“Hell of a week.”
“To say the least.”
He knelt to help her pick up the scattered papers. She thanked him as she gathered the materials back into the folder.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said. “Hammond told you about Basset?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty damn smart of Hammond to figure it out.”
“But not long before you did. He told me that when he shared his suspicion with you early this morning, you admitted that it had crossed your mind that Steffi might be involved.”
“It had, but I didn’t follow up. Frankly because I was so glad Pettijohn was dead.” He looked her in the eye. “Dr. Ladd, I never really thought you were the killer. I’m sorry about some of the questions.”
She accepted the apology with a small nod. “It’s hard for us to back down once we’ve taken a stand. I was a viable suspect, and you didn’t want to be wrong.”
“More than that. I didn’t want Hammond to be right.”
An awkward silence fell between them. It was relieved when his cell phone chirped. “Smilow.”
He listened. His face remained expressionless. “I’m on my way.” He disconnected. “Steffi shot Hammond. He’s okay,” he said quickly. “But he got her to admit on the wire that she killed Pettijohn. She’s in custody.”
Alex didn’t realize how anxious she had been until pent-up tension ebbed out of her and she sank into a chair. “Hammond’s all right?”
“Perfectly.”
“So it’s over,” she said softly.
“Not quite. He’s holding a press conference in half an hour. Can I offer you a lift?”
Chapter 39
Because the temporary Charleston County Judicial Building had such limited space, Monroe Mason had asked if his press conference could be held downtown in city hall. His request had been graciously granted.
Out of respect for the man who had served the community so well for so long, many, who typically rushed headlong toward the weekend at five o’clock on Friday afternoon, had congregated to hear the formal announcement of his retirement.
That’s what they had come to hear.
They got more than they bargained for. A head start on the weekend didn’t seem such a sacrifice when rumors began to circulate about what had transpired in the same hotel suite where Lute Pettijohn had been found dead less than a week ago. One of the solicitor’s own staff had been arrested for the murder.
The room was already crowded when Hammond entered behind Mason and the rank and file of the County Solicitor’s Office. Even Deputy Solicitor Wallis, looking gray and ravaged by chemotherapy, had found the strength to attend. Only Stefanie Mundell was absent as they took seats on the dais.
The first row of spectator seats was occupied by reporters and cameramen. Behind them were three rows reserved for city, county, and state officials, invited clergymen, and assorted dignitaries. The remainder of the folding chairs were for guests.
Among them were Hammond’s parents. His mother returned his hello nod with a cheerful little wave. Hammond also acknowledged his father, but Preston’s visage remained as stony as those gracing Mount Rushmore.
That morning, Hammond had called Preston with the deal he had referenced to Bobby Trimble. It was this: He would recommend to
the attorney general that no charges be brought against his father if Preston would testify against Trimble.
Of course that was tantamount to Preston’s admitting to his own knowledge of the terrorist activities that had taken place on Speckle Island. He had separated himself from the venture, but not in time to relieve him of culpability.
“That’s the deal, Father. Take it or leave it.”
“Don’t issue me an ultimatum.”
“You admit your wrongdoing, or you go to jail denying it,” Hammond had stated with resolve. “Take the deal.”