Then they looked at one another and laughed, and were still laughing when Mrs. Daniels emerged from her husband’s room. “He’s finally talked me into returning to the hotel. I haven’t been back since the ambulance brought us here. Are you going down?” she asked politely as the elevator arrived.
“Not just yet,” Steffi told her. “I’ve got other business to discuss with Detective Smilow.”
“Good luck with solving the mystery.”
They thanked her for her cooperation and willingness to help, then Steffi motioned Smilow toward the waiting room, which was presently empty. When they were seated in facing armchairs, he bluntly informed her that Hammond Cross would be prosecuting the Pettijohn case.
“Mason awarded it to his golden boy.”
Making no effort to mask her disappointment or resentment, she asked when he had learned this.
“Earlier this evening. Chief Crane called and told me because I had campaigned for you.”
“Thanks. For all the good it did me,” she said bitterly. “When was I supposed to be told of this development?”
“Tomorrow, I guess.”
Hammond hadn’t known about Pettijohn’s murder until she told him. It must have been Mason’s call he had received while she was still there. It was doubly galling that moments after ending their affair, he had beat her out of a career-making case.
Smilow said, “Davee Pettijohn pulled strings.”
“Just as she promised.”
“She said she never settles for second best. Apparently she thinks you are.”
“That’s not it. Not entirely, anyway. She would much rather have a man working on her behalf than another woman.”
“Good point. Better chemistry. Besides, her family and the Crosses have been friends for decades.”
“It’s not what you know, but who.”
After a moment of silent reflection, Steffi stood up and slipped the strap of her heavy valise over her shoulder. “Since I’m no longer—”
Smilow waved her back into her chair. “Mason threw you a bone. Act surprised when he gives you official notice in the morning.”
“What kind of bone?”
“You’re to assist Hammond.”
“No surprise there. A case like this requires at least two good heads.” Sensing there was more, she queried Smilow with a raised eyebrow. “And?”
“And it’s your responsibility to serve as a barrier between us and keep the interaction friendly. Failing that, you’re to try and prevent bloodshed.”
“Mason’s words to your chief?”
“I’m paraphrasing.” He smiled grimly. “But don’t worry overmuch. I doubt it’ll come to bloodshed.”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve seen you two on the verge of what appeared to be mortal combat. What’s that about, anyway?”
“We hate the sight of each other.”
“That much I know, Smilow. What brought it on?”
“Long story.”
“For another time?”
“Maybe.”