Page 12 of The Alibi

“So I see,” he remarked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

Unabashed, she wiped her underarms with a hand towel she took from her gym bag. “Two parents, nine children, one bathroom. In our house if you were timid or prissy, you stayed dirty and constipated.”

For someone who disclaimed her blue-collar roots, Steffi frequently referred to them, usually to justify her crass behavior.

“Well, hurry and dress. We’ll be there in a few minutes. Although you don’t even need to be there. I can do this alone,” Smilow said.

“I want to be there.”

“All right, but I’d like not to get arrested on the way, so stay low where no one can see you like that.”

“Why, Rory, you’re a prude,” she said, playing the coquette.

“And you’re bloodthirsty. How’d you smell out a fresh kill so fast?”

“I was running. When I passed the hotel and saw all the police cars, I stopped to ask one of the cops what was going on.”

; “So much for orders not to talk.”

“I have my persuasive ways. Besides, he recognized me. When he told me, I couldn’t believe my ears.”

“Same here.”

Steffi put on a conventional bra, then peeled off her shorts and reached into the bag for a pair of panties. “Stop changing the subject. What have you got?”

“About the cleanest crime scene I’ve had in a long time. Maybe the cleanest I’ve ever seen.”

“Seriously?” she asked with apparent disappointment.

“Whoever did him knew what he was doing.”

“Shot in the back while lying face down on the floor.”

“That’s it.”

“Hmm.”

He glanced at her again. She was buttoning up a sleeveless dress, but her mind wasn’t on the task. She was staring into near space, and he could practically see the wheels of her clever brain turning.

Stefanie Mundell had been with the County Solicitor’s Office a little more than two years, but during her tenure she had made quite an impression—not always a good one. Some regarded her as a royal bitch, and she could be. She had a rapacious tongue and wasn’t averse to using it. She never, ever backed down during an argument, which made her an excellent trial lawyer and a scourge to defense attorneys, but it didn’t endear her to co-workers.

But at least half the men, and perhaps some of the women, who worked in and around the police department and county judicial building had the hots for her. Fantasy alliances with her were often discussed in crude detail over drinks after work. Not within her hearing, of course, because no one wished on himself a sexual harassment rap filed by Stefanie Mundell.

If she was aware of all the closet lusting for her, she pretended not to be. Not because it would bother her or make her uneasy to know that men were applying the lewdest terms to her. She would simply look upon it as something too juvenile, silly, and trivial on which to waste time and energy.

Secretly Rory watched her in the mirror now, as she buckled a slim leather belt around her waist and then pushed her hands through her hair as a means of grooming it. He wasn’t physically attracted to her. Watching her operate didn’t spark in him any mad, carnal desire, only a deep appreciation for her keen intelligence and the ambition that drove her. These qualities reminded him of himself.

“That was a very meaningful ‘hmm,’ Steffi. What are you thinking?”

“How furious the perp must’ve been.”

“One of my detectives commented on that. It was a cold-blooded killing. The M.E. thinks Lute might have been unconscious when he was shot. In any case, he was posing no threat. The killer merely wanted him dead.”

“If you made up a list of all the people who wanted Lute Pettijohn dead—”

“We don’t have that much paper and ink.”