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“—on a woman? After getting this far, how could you behave in such a—”
“Behave?” Hammond barked a scornful laugh. “You’ve got your nerve, confronting me about a behavior issue. What about your behavior, Father? What kind of moral measuring stick did you set as my example? Maybe I’ve readjusted mine to match yours. Although I would definitely draw the line at cross-burnings.”
His father blinked rapidly, and Hammond knew he had struck a chord.
“Are you Klan?”
“No! Hell, no.”
“But you knew about all that, didn’t you? You knew damn well what was happening on Speckle Island. Furthermore, you sanctioned it.”
“I got out.”
“Not entirely. Lute did. He got himself murdered, so he’s off the hook. But you’re still vulnerable. You’re getting careless, Dad. Your name is on those documents.”
“I’ve already made reparation for what happened on Speckle Island.”
Ah, his famous quick jab/uppercut. As usual, Hammond hadn’t seen it coming.
“I went to Speckle Island yesterday,” Preston told him calmly. “I met with the victims of Lute’s appalling terrorism, explained to them that I was mortified when I learned what he was doing, and that I separated myself from the partnership immediately. I gave each family a thousand dollars to cover any damage done to their property and, along with my heartfelt apology, made a substantial contribution to their community church. I also established a scholarship fund for their school.” He paused and gave Hammond a sympathetic smile. “Now, in light of this philanthropic gesture, do you really think a criminal case could be made against me? Try it, son, and see how abysmally you fail.”
Hammond felt dizzy and nauseated, and it wasn’t attributable to the heat or to his injuries. “You bought them off.”
Again that beatific smile. “With money taken out of petty cash.”
Hammond couldn’t remember a time when he wanted to hit someone more. He wanted to grind his fist against his father’s lips until they were bruised and bleeding, until they could no longer form that condescending smirk. Curbing the impulse, he lowered his voice and moved his face close to his father’s.
“Don’t be smug, Father. It’s going to cost you more than some petty cash to make this go away. You’re not off the hook yet. You are one corrupt son of a bitch. You define corruption. So do not come to me with lectures about behavior. Ever again.” Having said that, he turned and headed for the parking lot.
Preston grabbed his left arm and roughly pulled him around. “You know, I actually hope it comes to light. You and this gal. I hope somebody has got pictures of you between her legs. I hope they publish them in the newspaper and show them on TV. I’m glad you’re in this fix. It would serve you right, you goddamn little hypocrite. You and your self-righteous, do-gooding, Boy-Scouting attitude have sickened me for years,” he said, sneering the words.
He poked Hammond hard in the chest with his blunt index finger. “You’re as corruptible as the next man. Up till now you just hadn’t been tested yet. And was it greed that caused you to stumble off the straight and narrow path? No. The promise of power? No.” He snickered.
“It was a piece of tail. As far as I’m concerned, that’s where the real shame lies. You could have at least been corrupted by something a little harder to come by.”
The two men glared at each other, their animosity bubbling to the surface after simmering for years beneath thick layers of resentment. Hammond knew that nothing he said would make a dent in his father’s iron will, and suddenly he realized how little he cared. Why defend himself and Alex to a man he didn’t respect? He recognized Preston for what he was, and he didn’t like him. His father’s opinion of him, of anything, no longer mattered because there was no integrity or honor supporting it.
Hammond turned and walked away.
* * *
Smilow had to wait half an hour in the Charles Towne Plaza lobby before one of the shoeshine chairs became vacant. “Shine’s holding up just fine, Mr. Smilow.”
“Just buff them, then, Smitty.”
The older man launched into a discussion of the Atlanta Braves’ current slump.
Smilow cut him off. “Smitty, did you see this woman in the hotel the afternoon Mr. Pettijohn was killed?” He showed him the photograph of Alex Ladd that had appeared in the afternoon edition of the newspaper. He’d enlarged it to better define her features.
“Yes, sir, I did, Mr. Smilow. I saw her on the TV this afternoon, too. She’s the one y’all think murdered him.”
“Whether or not the grand jury indicts her next week will depend on the strength of our evidence. When you saw her, was she with anyone?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
He showed him Bobby Trimble’s mug shot.
