“I know it,” Steffi whispered fiercely.
She had been gifted with a keen perception. She could sniff out lies and spot motivations that hadn’t occurred to anyone else in the solicitor’s office. Those skills had served her well today. Her instincts had come alive and buzzed noisily whenever Hammond and Alex Ladd were near one another.
But her surety went beyond her instincts as a prosecutor. She also sensed it with a woman’s intuition. As she watched them watch each other, the signs had become glaringly obvious. They avoided making direct eye contact, but whenever they did, there was an almost audible click.
Alex Ladd had looked shattered when Trimble related the more prurient details of her past. Most of her verbal denials had been directed toward Hammond. While he, known for his amazing ability to focus and concentrate on the business at hand, had been unable to keep still. He fidgeted. His hands moved restlessly. He had acted like he had an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Steffi recognized the signs. He had behaved like that when their affair first began. Sleeping with a colleague had made him uneasy. He had worried about the impropriety of it. She had teased him, telling him that if he didn’t relax when they were together in public, his jitters were going to give them away.
But I’m not jealous, Steffi told herself now. I’m not jealous of him, and I’m certainly not jealous of her. I’m not.
On the surface, she might look like the classic woman scorned. But it wasn’t jealousy that compelled her to get to the bottom of this. It was bigger than jealousy. Grander. Her future hinged on it.
She would keep digging until she had an answer, even if her hunch proved to be wrong. One day, while Dr. Ladd was languishing in prison, she might tell Hammond about this crazy notion she had once entertained. They would have a good laugh over it.
Or she might discover a scandalous secret that would damage Hammond Cross’s reputation beyond repair and destroy any chance of his becoming county solicitor.
And if that happened, guess who was groomed and ready to seize the office?
* * *
The top-ranking homicide detective in the CPD was ready to submit that Alex Ladd had killed Lute Pettijohn. It was Hammond’s job to argue and prove the state’s case in a court of law. But the state’s case was against the woman with whom he had fallen in love. Moreover, he was a material witness in that case. Those were two powerfully motivating reasons for him to want to disprove the state’s allegation.
But there was another reason even more powerful, compelling, and urgent. Alex’s life was at risk. The media had picked up the story of her house being searched yesterday. There had been an attempt on her life last night. That couldn’t have been a coincidence. The guy in the alley had probably been hired to silence Alex. Since that attempt had failed, there was sure to be another.
Smilow and company had focused all their attention on Alex, leaving it up to him to find another viable suspect or suspects.
To that end, he sealed himself inside his office with the case file Smilow had given him. Mentally he disconnected himself from the case. Discounting his personal investment in it, he focused only on the legal aspects and approached it exclusively from that standpoint.
Who would want Lute Pettijohn dead?
Business rivals? Certainly. But according to Smilow’s files, all those questioned had concrete alibis. Even his own father. Hammond had personally verified Preston’s alibi.
Davee? Most certainly. But he believed that if she had killed him, she would have made no secret of it. It would have been a production. That was more her style.
Relying on his powers of concentration and cognitive skills, he arranged and absorbed all the data the case file contained. To that information, he added facts that he knew but of which Smilow was unaware:
Hammond himself had been with Lute Pettijohn shortly prior to his murder.
The handwritten note Davee had given him indicated that Hammond wasn’t the only visitor Lute had scheduled last Saturday afternoon.
Lute Pettijohn was under covert investigation by the Attorney General’s Office.
* * *
Alone, none of these facts seemed relevant. Together, however, they piqued his curiosity as a prosecutor and prompted him to ask questions… and for reasons beyond his wanting Alex to be innocent. Even had he not been emotionally involved with her, he never wanted to wrongfully convict an innocent person. No matter who the prime suspect was, these questions warranted further investigation.
In his mind, applying these undisclosed facts, he replayed each conversation he had had about the case. With Smilow, Steffi, his father, Monroe Mason, Loretta. He removed Alex from the equation and pretended that she didn’t exist, that the suspect remained a mystery. That allowed him to listen to every question, declaration, and offhand remark with a new ear.
Oddly enough, it was one of his own statements that snagged him, yanking him from this lazy stream of consciousness. “Your garden-variety bullets from your garden-variety pistol. There are hundreds of .38s in this city alone. Even in your own evidence warehouse, Smilow.”
Suddenly he was imbued with renewed energy and a fierce determination to justify his own irrational behavior over the last few days. Everything—his career, his life, his own peace of mind—hinged on exonerating Alex and proving himself right.
He glanced at his desk clock. If he hurried, he might have time to begin his own investigation this afternoon. Hastily gathering up the case file and stuffing it into his briefcase, he left his office. He had just cleared the main entrance of the building and stepped into the blast-furnace heat when he heard his name.
“Hammond.”
Only one voice was that imperative. Inwardly Hammond groaned as he turned. “Hello, Dad.”