“Who have you talked to so far?”
“Only him. He’s the one who called us.”
“And what did he say?”
“That a chambermaid found the body.” He indicated the corpse. “Just like this. Face down, two gunshot wounds in his back beneath the left shoulder blade.”
“Have you questioned the maid?”
“Tried. She’s carryin’ on so bad we didn’t get much out of her. Besides, she’s foreign. Don’t know where she’s from,” the cop replied to Smilow’s inquiring raised eyebrow. “Can’t tell by the accent. She just keeps saying over and over, ‘Dead man,’ and boo-hooing into her hankie. Scared her shitless.”
“Did you feel for a pulse?”
The officer glanced at his partner, who spoke for the first time. “I did. Just to make sure he was dead.”
“So you did touch him.”
“Well, yeah. But only for that.”
“I take it you didn’t feel one.”
“A pulse?” The cop shook his head. “No. He was dead. No doubt.”
Up to this point, Smilow had ignored the body. Now he moved toward it. “Anybody heard from the M.E.?”
“On his way.”
The answer registered with Smilow, but he was intently gazing at the dead man. Until he saw it with his own eyes, he had been unable to believe that the reported murder victim was none other than Lute Pettijohn. A local celebrity of sorts, a man of renown, Pettijohn was, among other things, CEO of the development company that had converted the derelict cotton warehouse into the spectacular new Charles Towne Plaza.
He had also been Rory Smilow’s brother-in-law.
Chapter 2
She said, “Thank you.”
Hammond replied, “You’re welcome.”
“It was becoming a sticky situation.”
“I’m just glad that my ruse worked. If it hadn’t, I’d have three of the few and the proud after me.”
“I commend your bravery.”
“Or stupidity. They could have whipped my ass.”
She smiled at that, and when she did, Hammond was doubly glad he had acted on his idiotic, chivalrous impulse to rescue her. He had been attracted to her the moment he spotted her, but seeing her from across the dance floor was nothing compared to the up-close and unrestricted view. She averted her eyes from his intense stare to gaze at a nonspecific point beyond his shoulder. She was cool under pressure. No doubt of that.
“What about your friend?” she asked.
“My friend?”
“Mr. Blanchard. Norm, wasn’t it?”
“Oh,” he said, laughing softly. “Never heard of him.”
“You made him up?”
“Yep, and I have no idea where the name came from. It just popped into my head.”