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“Then I’m doubly sorry.” Glancing at Smilow, she said, “This is all so ridiculous. It’s a waste of time. I just want to get through it and get out of here.”
In a manner that looked like she was granting him permission to proceed, she nodded at Smilow. He leaned across his desk, clicked on a tape recorder, then stated their names, the time, and the date.
“Dr. Ladd, the attendant of a public parking lot on East Bay Street identified you by an artist’s sketch. Since the lot doesn’t have an automated ticketing system, he keeps a record of each car by writing down the license plate number and the time it came in.”
Unfortunately for Smilow, no record was kept of the time a car exited the lot. The charge was based on the time of entry. For any stay under two hours, the fee was five dollars. Incremental charges didn’t start until after that first one hundred twenty minutes. The charge was noted, but not the exact exit time.
“We traced you through your car tag. On Saturday afternoon you left your car in that lot for up to two hours.”
Perkins, who had been listening intently, laughed. “That’s your earthshaking discovery? That’s your big breakthrough on this case?”
“It’s a start.”
“One hell of a slow start. How does the parking lot business connect Dr. Ladd to the murder?”
“I tipped—”
Perkins held up his hand in caution, but she waved it down. “It’s okay, Frank. I gave that young man at the parking lot a ten-dollar bill, which was the smallest denomination I had. That represented a five-dollar tip. I’m sure that’s why he remembered me well enough to describe me to a sketch artist.”
“He wasn’t the one who provided us with the description,” Smilow told them. “That was a Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia. His room in the Charles Towne Plaza was located down the hallway from the penthouse suite briefly occupied by Lute Pettijohn on Saturday afternoon. Did you know him?”
“You don’t have to answer, Alex,” the attorney told her. “In fact, I recommend that you don’t say anything else until we’ve had a chance to speak privately.”
“It’s all right,” she repeated, this time with a small laugh. Looking back to Smilow, she said, “I’ve never heard of Mr. Daniels of Macon, Georgia.”
She was not only cool, but clever, thought Smilow. “I was referring to Mr. Pettijohn. Did you know him?”
“Everyone in Charleston has heard of Lute Pettijohn,” she said. “His name was constantly in the news.”
“You knew he had been murdered.”
“Of course.”
“You saw it on TV?”
“I was out of town for a portion of the weekend. But when I got back, I heard it on the news.”
“You didn’t know Pettijohn personally?”
“No.”
“Then why were you standing outside his hotel suite near the time he was murdered?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Alex, please, don’t say anything more.” Placing his hand beneath her elbow, Perkins indicated the door. “We’re leaving.”
“It won’t look good.”
“Detective, you’re the one who doesn’t look good. You owe Dr. Ladd an apology.”
“I don’t mind answering the questions, Frank, if it means stopping this nonsense here and now,” she said.
Perkins looked at her for a long moment. He obviously disagreed, but he turned toward Smilow. “I insist on consulting with my client before this goes any further.”
“Fine. I’ll give you a moment alone.”
“Be sure and turn off the microphone before you leave.”
