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Hammond had given him seventy-two hours to think it over and discuss it with his solicitor. He was betting that his father would agree to his terms, an intuition strengthened when Preston’s hard stare wavered and he looked away first.
Was it too much to hope that his father was experiencing a twinge of conscience? Although there would always be chasms they couldn’t cross, he hoped they could find reconciliation on some level. He wanted to be able to call him Dad again.
Davee was also there, looking like a movie star. She blew him a kiss, but when a reporter poked a microphone at her and asked for a comment, Hammond saw her tell him to fuck off. In those words. But smiling sweetly.
He was watching the rear door when Smilow escorted Alex in. Their gazes locked and held, gobbling up each other. They had spoken on their cell phones while en route, but that wasn’t as satisfactory as seeing for himself that she was, finally, safe. From prosecution. From Steffi. From Bobby.
Smilow motioned her toward an empty chair next to one in which Frank Perkins was seated. The lawyer stood and hugged her warmly. Smilow relinquished her to Perkins, then moved down the outer aisle toward the dais. He motioned Hammond over. Nonplussed, Hammond excused himself and stepped down from the temporary platform.
“Good work,” Smilow told him.
Knowing the pride that the compliment must have cost the detective, Hammond said, “I just showed up and did what you advised me to do. If you hadn’t coordinated it, it wouldn’t have worked.” He paused a moment. “I still can’t believe she came after me. I would have expected a surrender and confession first.”
“Then you don’t know her very well.”
“I came to realize that. Almost too late. Thanks for all you did.”
“You’re welcome.” Smilow glanced toward Davee and caught her looking at him. Unless Hammond’s eyes were deceiving him, the detective actually blushed. Quickly he returned his attention back to Hammond. “This is for you.” He extended a manila envelope toward Hammond.
“What is it?”
“A lab report. Steffi gave it to me this morning. It matches your blood to that found on Dr. Ladd’s sheets.” Hammond’s lips parted, but Smilow shook his head sternly. “Don’t say anything. Just take it and destroy it. Without this, any allegations Steffi makes about you sleeping with a suspect will be unsubstantiated. Of course, since Dr. Ladd turned out not to be the culprit, it’s really only a technicality.”
Hammond looked at the deceptively innocuous envelope. If he accepted it, he would be as guilty as Smilow had been in the State v. Vincent Anthony Barlow case. Barlow was guilty as sin of murdering his seventeen-year-old girlfriend and the fetus she was carrying, but Smilow had fudged some exculpatory evidence which Hammond was obligated by law to disclose.
It wasn’t until after he had won a conviction that he learned of Smilow’s alleged mishandling of the case. He could never prove that Smilow had deliberately excluded the mitigating evidence in his discovery, so an investigation into malfeasance was never conducted. Barlow, now serving a life sentence, had filed an appeal. It had been granted. The young man would get another trial, to which he was entitled no matter how guilty he was.
But Hammond had never forgiven Smilow for making him an unwitting participant in this miscarriage of justice.
“Don’t be a Boy Scout,” the detective said now in an undertone. “Haven’t you earned all the badges you need?”
“It’s wrong.”
Smilow lowered his voice even more. “We don’t like each other, and we both know why. We operate differently, but we’re working the same side. I need a tough prosecutor and trial attorney like you over there in the solicitor’s office, not a glad-handing politician like Mason. You’ll do far more good by serving this county as the top law officer than you would by making a confession of sexual misconduct, which nobody gives a damn about anyway. Think about it, Hammond.”
“Hammond?”
He was being summoned back up onto the dais so they could begin. Without turning, he said, “Coming.”
“Sometimes we have to bend the rules to do a better job,” Smilow said, staring hard at him.
It was a persuasive argument. Hammond took the envelope.
* * *
Mason was drawing his speech to a close. The reporters’ eyes were beginning to glaze. Some of the cameramen had lowered their cameras from their shoulders. The account of Steffi’s attempt on Hammond’s life and subsequent arrest had held them spellbound, but this portion of Mason’s address had caused their interest to wane.
“While it pains me that someone in our office is presently in police custody, soon to be charged with a serious crime, I’m equally proud that Special Assistant County Solicitor Hammond Cross was instrumental in her capture. He demonstrated extraordinary bravery today. That’s only one of the reasons why I’m endorsing him as my successor.”
That received a thunderous round of applause. Hammond stared at Mason’s profile while his mentor extolled his talent, dedication, and integrity. The envelope with the incriminating lab report was resting on his knees. He imagined it to be radiating an angry red aura that belied Mason’s accolades.
“I won’t bore you any longer,” Mason boomed in the good-natured, straightforward manner that had endeared him to the media. “Allow me to introduce the hero of the hour.” He turned and motioned for Hammond to join him.
The cameramen repositioned their video recorders on their shoulders. The newspaper reporters perked up and almost in unison clicked their ballpoints.
Hammond laid the envelope on the slanted tray of the lectern. He cleared his throat. After thanking Mason for his remarks, as well as for the confidence he had placed in him, he said, “This has been a remarkable week. In many ways it seems like much more time than that has passed since I learned that Lute Pettijohn had been murdered.
“Actually, I don’t consider myself a hero, or derive any pleasure from knowing that my colleague, Steffi Mundell, is to be charged with that murder. I believe the evidence against her is compelling. As one familiar with the case—”
