s alibi, Hammond would fore

ver be in her debt. Or, if the psychologist’s alibi held up, at least he would be forewarned. He wouldn’t be unpleasantly surprised in the courtroom. Either way, he would owe her. Big time.

Until he officially dismissed her, she was technically still on retainer. If she came through for him on this, he would be undyingly grateful and wonder what he had ever done without her. He might even recommend her for a permanent position in the D.A.’s office.

If nothing else, he would appreciate her for seizing the initiative and acting on her own razor-sharp instincts, which not even oceans of booze had dulled. He would be so proud!

* * *

“Sergeant Basset?”

The uniformed officer tipped down the corner of the newspaper he was reading. When he saw Hammond standing on the opposite side of his desk, he shot to his feet. “Hey, Solicitor. I have that printout you requested right here.”

The CPD’s evidence warehouse was Sergeant Glenn Basset’s domain. He was short, plump, and self-effacing. A bushy mustache compensated for his bald head. Lacking aggressiveness, he had been a poor patrolman, but was perfectly suited for the desk job he now held. He was a nice guy, not one to complain, satisfied with his rank, an affable fellow, friendly toward everyone, enemy to none.

Hammond had called ahead with his request, which the sergeant was flattered to grant. “You didn’t give me much notice, but it was only a matter of pulling up the past month’s records and printing them out. I could go back further—”

“Not yet.” Hammond scanned the sheet, hoping a name would jump out at him. It didn’t. “Do you have a minute, Sergeant?”

Sensing that Hammond wished to speak to him privately, he addressed a clerk working at a desk nearby. “Diane, can you keep an eye on things for a minute?”

Without removing her eyes from her computer terminal, she said, “Take your time.”

The portly officer motioned Hammond toward a small room where personnel took their breaks. He offered Hammond a cup of the viscous coffee standing in the cloudy Mr. Coffee carafe.

Hammond declined, then said, “This is a very delicate subject, Sergeant Basset. I regret having to ask.”

He regarded Hammond inquisitively. “Ask what?”

“Is it within the realm of possibility—not even probable, just possible—that an officer could… borrow… a weapon from the warehouse without your knowledge?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s not possible?”

“I keep strict records, Mr. Cross.”

“Yes, I see,” he said, giving the computer printout another quick scan.

Basset was getting nervous. “What’s this about?”

“Just a notion I had,” Hammond said with chagrin. “I’ve turned up empty on the weapon that killed Lute Pettijohn.”

“Two .38s in the back.”

“Right.”

“We’ve got hundreds of weapons in here that fire .38s.”

“You see my problem.”

“Mr. Cross, I pride myself on running a tight ship. My record with the force—”

“Is impeccable. I know that, Sergeant. I’m not suggesting any complicity on your part. As I said, it’s a delicate subject and I hated even to ask. I simply wondered if an officer could have fabricated a reason to take a weapon out.”

Basset thoughtfully tugged on his earlobe. “I suppose he could, but he would’ve still had to sign it out.”