Smoke Screen (25 page)

“Sleep on it.”

To put an end to the discussion, he went around the room switching out lights, then dragged one of the chairs over to the window, sat down in it, and opened the curtains a crack.

He heard papers rustling and knew she was moving aside the open folders so she could lie down. Fifteen minutes of silence elapsed, then she said, “Butch and Sundance?”

“The only pair of crooks that sprang to mind. We could refer to them as Assassin A and Assassin B, I guess.”

“No, I like Butch and Sundance.”

Another five minutes ticked past, then she asked, “Are you going to sit there all night?”

“For a while longer.”

He waited another forty-five minutes before he felt comfortable enough to give up the vigil. If someone had been out there watching, they likely would have made a move once the lights went out, especially since they were unaware that he and Britt knew they were being hunted.

Still dressed, he felt his way to the second bed and stretched out on it. He set the pistol on the nightstand, then thought better of it and placed it on the bed beside him.

Britt was long asleep. The room was silent except for her soft breathing and the hum of the mercury-vapor light outside in the parking lot. Lying on his back, his head barely denting the hard pillow, he stared up through the darkness. He tried not to think about how narrow the space separating them was, tried not to think about last night.

But he thought about it anyway. Remembered every detail with stark clarity. Insisted to himself that it wasn’t those recollections that gave him an uncompromising erection he couldn’t do a damn thing about.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t shut down. It obstinately seesawed between their predicament and last night’s sexual peccadillo, until finally thoughts of the former were obscured by thoughts of the latter. He surrendered and let his mind drift on a current of erotic recollections.

She must have hollow bones, he thought. He hadn’t realized how dainty she was, how unsubstantial, until she’d been under him and he was too far gone to be gentle. Andre the Giant ravaging Tinker Bell.

On the other hand, the depth of her passion had surprised him. Yeah, she’d been upset, scared out of her wits, in the grip of hysteria, her emotions off the charts, but still…Who would’ve guessed that the cool lady on TV was one and the same with the woman who fucked like—

“Raley?”

Her soft voice stopped his breath. He swallowed, managed to say, “Hmm?”

“I’m staying.”

George air-kissed the teenybopper cocktail waitress good-bye and let himself out of her apartment. He’d given her quite a workout tonight. Or, more truthfully, she’d given him one; as he made his way to his car, he realized how dog tired he was.

It had been one hell of a day. He’d spent all morning at the office, finishing up a contract Les had reminded him was already late. He’d barely had time to scarf down a sandwich lunch before leaving for the funeral. The ceremony would have been bad enough, but added to it was the encounter with Raley Gannon, who had appeared like some chain-rattling ghost.

Jay’s death had resurrected Raley Gannon. There was an irony in there somewhere, but George was too tired to think it through.

He turned his car toward home, hoping to God Miranda would be asleep when he got there. He might even forgo their comfortable bed for the sofa in the study, just to avoid her shit. Their cocktail hour at the country club had been too short, the dinner in the club dining room too long. All through it Les had badgered him about this and that, while Miranda sat there sighing with boredom when she wasn’t gazing at her reflection in the mirror behind their table.

When the meal finally concluded, George asked Les if he would drive Miranda home, saying he needed to return to the office to check his e-mails. He did make a quick stop at the office, but only to pick up condoms, which he kept in his desk drawer, then he spent the next hour with the cocktail waitress who wasn’t only good looking but also one hell of a contortionist.

Their acrobatics in bed had left him sated, almost too weary to drive home. But while his body was languishing, his brain was acting like an overloaded circuit board, sizzling and sparking with a fresh worry every few seconds.

Les and Miranda had dismissed his concern over Raley’s unexpected appearance at the funeral. “He taunted you. So what?” Les had said as he stirred cream into his after-dinner coffee. “If that guy had anything to back up his beef, he would have used it five years ago. He’s history. Forget him.”

But worry continued to gnaw at George, and apparently Pat Wickham was also feeling its bite. He wasn’t as good at hiding his uneasiness as George was. George could choke the little turd for letting Raley catch him staring at them. He’d looked bug-eyed and scared enough to wet himself, and Raley had picked up on it.

George’s cell phone rang. Probably Miranda, checking up on him, although she must have had a good idea where he’d been. He flipped open his phone. “I’m on my way.”

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Candy.”

“Oh, hell, Candy, I thought you were Miranda.”

“I get that a lot,” she said with drollness and good-natured self-deprecation. “Don’t I wish.” Then in a lower, sadder tone, she asked, “Is this a bad time?”

“No. I’m in my car on my way home.”

“Sorry it’s so late, but I wanted to call before the day was over. I hated like hell having to miss the funeral. George, you know that if it weren’t for this—”

“You don’t need to explain, Candy. We all know and understand why you couldn’t make it.”

“I appreciate your understanding. But that doesn’t make me regret it any less. How did it go?”

“I think Jay would have liked it. Except for the organ music. He would have preferred a jazz quartet.”

She laughed.

“The thing you wrote was a highlight. If Jay’s in heaven, he’s blushing.”

“I meant everything I said. He was a good friend. I’m going to miss him.”

“Yeah.” George waited a beat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Guess who showed up?”

“Half the city, I expect.”

“Nearly.”

“Cobb Fordyce, I’m sure.”

“He even brought the wife.”

“He’s a politician,” she said, but without rancor. “He’s got an image to uphold.”

“And Raley Gannon.”

“Seriously?”

“I shit you not. In the flesh.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“We had an…uh…exchange.”

“Exchange? That word sort of qualifies what would normally be referred to as a conversation.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what kind of qualification, George?”

He began by describing Raley’s appearance and general demeanor. “He looked basically the same, except he’s wearing his hair longer. Some gray in it now. Friendly enough, but he never was as outgoing as Jay. He didn’t say what he was doing or where he was living these days. But he, uh…” He hesitated, then said, “He did bring up the business with Suzi Monroe.”

“That surprises me,” Candy said thoughtfully. “You would think he’d want to keep that well buried in his past. What was the context?”

“He remarked on the similarity between the night Jay died and the night the Monroe girl overdosed.”

“Jay didn’t overdose.”

By now George had arrived at his house. He parked in front but kept the engine running so the air conditioner would stay on. “I was quick to point that out to him. He said the similarity was that Britt Shelley claimed she was drugged the night she was with Jay, same as he was the night he was with Suzi Monroe.”

“Suzi Monroe was a habitual drug user. Jay never used drugs. So did he venture to guess who’d slipped Britt Shelley a Mickey?”

“We didn’t get that far, but Raley is of the opinion—” He broke off when Miranda opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Light from the doorway outlined her body through the sheer nightgown she was wearing.

“Raley is of the opinion…?” Candy prompted.

Holding his wife’s gaze through the car window, George said, “He’s of the opinion that Jay made the date with Britt Shelley to give her a big news story. One with a deathbed confession built in.”

She groaned. “Poor Raley. He just won’t give up.”

“I called his bluff, told him he was full of shit, said he was still pissed at Jay over him snatching Hallie out from under his nose.”

Candy sighed. “I guess you can’t blame him. Even after all this time, even now that Jay’s dead, Hallie’s rejection is bound to hurt. But Raley refuses to accept responsibility for his misfortune, which came about because of his own stupidity.”

“And his dick.”

“Redundant.”

George snuffled a laugh. “You have a point, Judge.”

“Do you know how to get in touch with Raley?”

“No. Why?”

“It might help if I talked to him.”

George waited several beats, then said, “I wonder…”

“What?”

“Could Raley’s grudge against Jay have driven him to commit murder?” He let the question reverberate. The judge didn’t respond immediately, but he knew he had her attention. “I halfway accused him of it. He said if he’d wanted to kill Jay, it wouldn’t have taken him five years. But it smacks of poetic justice, doesn’t it? Using a date rape drug? It’s something to think about.” Another short pause, then, “What do you hear about Britt Shelley?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought maybe you’d picked up some scuttlebutt going around the courthouse.”

“Only what’s been in the news. Apparently Bill Alexander was the last person she talked to. He’s an idiot. That’s off the record and just between us, of course.”

George laughed. “Gotcha.”

“Listen, George, I need to get to bed. Again, I apologize for calling so late, but this is the first private moment I’ve had all day. Until the Senate vote, my time’s not my own.”

“Good luck with that. Not that you need it.”

“Thanks.” A short silence followed, then she said, “At least Jay is at peace now.”

“One hopes.”

After their good-byes, George closed the phone, then stared at it thoughtfully before turning off the car and getting out.

As he trudged up the steps, Miranda asked, “Who was that?”

“Judge Cassandra Mellors.”

Miranda’s eyebrow arched eloquently. “My, my. You’re awfully popular this week, George. First the state attorney general calls. Now a district court appointee. Doesn’t she have anything better to do than place late-night phone calls to old chums?”

“She wanted to hear about the funeral. I told her about Raley.”

“Oh? And what did she say?”

He recounted their conversation. “Candy ended by saying that at least Jay was at peace.”

Miranda stepped closer to him. “In between conversations with people in high places, you had time to screw your little cocktail waitress. I can smell her on you.”

“Can you?” He pushed his hand between Miranda’s thighs and squeezed her sex. “Jealous?”

“Why would I be?” she said, deliberately rubbing herself against his hand. “When I know that every time you’re with her, or any other woman, you’d much rather be having me.”

It was the truth, and George hated her for knowing it. “But I can’t really
have
you, Miranda, can I? No matter how many times I fuck you, I’ll never have you.”

She didn’t even pretend not to understand. Nor did she refute him. She merely stared back at him with that knowing smile that tormented him. Frustrated, he withdrew his hand and stepped around her, moving toward the door.

She caught his arm and stopped him. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Jay dies, and all your old cronies start showing up. They’re like buzzards drawn to a carcass.”

He chuckled a mirthless laugh. “You may not like it, but you can’t be surprised. Did you think Jay’s murder was going to go unnoticed? It was bound to have a ripple effect. Like Raley said today, we’re all connected.” Bending toward her, he said in a stage whisper, “To the fire.”

Miranda released her hold on him and backed away, separating them in more ways than just linear distance. “That may be, George, but I’m not part of that dysfunctional little family.” Her eyes shone with an even colder glint. “If you go down, sugar pie, don’t expect me to be dragged along with you.”

I
SEE
M
R
. J
ONES HASN’T MADE ANY HOME IMPROVEMENTS SINCE
I was last here,” Raley said as he brought the car to a stop.

The mobile home squatted on a barren lot and had an aura of general neglect. A short-haired, heavily muscled dog bared his teeth and strained against the chain securing him to a metal stake.

“How do you know he still lives here?” Britt had to speak loudly in order to make herself heard above the dog’s ferocious barking.

“I looked up his name in the phone book while you were showering.”

“Do you think he’s home?”

“Truck’s here.”

Parked only a few feet from the door of the mobile home was a pickup with a camouflage paint job and mud-caked tires almost as tall as Britt. The Stars and Bars flag of the Confederacy hung from the radio antenna. “He should live in the pickup and scrap the trailer,” she remarked. Of the two, the truck was in far better condition.

She had insisted on coming along, and Raley had put up only a token argument. For one thing, if the men looking for them tracked her to the motor court, she had no way to protect herself. Even if he left the pistol, he doubted she would use it. She flinched each time she looked at it.

And if the pistol had stayed behind with her, he would have had no way of protecting himself in case of attack, except with brute force, and he didn’t trust himself to be as ruthless as men who would smother a terminally ill man with a pillow and force a woman’s car into a river, leaving her to drown.

The only solution had been to bring both the weapon and Britt with him when he came to call on the late Cleveland Jones’s next of kin, his father.

He opened his car door and put his left foot on the ground. The dog went berserk. “I hope that stake holds.”

“Do you think a doughnut would appease him?” Britt picked up the Krispy Kreme bag containing the leftovers of the doughnuts they’d eaten for breakfast.

“I doubt it. He looks pure carnivore.”

Raley got out and gave the dog a wide berth as he approached the rusty mobile home. He’d left his shirttail out to cover the pistol in his waistband and checked now to make sure it was still concealed. Mr. Jones hadn’t been at all cordial five years ago. He would be even less so now if he saw Raley coming to his door armed with a .357.

When Britt joined him at the steps leading up to the door, he gave her a critical once-over. She was supposed to be incognito, but he didn’t think she would pass for anything other than a babe who happened to be wearing a baseball cap, maybe because of a bad hair day.

She wasn’t made up and camera ready, but the facial bone structure that made her photogenic was hard to disguise. Today she’d dressed in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Raley thought maybe he should have gone up a size on both. The white cotton hugged her torso, and the denim molded to her ass. They looked great on her but weren’t the best choice of clothing when the goal was to make her inconspicuous and forgettable.

“Remember,” he said, “if he recognizes you, we’re outta here immediately. No ifs, ands, or buts. Don’t say anything that would give away where we’re staying. Don’t—”

“We already went over this, Raley.”

“Yeah, but this is still a bad idea.”

“I’m not an idiot. I won’t give anything away.”

“You should stay in the car.”

“I have better interviewing skills than you.”

She’d taken that position during their argument about whether or not she would be present when he talked to Jones. He’d said no, definitely not. She would stay in the car and not risk exposure.

“I interview people for a living,” she argued. “I get information out of them, often when they’re reluctant to give it up.”

“I got information out of you.”

“By tying me to a chair!” There was nothing he could say to that. “Besides,” she persisted, “you tend to get impatient. Chances are good you’d rile Jones and shut him up before we learned anything useful.”

He knew firsthand that she did have a talent for getting someone to tell more than he intended. She would know the questions to ask and how to ask them in a way that required more than a yes or no answer. One earnest look from her, a blink of those oh-so-interested baby blues, and a person heard himself babbling.

Also, and this was the biggie, he was afraid that, if he let her out of his sight, she would vanish and never be seen again. He had flashbacks of her engulfed in river water, her palm futilely pressed against the window of her car.

So, here she was.

They started up the steps, but before they reached the door of the mobile home, it was pushed open with a strong
whoosh
of air and a bellowing voice. “Shut up, you goddamn mutt. That barking’s driving me crazy!”

The man hurled a chunk of something that looked like the fatty meat from a can of pork ’n’ beans. Barely missing Raley’s ear, it landed on the bare dirt of the yard with a wet
splat.
The dog fell on it like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Bracing the door open with his shoulder, the large man pointed toward a No Trespassing sign nailed to the utility pole at the corner of his trailer. “Can’t you read?”

“Lewis Jones?”

“That ain’t what it says.”

Britt had been right. Three sentences into the conversation and already Raley was impatient with this asshole. “Lewis Jones?” he repeated.

“Who’re you? What do you want?” He was asking Raley, but his beady, close-set eyes were fixed on Britt.

“My name is Raley Gannon. Remember me?”

The flinty gaze cut back to Raley. “Why would I?”

“I was investigating the police station fire. We never actually met, but I spoke to you on the phone about Cleveland.”

His eyes narrowed, and he divided a suspicious look between them, ending on Raley. “I remember your name. Vaguely. Told you then, telling you now, I don’t want to talk about Cleveland. He’s dead. End of story. Now beat it.”

He backed into the trailer, pulling the door closed as he went.

Britt lunged across two steps and grabbed the edge of the metal door before it shut. “We apologize for coming without calling first, and promise not to take up too much of your time. Please, Mr. Jones? Can’t we talk to you for just a few minutes?”

Jones didn’t close the door, but he was still regarding them warily. “What for? It happened a long time ago. Anyway, what’s it to you, lady?”

“Britt Shelley.”

Raley couldn’t believe she’d told Jones her name, especially since he’d emphasized to her that she should remain anonymous. Then, to his greater dismay, she extended her right hand. Raley curbed an impulse to push it away before Jones could touch it, but he didn’t. She apparently knew what she was doing, because her straightforwardness totally disarmed the man.

He looked at her hand and seemed to be as taken aback by the friendly gesture as Raley was, then he wiped his hand on the seat of his pants before giving hers a brisk shake. “Guess I can spare y’all a minute or two,” he mumbled grudgingly.

He turned his back on them, and they followed him into the mobile home. Britt shot Raley a cheeky grin over her shoulder. He scowled.

The interior of the trailer was even more oppressive than the outside. The floor was uneven, causing them to walk uphill to reach the sofa that Jones motioned them toward. It was filthy, but Britt sat down without hesitation. Raley was more reluctant as he took a seat beside her.

In addition to the sofa, which was essentially the width of the trailer, there was a round end table with a gaudy Hawaiian print cloth draped over it and, separating the living area from the kitchen, a dining table pushed against one wall with two chairs beneath it.

No TV, Raley noted. No newspapers evident. Which explained why Jones hadn’t reacted with recognition to Britt’s name.

In fact, the man seemed to have entirely shut himself off from the rest of the world. Every window had been covered with black poster board. The sheets were taped to the walls so securely, they prevented any natural light from getting in. There was one ceiling light fixture, with a naked yellow bulb that made them all look jaundiced. It shone onto the top of Jones’s head, which had been shaved but was dusted with several days’ stubble.

He had on a pair of camo pants that had been cut off just above his knees so that the pockets hung down beneath the ragged legs. His black combat boots were shined, but the laces were untied and he wasn’t wearing socks. Completing the outfit was an olive drab tank top that showed off his muscled arms and chest, as well as an array of elaborate tattoos.

Most depicted either a lethal weapon or a symbol of death. The most detailed tattoo covered his biceps and shoulder. It was a rendition of the grim reaper with a jeering skeleton’s face, waving a frayed Confederate flag in one hand and a saber dripping blood in the other.

He hooked the toe of one combat boot around the chrome leg of a dining chair, dragged it across the buckled linoleum floor until it was directly in front of the sofa, and sat down in it. He crossed his arms over his chest, rattling the dog tags that hung from his neck on a silver bead chain, and stared at them.

Britt opened the conversation by asking politely, “Did you serve in the military, Mr. Jones?”

“Not the official one.”

“I see.”

It was readily apparent that Jones was affiliated with a paramilitary group. Photographs covered nearly every inch of wall space not taken up by the black poster board. There were pictures of men in camouflage fatigues, men in black balaclavas, men holding the leashes of vicious-looking dogs wearing spiked collars, men standing over the eviscerated carcasses of deer, men armed to the teeth.

Weaponry catalogs were scattered about and stacked on the floor, their pages curled and dog-eared. The only oasis of neatness amid the clutter was a three-level shelf constructed of concrete blocks and plywood planks. The planks were lined with felt. Laid out on them like a museum display was an extensive collection of handguns, rifles with scopes, one sawed-off shotgun, knives, bayonets, tripods, a fully loaded bandolier, and most disturbingly, grenades. All the firearms were highly polished so they gleamed in the yellow light. In fact, the smell of gun oil permeated the trailer.

“I’m sorry about your son, Mr. Jones,” Britt said, trying again to start a conversation.

Jones looked her over, his expression doubtful. “You knew Cleveland?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Then what’s your stake in this?”

“I’m just a friend and associate of Mr. Gannon.” He seemed about to pose another question when she said, “Losing a child is a cruel tragedy.”

He shrugged. “Cleveland wasn’t a child. He was old enough to take care of hisself. We hadn’t seen each other in…hmm…maybe a year before he died. The last time I saw him, I told him I’s done, I was washing my hands of him and wasn’t going to bail him out no more. Guess he took me at my word, ’cause next I heard of him, they called to say he’d died down at the police station during that fire.”

“It must have come as an awful shock.”

Misinterpreting her meaning, he said, “Not really. I couldn’t keep up with all the times that boy was in and out of jail.”

Britt looked past his shoulder toward the end table on which was an eight-by-ten framed photograph. The quality was poor, the color resolution too vivid, but the costume couldn’t be mistaken, and neither could the hatred channeled through the gleaming eyes of the man wearing the pointed hood.

Jones followed Britt’s gaze to the photo, and when he brought his head back around, he was smiling proudly. “My daddy.”

Raley asked, “Are you Klan?”

“You a fed?”

“No, a firefighter.”

“Maybe I am, and maybe I ain’t. What difference would it make to you?”

“None.”

Britt said, “Mr. Jones, on that day, Cleveland was apprehended for assault, correct?”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess.”

“Do you know the circumstances of his arrest?”

“Circumstances?”

“The nature of the crime, why he was arrested.”

“No, all I was told was assault,” Jones said. “Later, you know. After Cleveland was dead. Didn’t seem to make much difference what he’d done. Anyway, he never said—”

“He?”
Interrupting, Raley sat forward, leaning toward Jones.

“Some guy.” Jones’s expression became belligerent, obviously disliking Raley’s encroachment. He didn’t say anything more until Raley returned to his original position. “A cop. Came by to tell me none of Cleveland’s effects were salvaged after the fire.”

“Do you remember the cop’s name?” Raley asked. “Was it Burgess?”

“I don’t remember.”

“McGowan?”

“I said I don’t remember.”

Britt nudged Raley’s thigh with her knee, her way of saying to let her ask the questions since his, as predicted, seemed to rub Jones the wrong way.

“You never knew what Cleveland had done that caused him to be in the police station that particular day?” she asked.

Jones snorted a sound that could have been generated by either humor or disgust. “No telling. He’d just about done it all. His mother run off, you know, leaving me with him. He was wild from the get-go. Always skipping school and causing trouble when he went. Getting expelled, stuff like that. Busted his gym teacher’s nose once when he made him run extra laps. He quit after tenth grade.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t make him go back. I’m not that big on public education myself. Schools only teach you what the government wants you to know. Not the truth. Not the real history of this country.”

He paused as though waiting for them to take issue with his stance on education and government interference, but when they didn’t, he continued. “I tried to discipline the boy, knock some sense into him, but…” He made another gesture of indifference. “He was just one of those kids born bad. Stole, lied, fought with anybody who looked at him crosswise.

“He killed a neighbor lady’s cat once for keeping him up all night. It got romantic outside his window. Next day Cleveland went over to her trailer and wrung the cat’s neck while this old lady carried on something awful. She threatened to call the police, but she didn’t, or else they didn’t care about her dead cat because they didn’t come for him that time.”