Loretta Boothe rushed into the room.
Hammond’s heart lurched; his speech faltered and died.
Only those standing near the door noticed her at first. But when Hammond stopped speaking, all heads turned to see who had caused the interruption. Impervious to the stir she had created, Loretta was frantically motioning him toward her.
With all the other events unfolding so rapidly today, he hadn’t had time to call and tell her that Alex was no longer a suspect, therefore her whereabouts last Saturday evening were irrelevant.
But Loretta was here, with one of the brawny marines from the fair in tow, and there was no way he could avoid her. “Excuse me a moment.”
Despite the murmur of puzzlement that rippled through the crowd, he stepped off the dais and made his way to the back of the room. As he went, he thought of all the people the next few moments would inevitably embarrass. Monroe Mason. Smilow. Frank Perkins. Himself. Alex. When he passed her, his glance silently apologized for what was about to happen.
“You wanted to speak to me, Loretta?”
She didn’t even try to mask her irritation. “For almost twenty-four hours.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Well, so have I.” She stepped back through the door and spoke to someone who had been left standing out in the hallway. “Come on in here.”
Hammond waited expectantly, wondering how he was going to explain himself when the marine gaped at him and declared, “He’s the one! He’s the one that was dancing with Alex Ladd.”
But it wasn’t a fresh recruit who came through the door. Instead, looking self-conscious and miserable, a slight black man with wire-rimmed spectacles stepped into the room.
Hammond released a short laugh of pure astonishment. “Smitty?” he exclaimed, realizing that he didn’t even know the man’s last name.
“How’re you doing, Mr. Cross? I told her we shouldn’t interrupt, but she wouldn’t pay me any mind.”
Hammond looked from the shoeshine man to Loretta. “I thought you went to the fair,” he heard himself say stupidly. “That’s what your messages said.”
“I did. I bumped into Smitty there. He was sitting in the pavilion all by himself, listening to the music. We started chatting and the subject of the Pettijohn case came up. He’s moved his business to the Charles Towne Plaza.”
“I saw him there today.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you, Mr. Cross. I guess I was feeling sort of ashamed.”
“For what?”
“For not telling you about Steffi Mundell’s switcheroo last Saturday,” Loretta cut in. “First he sees her in jogging getup, then in one of the hotel robes, then in jogging clothes again. All very strange.”
“I didn’t make much of it, Mr. Cross, until I saw her on the TV yesterday, and it reminded me.”
“He was reluctant to get anyone into trouble, so he didn’t say anything to anyone except Smilow.”
“Smilow?”
The detective, who had moved up beside Hammond, addressed Smitty. “When you referred to the lawyer you saw on TV, I thought you were talking about Mr. Cross.”
“No sir, the lady lawyer,” the older man explained. “I’m sorry if I caused y’all any trouble.”
Hammond laid his hand on Smitty’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming forward now. We’ll get your statement later.” To Loretta he said, “Thank you.”
She frowned, grumbling. “You got her without my help, but you still owe me a foot rub and a drink. A double.”
&
nbsp; Hammond turned back into the room. The cameras were whirring now. Lights nearly blinded him as he made his way back to the dais. He could have skipped like a kid. The bands of tension around his chest had been snipped loose. He was breathing normally.
Nobody knew about him and Alex. There wasn’t going to be any surprise witness who had seen Alex and him together last Saturday. Nobody knew except her. Frank Perkins. Rory Smilow. Davee.