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“No, you don’t have to tell me,” Hammond said in an angry mutter.
Preston never sat back and let the cards fall as they may. He always stacked the deck in his favor. His philanthropy on Speckle Island had disarmed Hammond and practically assured that he would not be held accountable for any wrongdoing that had taken place on the sea island. But just in case Hammond had in mind to continue pursuing it, Preston had upped the ante, raised the stakes, and increased the pressure.
“Look, Mason, I’ve got to run. Lots going on today.”
“Fine. Just remember five o’clock.”
“No. I won’t forget.”
Chapter 37
Loretta swished her feet in the tub of cool water where she’d been soaking them for almost half an hour.
Bev came down the hallway, yawning and stretching. “Mom? You’re already up? You didn’t sleep long.”
“Too much on my mind,” she said absently. Then, looking up at Bev, she asked, “Are you sure you checked for messages when you came in this morning? I hope nothing’s wrong with our voice mail.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Mom.” Bev turned toward her, a guilty look on her face. “You did have a message from Mr. Cross. I just didn’t want to give it to you.”
“How come? What did he say?”
“He said never mind about the guy from the fair.”
Loretta looked at her with patent disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“I thought he said ‘the fair.’ ”
“No, are you sure he said never mind about him?”
“I’m certain of that part. Pissed me off. After all the hard work—Careful, Mom, you’re sloshing water on the floor.”
Loretta was on her feet, hands planted solidly on her hips. “Has he gone crazy?”
* * *
Bobby Trimble hadn’t counted on jail. Jail stunk. Jail was for losers. Jail was for the old Bobby, maybe, but not for the one he had become.
He had spent the night sharing a cell with a drunk who had snored and farted with equal exuberance throughout the night. He’d been promised that he would be released first thing this morning, as soon as he could be processed out. That was part of the deal he’d struck with Detective Smilow and the bitch from the D.A.’s office—no more than one night of incarceration.
But come this morning, they were taking their sweet time. They served breakfast. At the smell of food, his cell mate rolled off the top bunk barely in time to make it to the open toilet, where he puked for five full minutes. When he was finally empty, he climbed back into the top bunk and passed out again, but not before stumbling into Bobby and soiling his clothes so that he, too, smelled like vomit.
Of course, Bobby didn’t take any of this mistreatment quietly. He voiced his complaints loudly and frequently. He ranted and raved, but to no avail. He paced the cell. As the hours crawled by, he sank into a deep funk. Pessimism set in with a vengeance.
It seemed he couldn’t buy a break.
Things had been going from sugar to shit ever since Pettijohn got killed. That hadn’t been in Bobby’s game plan. He was no saint, but he wanted no part of a murder rap. If painting Alex guilty—and who knew? maybe she was—would get him off the hook, that’s what he would do. But in the meantime, he would be on a short leash. Until after her trial, his ass belonged to Charleston County. No partying. No women. No drugs. No fun.
Nor was he a hundred thousand dollars richer, as he had expected to be. He had never collected the blackmail money. It remained unknown whether or not Alex had collected the cash from Pettijohn, but that was a moot point. He didn’t have it.
His future was looking bleak and uncertain, the only surety being that he was going nowhere fast as long as he remained cooped up in here.
Coming off his bunk, he pressed himself against the bars. “What’s taking so freaking long?”
His questions were ignored. The guards were impervious to his demands.
“You don’t understand. I’m not an ordinary prisoner,” he told a guard as he ambled past his cell. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Wish I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one, Bobby.”
