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“He drew first blood.”
“What does that mean?”
“I got a call from Chief Crane this afternoon. Smilow lobbied for Steffi Mundell to prosecute the case. But I told Crane about the widow’s preference.”
“And?”
He chuckled. Monroe Mason thrived on politics more than he did the law. Hammond disliked the necessary politics associated with working for the county government, but it was the part of the job that Mason reveled in. “Davee had already given our chief of police an earful, too. She told him she wanted Smilow to find the killer and she wanted you to put him away. So this is how we worked it out.”
Hammond winced as he did when the dentist approached with the anesthetizing shot and told him to expect a slight sting.
“You and Smilow will lay your differences aside until this thing’s over. Got that?”
“We’re both professionals.” He was making no promises where Rory Smilow was concerned, but a cease-fire truce was an easy enough concession. Then Mason added the second condition.
“And I’m putting Steffi in there to act as referee.”
“What?” Trying to hide his anger and keep his voice down, Hammond said, “That’s a shitty deal point, Monroe. I don’t need a monitor.”
“That’s the trade-off, Hammond, take it or leave it.”
Hammond could hear Steffi conversing on her cell phone in the other room. “Have you told her about this arrangement yet?” he asked.
“Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. You got it straight, boy?”
“I’ve got it straight.”
Even so, Monroe Mason shouted it one more time. “Steffi’s assisting you and acting as a buffer between you and Smilow. Hopefully, she can keep one of you from killing the other before we get Lute’s murderer tried and convicted.”
Chapter 10
Her lungs felt ready to burst. Muscles were on fire. Joints were screaming for her to let up. But rather than slowing down, she increased her pace, running faster than she ever had, running harder than was healthy. She had several hundred calories of carnival food to burn off.
And a guilty conscience to try and outrun.
Sweat dripped into her eyes, causing them to blur and sting. Her breathing was loud and harsh; her mouth was dry. Heartbeats drummed in time to her rapid footfalls. Even when she didn’t think she could go one step farther, she stubbornly pushed on. Surely she had surpassed her previous best speed and level of endurance.
Even so, she could never run away from what she had done last night.
Running was her favorite form of aerobic exercise. She ran several times a week. She frequently participated in fund-raising races. She had helped organize one to raise money for breast cancer research. This evening, however, she wasn’t doing it altruistically, or for the fitness benefits derived from it, or to relieve workday tension.
This evening’s run was self-flagellation.
Of course, it was unreasonable to presume that today’s physical exertion would atone for yesterday’s transgressions. Atonement could only come to one who was genuinely and deeply remorseful. While she regretted that their meeting had been calculated, not capricious; while it hadn’t been the random encounter that he believed it to be; while a twinge of conscience had caused her to try and end it before it culminated in lovemaking, she had no remorse that it had evolved as it had.
Not for one moment did she regret the night she had spent with him.
“On your left.”
Courteously she edged to her right to allow the other runner to go past. Pedestrian traffic on the Battery was heavy this evening. It was a popular promenade, appealing to joggers, in-line skaters, or those out for a leisurely stroll.
This historically significant tip of the peninsula where the Ashley and Cooper rivers converged and emptied into the Atlantic was on every tourist’s agenda when visiting Charleston.
The Battery—comprised of White Point Gardens and the seawall—bore battle scars from wars, woes, and weather, as did all of Charleston. Once the site of public hangings, later a strategic defense post, the Battery’s main function today was to provide scenery and pleasure.
In the park across the street from the seawall, the ancient and proud live oak trees which had defied vicious storms, even Hurricane Hugo, shaded monuments, Confederate cannons, and couples pushing baby strollers.
There had been no break from the oppressive heat and humidity, but at least on the seawall overlooking Charleston Harbor and Fort Sumter in the distance, there was a breeze which made it almost balmy for the people who were out to grab the remnants of a beautiful dusk that spelled the end of the weekend.
