Smoke Screen (27 page)

“Why not?”

“He hated all that hero b.s.”

“Why?”

“What Dad did that day, he saw as his duty. Nothing else.”

Raley said, “That fire was a defining moment in his career, in his life, and he didn’t talk about it?”

“No.”

“Not even privately? Not even to you and your mom?”

Pat Jr. glanced in Britt’s direction before answering. “The news media wouldn’t leave it alone. Dad didn’t like all the publicity. He didn’t want a big to-do made over it.”

“Jay and the others made a big to-do over it,” Raley said.

“Dad didn’t want to capitalize off a tragedy.”

“Did that affect his friendship with the other three who did?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Raley paused for several beats, then asked, “When did you last see Jay Burgess?”

“To talk to? At Dad’s funeral.”

“Not since then?” Raley asked in surprise. “That’s a long time, Pat.”

“Well, I saw him occasionally at headquarters,” he said. “But not…not socially or anything. Why’s that important?”

“Because hours before Jay was smothered, he told Ms. Shelley that he had a story to tell that would boost her ratings, probably get her on a network. She was drugged and Jay was killed before he could give her that exclusive. Do you know what that story might have been?”

Pat Jr. came to his feet jerkily, like a puppet whose master was uncoordinated. “I have no idea. Like I said, I hadn’t had a private conversation with Jay in years.” Then he turned to Britt and pointed a shaking finger at her. “I’m placing you under arrest.”

“Not today.” Raley stood up. Britt, taking her cue from him, did likewise. Raley walked toward Pat Jr., essentially trapping him against the chair in which he’d been sitting. “What do you know about the night Jay died?”

“Nothing.”

Raley gave him a hard look. Pat Jr. squirmed like an insect about to be pinned to a corkboard. “Nothing except that she killed him,” he stammered. “I don’t work homicide, but I’ve heard word around the department. Everybody has. It’s a big case. Clark, Javier, they’ve got solid evidence that proves she killed him.”

“Wrong,” Raley said. “Either you’re lying now or the detectives are feeding bullshit to the grapevine. They don’t have any such evidence, because there is none. She didn’t do it. And when you see Clark and Javier, you tell them I said so.” For emphasis, he poked the policeman in the chest.

“Now Ms. Shelley and I are walking out of here, Pat.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“We’re leaving and you’re not going to do anything to try and stop us.” Raley held him with a warning stare, then motioned Britt toward the door. He went out after her. As expected, Pat Jr. did nothing to impede or halt them.

Raley kept their pace calm and easy, but when they rounded the corner of the house, he dropped the pretense. Taking Britt’s elbow, he hustled her toward the parked car, scanning the peaceful neighborhood street for signs of the men in the maroon sedan and listening for the wail of police car sirens.

Pat Jr. wasted no time. Using his cell phone, he punched in a number committed to memory. It wasn’t 911, and it wasn’t the number of the police department.

He was hoping he’d get voice mail and not have to talk directly to the person on the other end, but it was answered on the third ring. “It’s Pat Junior.”

“What?”

“Guess who paid a surprise visit to my house.”

“I don’t want to guess, I want to know.”

“Britt Shelley.”

A moment of stunned silence, then, “You don’t say. That is a surprise.”

“She was bold as brass.”

“What did she want with you?”

“To ask what I knew about a big story Jay wanted to tell her before he was killed.”

“Fuck!”

Pat Jr. wiped his sweaty palm on the leg of his trousers. “It gets worse. Guess who was with her.”

“Raley Gannon.”

Well, he thought with relief, at least he hadn’t had to be the bearer of that bad news.

“What did you tell them about Jay?”

“Nothing!
Nothing, I swear. I tried to arrest her, but couldn’t get to my service weapon. Gannon, uh, overpowered me, wrestled me to the floor, stunned me. While I was down they ran.”

“In the gray sedan?”

“Yes, same car he was driving yesterday at the funeral.”

“License plate number?”

“I…I thought you had it.”

“He’s no fool. He would have switched.”

Pat hadn’t thought of that. “B-by the time I got to the window, they were too far away, and it had mud—”

“Did you get it or not?”

“Not.”

Another expletive was hissed in his ear. “Did they say where they were going?”

“No.”

“Give you any hints?”

“No.”

“Did you think to ask?”

He hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? “They wouldn’t have told me.”

“Why didn’t you notify me while they were there?”

“I couldn’t. Gannon had a pistol.”

“He threatened you at gunpoint?”

To tell the truth, no. The pistol had remained securely tucked in Gannon’s waistband. “It was an implied threat. He made sure I saw it.” Which wasn’t exactly true, either, but it made his situation sound more life threatening than it had actually been.

“What will you do now, Pat? Call your fellow officers and tell them the fugitive they seek was in your house?”

The question was a ploy. Actually, he was being instructed not to do any such thing. “Gannon threatened my family with harm if I told anybody.”

“You must protect your family.” That was said with a trace of amusement. “If you see Gannon or Britt Shelley again—”

“I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Do, Pat. Because this big story of Jay’s could ruin all of us. Including you.”

On that ominous note the call ended.

R
ALEY SWITCHED LICENSE PLATES WITH A JUNGLE-READY
J
EEP
with an aggressive-looking brush guard.

“You’re getting good at this,” Britt remarked as he rejoined her in their gray sedan.

“Not that good. I should trade this in for another car, but I’m afraid they’ve laid groundwork for that.”

“Butch and his sidekick?”

“Hmm. All they’d have to do is work their way down the dealerships listed in the yellow pages. As soon as we drove a car off a lot, the bribed salesman would be on the phone with the news flash. We don’t have time to track down individuals with cars for sale. Not to mention the expense of buying another car.”

“I meant what I said about paying back half of everything you spend.”

He actually laughed. “You keep track of the accounting, and I’ll try to keep those hired guns off our asses.”

“You think they’re hired guns?”

“Neither Fordyce nor McGowan would do his own dirty work. The guys after us have got to be pros.”

“I thought that only happened in the movies.”

“So did I, until I saw you being forced off the road and into the river.”

He pulled out of the parking garage where he’d made the license-plate swap and turned onto the busy boulevard, where to everyone else in Charleston it was business as usual. They passed a group of tourists on an escorted walking tour of the historic district. For the most part the sightseers were in sensible shoes and sun visors, weighted down with cameras and guidebooks, but Raley eyed them suspiciously, looking for anyone who didn’t fit the stereotype.

“Butch and Sundance are the ones we’ve spotted. There may be more,” he said.

“Not a comforting thought.” Britt looked askance at the motorcyclist revving his Harley in the lane next to them.

“These guys aren’t going to give up and go home, Britt. Meanwhile, we’re spinning our wheels, making no headway. Lewis Jones was a bust. His hatred for cops, the government in general, was sincere. You agree?”

“I agree.”

“If he knew anything about Cleveland’s death that would expose criminal activity within the police department, he would gladly have shared it. So, while he’s one hundred percent in support of our goal, he’s useless.”

Britt winced. “I don’t want him on our team.”

“I’m not fond of the idea, either.”

“Were those real hand grenades?”

“I wouldn’t want to pull the pins and find out.”

They rode in silence for a moment, then Britt said, “Pat Wickham—”

“Yeah?”

“Is lying.”

“Through his crooked teeth.”

“You thought so, too?”

“I know so. But how do we persuade him to give up whatever it is he’s hiding? Accusing him of lying didn’t work. We can’t beat the truth out of him. I’m open to suggestions.”

“Besides being a liar,” she said, “he strikes me as sad.”

“Because of his face?”

“The disfigurement, yes, but I sense something beyond that, a deep-seated torment.”

“He’s a desk cop, and gutless to boot. His dad was a detective, a tough guy who would go alone into an alley in a bad neighborhood to break up a gang fight.”

“Maybe Pat Senior wasn’t so tough as he was reckless,” she said. “Why didn’t he wait for backup? Isn’t that standard operating procedure?”

“It was a misjudgment that cost him his life. In any case, Pat Senior’s hero status is a hard legacy for Junior to live up to. Especially—”

He broke off without finishing. Britt looked across at him. “What?”

He shook his head absently. “I had a thought, but it escaped me. Maybe it will come back.”

During their conversation, he’d been weaving in and out of traffic, shifting lanes and taking corners quickly, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror to try to spot anyone who might be following. He was traveling in the general direction of the motor court but taking a circuitous route.

“Raley, what if I called Detective Clark and told him everything? Laid it all out. About your kidnapping me, and why you did it. About the men forcing me off the road.”

“Can’t be proved, remember?”

“Well, the car would be something. They couldn’t prove I
wasn’t
forced off the road.”

“No, but here’s what Clark would think. One, you’re accused of murder. Two, your alibi is that you were given a date rape drug. Not only is it unlikely but it’s impossible to prove. Three, you flew the coop to avoid arrest.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m telling you how Clark would think.” He paused and glanced at her. She motioned for him to continue. “You’re claiming to have been run off the road into the river, perhaps by the men who actually killed Jay. But your car isn’t damaged, except for a busted windshield, which you could have shattered yourself. You drove your car into the river, jumping free just in time. That’s how Clark would see it.”

“Point made,” she said despondently.

“Besides, he and Javier probably anticipate that you’ll call sooner or later. They’ll have a trace set up for when you do.”

“You learned a lot when you trained at the police academy.”

“I learned the basics. Enough to guess that if you turned yourself in, or you were arrested now, the true story of the fire and Cleveland Jones—none of it would ever be made public.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but—” Suddenly she sat up straight. “But what if it
was
made public?”

“How? What do you mean?”

She bent her knee and turned toward him. “There’s a young man at the station. A video photographer. He’s good. We work together well. He likes me. Not like
that,”
she said when he gave her a look.

“Ten to one, it’s like
that.”

“He’s married.”

“I stand by my bet.”

“Anyway, what if he met us at a remote location and we recorded a video? He could take it back to the station and put it on the news.”

“What kind of video?”

“You tell your story, and I tell mine.”

“Would they air it?”

“After my news conference, I was given a leave of absence with pay. My station manager was all gooey, promising help and support but backing away in spite of what he was saying. I figure my days of employment there are over. But if Channel Seven declined to air this video, competing stations damn sure would jump at the chance.”

“There would be consequences to the photographer.”

“Short-term maybe.”

“A jail term, Britt. The cops would be all over him to tell where we were, and if he didn’t, they’d toss him in jail.”

“Which would bring out every First Amendment advocate in a thousand-mile radius. With all that publicity, he’d probably advance his career.”

Raley examined the idea from several angles but eventually gave a negative shake of his head. “Say the photographer is willing to spend some time in jail if it makes him a star, and one or all of the TV stations broadcast the video. What about liability?”

“They’d air it with a disclaimer.”

“What about
our
liability? Fordyce, McGowan, maybe even Jay’s family and the Wickhams, could sue us for slander, and they’d win. We can tell all, but we can prove nothing.”

“Dammit,” she said, thumping her knee with her fist. “It always comes back to that.”

“It always comes back to that,” he echoed grimly. “In addition to trying to pay off the lawsuits, you’d be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. They killed Jay to keep the secret intact, and he was one of them.”

“They didn’t kill you.”

“They didn’t think they had to. Banishment was sufficient. Now that I’ve talked to George, they know I’m onto them. I practically waved a red cape at him.”

“Why
did
you tip your hand to him?”

“Are you asking as an ally or as a reporter?”

“Both.”

He thought about it, then said, “To bring it to a head, I guess. For five years, it’s festered inside me. I want it resolved, over, finished, one way or another.”

His last phrase was sobering enough to silence them for several minutes. Then Britt said, “You’re going to like this suggestion even less than the previous two.”

“Try me.”

“Call Judge Mellors.”

“No.”

“Listen, Raley, I know you’re reluctant to bring her into this, particularly at this time, but she’s a valuable contact. If you don’t want to call her, I will, although that would really compromise her. I’m a fugitive. To help me would be not only unethical but also illegal. But you’re an old friend, seeking answers to a—”

“I know it’s the commonsense thing to do,” he said, interrupting. “It’s just that I hate putting Candy in a no-win situation. If she agrees to help, she’s jeopardizing her appointment. If she doesn’t help, she’s letting down a friend. She’s damned either way.”

“Unless she could help you without anyone knowing.”

He thought on that for a moment. “And unless I asked her for only one small favor.”

“What one small favor do you have in mind?”

“A phone call.”

“To?”

“Cobb Fordyce.” Seeing Britt’s surprise, he said, “I’d like to resume that one face-to-face meeting I had with him, the one where he dismissed my claim that I had been drugged.”

“Why didn’t he investigate that further? At least make a show of investigating it?”

“Damn good questions,” he said. “Fordyce didn’t do squat beyond going through the motions. He kept himself at arm’s length from the whole nasty business of Suzi Monroe. A
safe
arm’s length.”

“Odd behavior for a man who prides himself on being an advocate for victims of crime. He also courts the media.”

“My thoughts exactly. He detached himself from the Suzi Monroe case the same way Jay avoided having anything to do with my arson investigation.”

“Fordyce must have been involved.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that point.”

Making a sudden decision, Raley turned sharply in to the parking lot of a convenience store and drove to the side of the building where a pay telephone was mounted on the exterior wall. It was out of sight of the busy storefront, where there were security cameras and a steady flow of customers going in and out.

“Since the advent of cell phones, are those things still in service?” Britt asked.

“Let’s hope BellSouth hasn’t got to this one yet.”

The lady with the mellifluous voice didn’t recognize his name and refused to put him through to Judge Mellors, not even when he identified himself as an old friend. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gannon. A crew from
60 Minutes
is due here momentarily, and the judge is preparing—”

“Ask her if she’s found any unusual prizes in her Cracker Jacks lately.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ask her that. She’ll talk to me.”

She released a long-suffering sigh, put him on hold, and the next voice he heard was Candy’s. “Eat shit and die, asshole.”

He laughed. “I figured that would get you to the phone.”

“I hadn’t thought about that for years. I could still sue you for sexual harassment, I’ll bet. What’s the statute of limitations on that?”

“You’re asking me? You’re the legal whiz kid.”

He and Jay had been seniors in high school, Candy a freshman. She’d developed a crush on one of their friends. They’d told her the guy loved Cracker Jacks, ate them all the time. If she wanted to win his heart, she would share a box of Cracker Jacks with him. Which she did, only to discover, to her mortification, that Raley and Jay had replaced the prize inside with a gold foil–wrapped condom.

“How did you manage that?” she asked. “Did you go through the bottom of the box?”

“I don’t give away my trade secrets.”

When their laughter subsided, she said, “Gosh, it’s good to hear your voice. I called George McGowan last night to ask about the funeral. He told me you were there. I wish I could have been, if only to see you. How are you, Raley?”

“I’m good.”

“Really?” she said, doubt in her tone. “I know you and Hallie broke it off for good after you left Charleston. I’m sorry about…well, how that turned out.”

He was certain she’d heard about their breakup through Jay, probably in the form of a boast. “It turned out okay for Hallie. She’s married with children.” After a beat, he said, “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

“Was that the pits, or what? I finally got a guy to marry me, and then he goes and drowns.” Despite her joking, Raley could tell the loss had caused her pain. Speaking more seriously, she said, “He was a great guy. You would have liked him. I was devastated when it happened, but…” She paused and took a deep breath. “Life goes on.”

“It does.”

“Thank God for my work.”

“Oh, congratulations.”

“Congratulations are premature until after Friday’s vote, but thanks.”

The conversation ran out. Pleasantries were over. He could imagine her consulting her wristwatch, reading hand signals from her assistant alerting her to the arrival of the television crew.

“Raley, did you call to talk about Jay?”

“Easy guess.”

“I’m glad you did. You’ve got to come to terms with what happened between him and Hallie. George said you were still holding a grudge, and it’s futile to hold a grudge against a dead man. You can never be reconciled.”

He could think of no appropriate response, because she was right. Jay’s betrayal of their friendship was a lost cause. So was the issue of Hallie. He was past seeking vengeance for what had been done to him. After this played out, if he was vindicated for the Suzi Monroe incident, that would be a bonus, but exoneration was no longer his main goal.

What he sought now was justice for the casualties of that day.

Seven lives. Seven homicides. Seven people who shouldn’t have died. That sounded rather high-minded, so he hadn’t given it as his reason when Britt asked why he’d waved that red cape at George. But that was the truth of it. He wanted justice for those who couldn’t get it for themselves. Even Cleveland Jones. Even Suzi with an
i.

“I want to talk to you about all that,” Candy was saying. “But today, in a few minutes actually, I’m doing an on-camera interview. In fact, no matter how the Senate vote goes, until it’s over, my schedule is nuts.