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But it wasn’t Bobby on the threshold. Two uniformed policemen stood on either side of a man with pale eyes and a thin, unsmiling mouth. Alex’s heart plummeted, knowing already what had brought them to her home. Once again, her life was about to be pitched into chaos.
To conceal her anxiety, she smiled pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Ladd?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sergeant Rory Smilow, a homicide detective with Charleston P.D. I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Lute Pettijohn.”
“Lute Pettijohn? I’m afraid I don’t know—”
“You were seen outside his penthouse suite on the afternoon he was murdered, Dr. Ladd. So please don’t waste my time by pretending that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
She and Detective Smilow stared at one another, taking each other’s measure. It was Alex who finally relented. She stood aside. “Come in.”
“Actually, I was hoping you would come with us.”
She swallowed, although her mouth was dry. “I’d like to call my lawyer.”
“That isn’t necessary. This isn’t an arrest.”
She looked pointedly at the stoic policemen flanking him.
Smilow’s lips lifted in what could have passed as a wry smile. “Volunteering to be questioned without an attorney present would go a long way toward convincing me that you’re innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“I don’t believe that for an instant, Detective Smilow.” She scored a point. Her directness seemed to take him aback. “I’ll be happy to accompany you as soon as I notify my lawyer.”
Chapter 15
Rory Smilow sat on the corner of his desk. Unlike all other desks in the Criminal Investigation Division, his was uncluttered. The files and paperwork were neatly stacked. Thanks to Smitty’s shoeshine early that morning, his lace-up shoes reflected the overhead lights. His suit jacket remained on.
Alex Ladd was seated with her hands calmly clasped in her lap, legs decorously crossed. Smilow thought she was remarkably composed for someone who, appearance-wise at least, seemed out of place in a homicide detective’s office.
For half an hour they had been waiting for her solicitor, who had ag
reed to meet her there. If she was uncomfortable with the prolonged silence and Smilow’s close scrutiny, she gave no sign of it. She exhibited no fear or nervousness, merely a grudging tolerance for the inconvenience.
Solicitor Frank Perkins arrived looking flushed, rushed, and apologetic. Except for cleats, he was dressed for the golf course. “I’m sorry, Alex. I was on the tenth hole when I got your page. I came as soon as I could. What’s this about, Smilow?”
Perkins had a solid reputation and an excellent track record. Rarer than that, he was known to be a decent human being with unimpeachable integrity. Smilow wondered in what capacity the defense attorney had served Alex Ladd before, so he asked.
“It’s a rude question,” Perkins replied, “but I don’t mind answering if Alex doesn’t.”
“Please,” she said.
“Up till now, we’ve been social friends. We met a couple of years ago when she and Maggie, my wife, served on a Spoleto committee together,” he explained, referring to Charleston’s renowned arts festival in May.
“Then, to your knowledge, Dr. Ladd has never been faced with criminal charges before?”
“Come to the point, Smilow.” Perkins’s tone demonstrated why prosecutors considered him a tough adversary in the courtroom.
“I wish to question Dr. Ladd in connection to the Lute Pettijohn murder.”
Perkins’s jaw dropped. He gaped at them like he was waiting for the punch line. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Unfortunately, no, he’s not,” Alex said. “Thank you for coming, Frank. I’m terribly sorry I interrupted your golf game. Were you winning?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah,” he replied absently, still trying to digest what Smilow had told him.
