The Alibi
Bobby whipped his head around. A newcomer, escorted by another guard, wore a lightweight summer suit and necktie. He was clean-shaven, but he still looked a little ragged, probably because of the sling supporting his r
ight arm. He introduced himself as Hammond Cross.
“I’ve heard of you. D.A.’s office, right?”
“Special assistant solicitor for Charleston County.”
“I’m impressed,” Bobby said, resuming his modulated voice. “Frankly, I don’t care if you’re Tinkerbell, so long as you came to escort me out of here.”
“That was the deal, wasn’t it?”
Cross was a smooth customer. Bobby immediately resented the sophistication that came naturally to him.
He motioned for the guard to open Bobby’s cell, but then he was ushered into a room reserved for prisoner/solicitor conferences. “I don’t consider this release, Mr. Cross. I made a deal yesterday. Or have you conveniently forgotten?”
“I’m aware of the deal, Bobby.”
“Well, fine! Then do what you’ve got to do to set wheels into motion.”
“Not until we’ve talked.”
“If I’m talking to you, I want a lawyer present.”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“But you’re—”
“Sit down and shut up, Bobby.”
He was fit, but not all that beefy, this Hammond Cross. Besides that, he was the walking wounded. Arrogantly, Bobby rolled his shoulders. “Harsh words coming from a man with his arm in a sling.”
Cross’s eyes took on a glint almost as hard and cold as Smilow’s. While it didn’t frighten Bobby, exactly, it intimidated him enough to sit down. He glared up at Cross. “Okay, I’m sitting. What?”
“You can’t possibly appreciate how much I would love to beat the shit out of you.”
Bobby gaped at him, speechless.
Cross’s lips had barely moved, and his voice was soft, but the hostility behind his statement made the hair on the back of Bobby’s neck stand on end. That and the fact that every muscle in Cross’s body was flexed as though about to split open his skin.
“Look, I don’t know what your beef is, but I made a deal.”
“And I made another one,” Cross said blandly. “With one of the investors—make that a former investor—in the Speckle Island project.”
He let that sink in a moment. Bobby tried hard not to squirm in his chair.
“This individual is willing to testify against you in exchange for clemency. We’ve got a laundry list of charges for your activities on Speckle Island that are irrelevant to the deal you made yesterday. It would probably bore you for me to list them all, but taking them in alphabetical order, arson would be first.”
Bobby’s palms were sweating. He wiped them on his pants legs. “Listen, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about my sister.”
“Useless,” Cross said with a wave of dismissal. “She didn’t kill Pettijohn.”
“But your own people—”
“She didn’t do it,” he repeated. Then he smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You’re out of chips, Bobby. You’ve got nothing to bargain with. You’re going to be in one of our jails for a while. And when South Carolina gets tired of housing and feeding you, the authorities down in Florida can’t wait to have a crack at you.”
“Fuck that! And fuck you,” Bobby shouted, lunging from his chair. “I want to talk to my lawyer.”
He took two steps forward before Cross placed his left palm against his sternum and shoved him back into the chair with so much impetus it almost tipped over with him. Then Cross leaned over him so closely that Bobby had to angle his head back until it strained his neck.