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“I have a meeting in five minutes,” he lied, coming around the corner of his desk. “Tell Mom hi. I’ll try and call her later today.”
“She and some of her friends are calling on Davee this afternoon.”
“I’m sure Davee will appreciate that,” Hammond said, remembering how Davee had scorned the whole idea of receiving callers who would flock to her house more out of curiosity than to pay their respects.
At the door, Preston turned. “I made no secret of how I felt when you left the law firm.”
“No, sir, you didn’t. You made it abundantly clear that you thought it was the wrong choice,” Hammond said stiffly. “But I stick by my decision. I like my job here, on this side of the law. Beyond that, I’m good at it.”
“Under Monroe Mason’s tutelage you’ve done well. Exceptionally well.”
“Thank you.”
The compliment didn’t warm Hammond because he no longer valued his father’s opinion. Furthermore, Preston’s praise always came with a qualifier attached.
“I like the looks of all those A’s, Hammond. But that B-plus in chemistry is unacceptable.”
“The runners you batted in on that triple won the game. Too bad you couldn’t have made it a grand slam. That would have really been something!”
“Second in your law school class? That’s wonderful, son. Of course, it’s not as good as placing first.”
That had been the pattern since his childhood. His father didn’t break with tradition this morning.
“You now have a chance to validate your decision, Hammond. You abandoned the promise of a full partnership in a prestigious criminal law firm and went into public service. That would make a whole lot more sense if you were the boss.” With false affection, his hand landed on Hammond’s shoulder like a sack of cement. Already he had forgotten, or had chosen to disregard, their recent argument.
“This is the case that could earn you your spurs, son. Pettijohn’s murder case is an open-door invitation to the solicitor’s office.”
“What if your misdeeds cancel my chances, Father?”
With obvious impatience he said, “That’s not going to happen.”
“But if it does, considering your ambition for me, wouldn’t that be a cruel irony?”
* * *
Dr. Alex Ladd didn’t see patients on Mondays.
She used that day to catch up on paperwork and personal business. Today was a special Monday. Today she was paying off Bobby Trimble and getting rid of him, she hoped forever. That was the deal they had struck last night. She would give him what he demanded, and he would disappear.
However, she had learned through experience that Bobby’s promises were worthless.
As she unlocked the door to her office, she wondered how many times in the future she would be forced to go to her safe to extract
cash. For the rest of her life? That was a bleak prospect, but a valid one. Now that Bobby had found her again, it was unlikely he would leave her alone.
Her well-appointed office reminded her of all she stood to lose if Bobby were to expose her. With her patients’ comfort uppermost in mind, she had selected understated but expensive furnishings. Like the other rooms of the house, it was a blend of traditional styling with a few antique pieces used for accent.
The Oriental rug muted her footsteps. Sunlight shone in through the windows that overlooked the downstairs piazza and, beyond that, the walled garden, which she kept beautifully maintained through all four seasons. The blooming plants and flowers that thrived in Charleston’s semi-tropical climate were at their peak. Basking in the humidity, they provided patches of vibrant color in the cultivated beds.
She had been fortunate to find the house already restored and renovated with modern conveniences. It had needed only personal touches to make it hers. At one time this front corner room had been the formal parlor of the single house. The matching room adjacent to it, originally a dining room, now functioned as her living room. When she entertained, she took her guests out. Meals at home were eaten in the kitchen, which was the back room on the first floor. Upstairs were two large bedroom suites. Each room in the house opened onto one of the two shady piazzas. The jasmine-covered wall surrounding the garden guaranteed privacy.
Alex swung aside the framed painting that concealed her wall safe. Deftly she spun the dial on the combination lock and when she heard the tumblers line up, she cranked the handle down and pulled open the heavy door.
Inside were several stacks of currency, banded together according to denomination. Perhaps because she had known want, even hunger, in her early years, she was never without cash on hand. The habit was childish and unreasonable, but one she forgave herself, considering the basis of it. It wasn’t sound economics to keep the money in a safe where it earned no interest. But it gave her a sense of security to know that it was there, available should an emergency arise. Such as now.
She counted out the agreed-upon amount and placed the money in a zippered bag. Because of what it represented, the sack felt inordinately heavy in her hand.
Her hatred for Bobby Trimble was so intense it frightened her. She didn’t begrudge giving him the money. Happily she would give him even more if it meant that she never had to see him again. It wasn’t the amount that she resented, it was his intrusion into the life she had built for herself.
