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His tone conveyed more than the four words. Steffi regarded him closely. “Why, Rory! Is it even remotely possible that Mr. Ice in Veins was once in l-o-v-e?”
“Excuse me?” They hadn’t noticed the nurse’s approach until she spoke to them. “My patient…” She hitched a thumb over her shoulder indicating Mr. Daniels’s room. “He wanted to know if you had left. When I told him you were out here, he asked me to tell you that he remembered something that might help you.”
Before she had finished speaking, they were on their feet.
Chapter 12
Hammond consulted the street address he had jotted down and tucked into his shirt pocket before leaving his place to visit Davee.
Uncertain that the telephone number for Dr. Ladd’s answering service was a Charleston exchange, Hammond had anxiously run his finger down a listing of physicians in the Yellow Pages until he found one Dr. A. E. Ladd. He knew immediately he had the right one because the after-hours number listed matched the one he had called from the cabin that morning.
Dr. Ladd was his only link to the woman he’d been with last night. Of course, talking to him was out of the question. Hammond’s short-term goal was only to locate his office and see what, if anything, he could learn from it. Later he would try and figure out how to go about approaching him.
Despite being preoccupied with his breakup with Steffi, and his disturbing conversation with Davee, and the Pettijohn murder and all that it implied, thoughts of the woman he had followed from the county fair and kissed at a gas station wouldn’t leave him alone.
It would be useless to try and ignore them. Hammond Cross did not accept unanswered questions. Even as a boy, he couldn’t be pacified with pat answers. He nagged his parents until they provided him with an explanation that satisfied his curiosity.
He’d carried the trait into adulthood. That desire to know not only the generalities, but the particulars, benefitted him in his work. He dug and continued to dig until he got to the truth, sometimes to the supreme frustration of his colleagues. Sometimes even he was frustrated by his doggedness.
Thoughts of her would persist until he learned who she was and why, after the incredible night they had spent together, she had walked out of his cabin and, consequently, out of his life.
Locating Dr. Ladd was an attempt, albeit a juvenile, pathetic, and desperate one, to find out something about her. Specifically, whether or not she was Mrs. Ladd. If so, that’s where it must end. If not…
He didn’t allow himself to consider the various if nots.
Having grown up in Charleston, Hammond knew the street’s general location, and it was only blocks away from Davee’s mansion. He reached it within minutes.
It was a short and narrow lane, where the buildings were shrouded in vines and history. It was one of several such streets within easy walking distance of the bustling commercial district, while seemingly a world apart. Most of the structures in this area between Broad Street and the Battery boasted historical markers. Some house numbers ended with a 1/2, indicating that an outbuilding to the main structure, such as a coach house or detached kitchen, had since been converted into a separate residence. Real estate was at a premium. It was a pricey neighborhood. The acronym for anyone living south of Broad was S.O.B.
It wasn’t surprising to Hammond that the doctor’s practice was located in a basically residential section. Many noncommercial professionals had converted older houses into businesses, often living in the top stories, which had been a Charleston tradition for centuries.
He left his car parked on a wider thoroughfare and entered the cobblestone lane on foot. Darkness had fallen. The weekend was over; people had retreated inside. He was the only pedestrian out. The street was shadowed and quiet, but overall friendly and hospitable. Open window shutters revealed lighted rooms that looked inviting. Without exception, the properties were upscale and well maintained. Apparently Dr. Ladd did very well.
The evening air was heavy and dense. It was as tangible as a cotton flannel blanket wrapping around him claustrophobically. In a matter of minutes his shirt was sticking to him. Even a slow stroll was enervating, especially when nervousness was also a factor.
He was forced to breathe deeply, drawing into his nostrils exotic floral scents and the salty-seminal tang of seawater from off the harbor a few blocks away. He smelled the remnants of charcoal smoke on which somebody had cooked Sunday supper. The aroma made his mouth water, reminding him that he had eaten nothing all day except the English muffin at his cabin.
The walk gave him time to think about how he was going to make contact with the doctor. What if he simply went up to the door and rang the bell? If Dr. Ladd answered, he could pretend that he obviously had been given the wrong address, that he was looking for someone else, apologize for disturbing him, and leave.
If she answered the door… what choice would he have? The most troubling question would have been answered. He would turn and walk away, never look back, and get on with his life.
All these contingencies had been based on the probability that she was married to the doctor. To Hammond that was the logical explanation for her placing a call to him furtively and then acting guilty when caught red-handed. Because she appeared the picture of health, and had certainly exhibited no visible symptoms of illness, it never had occurred to him that she might be a patient.
Not until he reached the house number. In the small square of yard demarcated by an iron picket fence stood a discreet white wooden signpost with black cursive lettering.
Dr. A. E. Ladd was a psychologist.
Was she a patient? If so, it was slightly unsettling that his lover had felt the need to consult her psychologist within moments of leaving his bed. He consoled himself by acknowledging that it was now commonplace to have a therapist. As confidants they had replaced trusted spouses, older relatives, and clergymen. He had friends and colleagues who kept standing weekly appointments, if only to ease the stress of contemporary life. Seeing a psychologist carried no stigma and was certainly nothing to be ashamed of.
Actually, he felt tremendously relieved. Sleeping with Dr. Ladd’s patient was acceptable. What was unacceptable was sleeping with his wife. But a cloud moved across that small ray of hope. If she was his patient, what then? It would be nearly impossible to learn her identity.
Dr. Ladd wouldn’t divulge information about his patients. Even if Hammond stooped to use the solicitor’s office as his entrée, the doctor would probably stand on professional privilege and refuse to open his files unless they were subpoenaed, and Hammond would never take it that far. His professional standards wouldn’t allow it.
Besides, how could he ask for information about her if he didn’t even know her name?
From the opposite side of the street, Hammond mulled over this dilemma while studying the neat brick structure in which Dr. Ladd had his office. It typified a unique architectural style—the single house, so called because from the street it was only one room wide, but was several rooms deep. This one had two stories, with deep side porches, or piazzas, running from front to back on both levels.
Behind an ornate gate, the front walkway extended straight up the right side of the yard to a front door painted Charleston Green—a near-black with only a dollop of green mixed in. The door had a brass knocker in its center, and like the front doors to most single houses, opened not into the house itself, but onto the piazza, from which one entered the house.
