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omeone from the county solicitor’s office, specifically one Hammond Cross, who had himself been in Pettijohn’s company that afternoon.
“Jesus.” Plowing his fingers through his hair and holding his head between his hands, he almost surrendered to the disbelief and despair that assailed him. What the hell was he going to do?
Well, he couldn’t collapse from within, which is what he felt like doing. What a luxury it would be to slink away from this office, leave Charleston, leave the state, run away and hide, let this mess erupt on its own, and spare himself having to withstand the incendiary lava flow of scandal that would inevitably follow.
But he was made of sterner stuff than that. He had been born with an indomitable sense of responsibility, and his parents had nourished that trait every day of his life. He could no more fathom running away from this than he could imagine sprouting wings.
So he forced himself to confront a second point that seemed unarguable—withholding her name from him hadn’t been the flirtation he had mistaken it for. They had been together at the fair for at least an hour before he even thought to ask her name. They’d laughed because it had taken them that long to get around to what was usually the first order of business when two people meet and must make their own introductions.
“Names aren’t really that important, are they? Not when the meeting is this amiable.”
He agreed. “Yeah, what’s in a name?” He proceeded to quote what he could remember of the passage from Romeo and Juliet.
“That’s good! Have you ever thought of writing it down?”
“In fact I have, but it would never sell.”
From there it had become a running joke—his asking her name, her declining to tell him. Like a sap he had thought they were playing out the fantasy of making love to an anonymous stranger. Namelessness had been an enticement, part of the adventure, integral to the allure. He had seen no harm in it.
What was disturbing but likely was that Alex Ladd had known his name all along. Theirs hadn’t been a random meeting. It wasn’t happenstance that she had arrived at that dance pavilion shortly after him. Their meeting had been planned. The remainder of the evening had been orchestrated in order to either embarrass or totally compromise him and/or the solicitor’s office.
To what extent remained to be seen. But even the slightest extent could be calamitous for his burgeoning career. Even a hint of scandal would be a stumbling block. One of this magnitude would certainly damage, if not destroy, his hopes of ever succeeding Monroe Mason and distinguishing himself as the top-ranking law enforcer of Charleston County.
Leaning over his desk, he buried his face in his hands again. Too good to be true. A trite but sound adage. During law school he and his friends had hung out in a bar called Tanstaafl, an acronym for “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” His fantasy evening with the most exciting woman he had ever met not only came with strings attached, those strings were probably going to form a noose that would ultimately hang him.
What an idiot he had been not to recognize the carefully baited trap for what it was. Ironically, he didn’t blame the person, or persons—if she was in league with Pettijohn—who had trapped him as much as he blamed himself for being so goddamn callow.
With both eyes wide open, he had walked into the oldest snare known to man. Sex was a trusty method by which to compromise a man. Countless times throughout recorded history, it had proven itself to be timely, reliable, and effective. He wouldn’t have thought himself that gullible, but obviously he was.
Gullibility was forgivable. Obstruction of justice wasn’t.
Why hadn’t he immediately admitted to Smilow and Steffi that he recognized the woman in the sketch?
Because she could be completely blameless. This Daniels could be mistaken. If in truth he had seen Alex Ladd in the hotel, the timing of his seeing her would become critical. Hammond knew almost to the minute when she had appeared in the dance pavilion. Given the distance she would have driven to get there, and taking the traffic congestion into consideration, she couldn’t have made it if she had left the hotel… He did a quick calculation. Say, after five-thirty. If the coroner pinpointed the time of death anytime after that, she couldn’t be the murderer.
Good argument, Hammond. In hindsight. A terrific rationalization.
But the fact of the matter was, it had never entered his mind to identify Alex Ladd.
From the heart-stopping instant he looked at the drawing and knew with absolute certainty who the subject was, he knew with equal certainty that he wasn’t going to reveal her name.
When he saw the face on the artist’s sketch pad and remembered it from the vantage point of his pillow, he didn’t weigh his options, didn’t deliberate the pros and cons of keeping silent. His secret had been instantly sealed. At least for the time being, he was going to protect her identity. Thereby, he had consciously breached every rule of ethic he advocated. His silence was a deliberate violation of the law he had sworn to uphold, and an intentional attempt to impede a homicide investigation. He couldn’t even guess at the severity of the consequences he might pay.
All the same, he wasn’t going to turn her over to Smilow and Steffi.
The loud rap on his office door came a millisecond before it opened. He was about to rebuke the secretary for disturbing him after expressly asking not to be bothered, but the harsh words were never spoken.
“Good morning, Hammond.”
Fuck. This is all I need.
As always when in his father’s presence, Hammond put himself through something similar to a pre-flight inspection. How did he look? Were all systems and parts in optimum working condition? Were there any malfunctions that required immediate correction? Did he pass muster? He hoped his father wouldn’t be examining him too closely this morning.
“Hello, Dad.” He stood and they formally shook hands across his desk. If his father had ever hugged him, Hammond had been too young to recall it.
He gathered up his suit coat and hung it on a wall hook, set his briefcase on the floor, and invited his father to sit down in the only spare chair in the cramped room.
Preston Cross was considerably stockier and shorter than his son. But his lack of stature didn’t reduce the impact he made on people, whether in a crowd or one-on-one. His ruddy complexion was kept perpetually sunburned by outdoor activities that included tennis, golf, and sailing. As though on command, his hair had gone prematurely white when he turned fifty. He wore it like an accessory to ensure he was given the respect he demanded.
