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Nowhere. “Sorry to have bothered you. Thanks.”
Hammond took the records with him, although he didn’t think they would yield the valuable clue he had hoped they might. He had left Harvey Knuckle on a high, having got the computer whiz to admit that both Smilow and Steffi had coerced him into getting them information on Pettijohn.
But now that he reflected on it, what did that prove? That they were as interested as he in seeing Lute get his comeuppance? Hardly a breakthrough. Not even a surprise.
He wanted so desperately for Alex to be innocent, he was willing to cast doubt on anyone and everyone, even colleagues who, these days, were doing more to uphold law and order than he was.
Despondently, he let himself into his apartment, moved straight into the living room, and turned on the TV. The anchorwoman with the emerald green contact lenses was just introducing the lead story. Masochistically, he watched.
Except for the arm sling, his bandages were covered by his clothing, but his complexion looked waxy and wan in the glare of the leeching TV lights, making his day-old beard appear even darker. When asked about his injury, he had dismissed the mugging as inconsequential and cut to the chase.
Being politically correct, he had complimented the CPD for an excellent job of detective work. He had dodged specific questions about Alex Ladd and said only that Trimble’s statement had been a turning point in the investigation, that their case was solid, and that an indictment was practically ensured.
Standing just behind his left shoulder, lending support, Steffi had nodded and smiled in agreement. She photographed well, he noted. The lights shone in her dark eyes. The camera captured her vivacity.
Smilow also had been swarmed by media, and he received equal time on the telecasts. Unlike Steffi, he had been uncharacteristically restrained. His remarks were diluted by diplomacy and more or less echoed Hammond’s. He referred to Alex’s connection to Bobby Trimble only in the most general terms, saying that the jailed man had been integral to making a case against her. He declined to reveal the nature of her relationship to Lute Pettijohn.
He never referenced her juvenile record, but Hammond suspected that this omission was calculated. Smilow didn’t want to contaminate the jury pool and give Frank Perkins grounds for a change of venue or mistrial, assuming the case made it to trial.
Video cameras captured a granite-jawed Frank Perkins ushering Alex out. That segment was the most difficult for Hammond to watch, knowing how humiliating it must have been for her to be in the spotlight as the prime suspect in the most celebrated homicide in Charleston’s recent history.
She was described as thirty-five years old, a respected doctor of psychology with impressive credentials. Beyond her professional achievements, she was lauded for her participation in civic affairs and for being a generous benefactor to several charities. Neighbors and colleagues who had been sought for comment expressed shock, some outrage, calling the speculation on her involvement “ludicrous,” “ridiculous,” and other synonymous adjectives.
When the anchorwoman with the artificially green eyes segued into another story, Hammond turned off the set, went upstairs, and drew himself a hot bath. He soaked in it with his right arm hanging over the rim of the tub. The bath eased some of the soreness out of him, but it also left him feeling light-headed and weak.
In need of food, he went downstairs and began preparing scrambled eggs.
Working with his left hand made him clumsy. He was further incapacitated by a dismal foreboding. When remembered in posterity, he didn’t want to be a dirty joke. He didn’t want it to be said, “Oh, you remember Hammond Cross. Promising young prosecutor. Caught a whiff of pussy, and it all went to hell.”
And that’s what they would say. Or words to that effect.
Over their damp towels and sweaty socks in the locker room, or between glasses of bourbon in a popular watering hole, colleagues and acquaintances would shake their heads in barely concealed amusement over his susceptibility. He would be considered a fool, and Alex would be regarded as the piece of tail that had brought about his downfall.
He wanted to lash out at those imagined gossips for their unfairness. He wanted to lambast them for making lewd remarks about her and their relationship. It wasn’t what they thought it was. He had fallen in love.
He hadn’t been so doped up on Darvocet last night that he didn’t remember telling her that this was the real thing for him, and had been from the first. He had met her less than a week ago—less than a week—but he had never been more sure of anything in his life. Never before had he been so physically attracted to a woman. He had never felt such a cerebral, spiritual, and emotional connection to anyone.
For hours at that silly fair, and later in his bed at the cabin, they had talked. About music. Food. Books. Travel and the places they wanted to visit when time allowed. Movies. Exercise and fitness regimens. The old South. The new South. The Three Stooges, and why men loved them and women hated them. Meaningful things. Meaningless things. Endless conversations about everything. Except themselves.
He had told her nothing substantive about himself. She certainly hadn’t divulged anything about her life, present or past.
Had she been a whore? Was she still? If she was, could he stop loving her as quickly as he had started? He was afraid he couldn’t.
Maybe he was a fool after all.
But being a fool was no excuse for wrongdoing. He and his guilty conscience were becoming incompatible roommates. He was finding it increasingly difficult to live with himself. Although he hated to give his father credit for anything, Preston had opened his eyes today and forced him to confront something he had avoided confronting: Hammond Cross was as corruptible as the next man. He was no more honest than his father.
Unable to stomach the thought, or the scrambled eggs, he fed them to the garbage disposal.
He wanted a drink, but alcohol would only have increased the lingering muzziness in his head and left him feeling worse.
He wanted his arm to stop throbbing like a son of a bitch.
He wanted a solution to this goddamn mess that threatened the bright future he had planned for himself.
Mostly, he wanted Alex to be safe.
Safe.
