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“Whatever he was doing, it must have been bad, because he agreed to pay Bobby one hundred thousand dollars cash to keep quiet about it.”
Smilow picked up the story again. “But in Bobby’s own words, he ‘wasn’t born yesterday.’ Lute capitulated almost too quickly to his demands. Bobby was mistrustful of the haste with which Lute had agreed. Collecting the cash was risky business. Even Bobby is smart enough to figure out that he could have been walking into a trap.”
“Enter his sister.”
“Half-sister,” Hammond corrected. “And she didn’t ‘enter.’ ”
“Okay, he looked her up and recruited her.”
“He found her on a fluke. He spotted her picture in the Post and Courier.”
No doubt Alex rued the day she had signed on as a volunteer to help organize Worldfest, a ten-day film festival scheduled in Charleston each November. A seemingly innocuous newspaper write-up and an accompanying group photo had exposed her to her nemesis.
On the recording Trimble had said, “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw Alex’s picture in the newspaper. I read the names twice before I realized she must’ve changed hers. I looked up her address in the phone book, staked out her place, and sure enough, Dr. Ladd was my long-lost half-sister.”
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Hammond said, “Until he saw that write-up, he didn’t even know she lived in Charleston. After years of hiding from him behind her new identity, she was not pleased to see him.”
“Or so she claims,” Steffi said.
“If he were your brother, would you be happy to have him reappear in your life?”
“Maybe. If we’d been successful partners before.”
“Partners my ass. He used her sexuality in the worst imaginable way, Steffi.”
“You believe she was an innocent?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hammond, she was a whore.”
“She was twelve!”
“Okay, she was a young whore.”
“She was not.”
“She granted sexual favors for money. Isn’t that the definition of a whore?”
“Children.” Smilow’s quiet rebuke put an end to their shouting match. He gathered a stack of written materials into his case file and passed it to Hammond. “That’s everything you need to take to the grand jury. They meet next Thursday.”
“I know when they meet,” Hammond snapped. “I’ve got some other cases pending. Can’t this wait a month, until they meet again? What’s the rush?”
“You have to ask?” Smilow said sardonically. “I have to tell you the importance of this case?”
“All the more reason to make sure we’ve got it sewed up before the grand jury hears it.” He grappled for another argument. “You made Trimble a sweet deal. A measly purse snatching. One night in jail, max. He’s probably laughing his ass off.”
“Your point being?”
“Trimble might have killed Pettijohn, and is using his sister as a scapegoat.”
Smilow thought about it for a second, then shook his head. “There’s no evidence placing him at the crime scene, whereas physical evidence puts Alex Ladd in the room with Pettijohn. Daniels’s statement puts her there at the estimated time of his death.”
“Frank Perkins could easily fudge that time frame. And you’ve got no weapon.”
“If we had the weapon, I would charge her today,” Smilow said. “As it is, remind the grand jury that Charleston is surrounded by water. She could have dumped the gun at any time Saturday evening.”
