Smoke Screen (26 page)

Suddenly he sat forward in his chair and shook his index finger at them. “But that business with the girl? Now that? Un-huh,” he said, shaking his head adamantly. “That was a bad rap, was what that was.”

“The business with the girl?” Britt asked, her voice going thin.

Jones sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest again. “She looked more twenty-two than twelve,” he said scornfully. “You ask me, I think she was a little tart that got scared after her cherry got popped and blamed it all on Cleveland. But I don’t think he had to force her into doing
nothing.”

Raley’s gut tightened with repugnance, and he sensed Britt was experiencing much the same. Cleveland Jones hadn’t been any great loss to the world. By his own father’s admission he was a thief, a violent thug, and a rapist.

But was his character really the point? He’d been in police custody when he died. The sworn duty of law enforcement officials was to protect every member of society, no matter how loathsome that individual might be or how heinous his crime. Until society changed the rule, that was the prevailing one, and it had been broken.

But it was unlikely that Lewis Jones would be able to help him prove it. He seemed to know no more about his son’s arrest than Raley did.

“The policeman who came to see you,” he said, “did he mention that Cleveland’s autopsy revealed that he actually died of an acute skull fracture, not smoke inhalation or burns?”

“Yep. Said he’d had his head busted in a fight just before his arrest. Said the officers who brought him in didn’t know the injuries were serious till he started acting funny. They were going to take him to the hospital and get his head X-rayed, but then he started the fire. If the brain injury hadn’t killed him, he’d have died anyway.” He rubbed his jaw. “Actually, I was glad to know he just blinked out and didn’t suffer. And he didn’t have to answer to that arson business and all those folks dying. That’s some serious shit.”

After several moments of silence, Raley asked, “Where is Cleveland buried?”

Jones got up and reached past Britt’s head toward a shelf affixed to the wall. On the shelf was a small statue of Jesus with bleeding palms and side, a metal swastika soldered onto an upright pipe, and a cardboard canister that might have contained a half gallon of ice cream.

“Cleveland.”

Raley and Britt stared at the cylinder Jones held out for their inspection. Raley said, “You had his remains cremated.”

“Not me. That cop told me there wasn’t much of him left, especially after the autopsy, and the PD felt bad on account of him dying while he was incarcerated, so unless I had already made other plans for burial, they’d take care of the arrangements and pay for everything. I said sure. I signed the paper saying it was all right for them to burn the rest of him. A few days later that cop brought me this.”

Raley looked at Britt; she looked at him. Each had things to say about this information, but their discussion would keep until they were alone.

Lewis Jones returned Cleveland to his final resting place and sat back down. Raley said, “I never got to complete my investigation into your son’s death, Mr. Jones.”

“Why’s that?”

“Circumstances suspended my involvement. But now, new evidence has come out.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not prepared to disclose that yet, and won’t be until I’ve gathered all the facts.”

“That’s why we’ve imposed on you,” Britt said. “Will you help Mr. Gannon by answering some more questions, particularly questions relating to Cleveland’s arrest?”

“Already told you, I don’t know nothing. Have you asked the cops? Wouldn’t they have records?”

Dodging that for the moment, Raley asked, “Do you know the names of any of Cleveland’s friends?”

“No.”

“Enemies?”

Jones snorted. “He was sure to have plenty of them, but I didn’t know them.”

“You don’t know who he fought with that day, or who may have struck him hard enough to fracture his skull?”

“No.”

“You weren’t told?”

He shifted impatiently in his chair. “Ain’t that what I said?”

Raley pressed on. “Was he employed?”

“Ain’t likely.”

“Was he involved with a woman?”

“Prob’ly ever’ night and twice on Sundays,” Jones said with a proud grin. “But not one woman in particular. Not one I knew of.”

“Do you know where he was living?”

“No.”

Dead ends. They sat through another silence. Finally Britt said, “You mentioned that none of Cleveland’s effects were salvaged.”

“Nothing. The stuff they’d emptied out of his pockets when they hauled him in got burned up. So did the list they’d filled out, but this cop remembered what Cleveland had on him.”

“Did he mention anything in particular? A weapon?”

“Nope. Just the usual stuff. Some money. Sixty dollars and thirty-seven cents. That cop paid it back to me. He said Cleveland had a key, but it never turned up, and I wouldn’t have known what it belonged to anyway. A pack of cigarettes. That’s all.”

Raley sat forward again. “Cleveland was a smoker?”

“Since he was a kid. Used to steal cigs from me and my old man, and wasn’t long before he was up to three, four packs a day. Never without one.” He hitched his thumb toward the photo of the Klansman. “Once, when we all went to this carnival that came to town, Daddy bought Cleveland a lighter. Not the cheap disposable kind, but the real thing. Had a naked girl on it. A whachacallit. A hologram. When you turned it a certain way, her legs opened.” He slid a sly glance toward Britt.

“The old man thought it was funny. Cleveland felt all grown-up. He loved that thing. Even when he wasn’t lighting up, he played with it. Always was fiddling with it, like a nervous habit, you know?”

“You’d think the policeman would remember an unusual lighter like that,” Raley said. “He didn’t mention it?”

“No. And I even asked. He said he didn’t recall Cleveland having a lighter.”

“A heavy smoker without a lighter? That didn’t strike the cop as unusual?”

“I’m just tellin’ you what he said.” Jones stared into near space for a moment, then said ruefully, “I’d have liked to have that lighter back. As a keepsake, you know, of Cleveland and my old man. But I guess Cleveland lost it, had it stole, something. He shit away everything else of value in his life, I guess he did that lighter, too.”

Raley and Britt looked at each other again, then Raley turned back to Jones. “Can you think of anything else that could be useful to my investigation? Was there a special place Cleveland liked to go? A favorite hangout?”

“Like I said, we hadn’t stayed in touch.”

“Was Cleveland a member of a gang?” Raley cast a glance toward the photos tacked to the wall. “A member of any group?”

“Not that I know of,” Jones replied. “I tried to get him to join up with me and some guys. He was good with weapons and enjoyed being out in the woods. But he didn’t have the patience to be a good hunter. Too fidgety, you know. And a true soldier needs discipline. Cleveland didn’t want nobody telling him what to do.”

Raley was disappointed that the interview hadn’t yielded more, but he could think of nothing else to ask. When he silently consulted Britt, she shook her head. Seeing no reason to continue, they thanked Jones for his time. Britt preceded Raley out. Jones ordered the dog to be quiet, but it growled deep in its throat, hackles raised while its slitted eyes followed Britt as she walked to the car.

His owner was watching her just as hungrily. In a confidential voice he said, “You got yourself a sweet and juicy peach there, Gannon.”

“Thanks,” Raley said tightly.

“She’s that TV gal gone missing, ain’t she?”

Raley vaulted the last of the cracked concrete steps and whipped back around.

“Relax,” Jones said as he sauntered down the steps. “I ain’t going to rat her out. I got all the respect in the world for a high-toned piece of tail like that.” His gaze shifted to Raley, and he winked. “Y’all are thinking there was something fishy about that fire and the way my boy died. Right? You’re trying to sniff out some bad cops and expose the corruption within the P fucking D.”

“Something like that.”

Jones grinned, showing gold caps on most of his molars. “More power to you.” He extended his fist, palm side down.

Raley stared at the tattoos on the man’s knuckles, then bumped his fist against Jones’s.

The grim reaper twitched as every muscle in the hard body contracted. “Gig ’em good, brother. I fuckin’ hate those commie government sons o’ bitches.”

B
RITT GAVE
R
ALEY A SIDELONG GLANCE AND TAPPED HER
fists together. “You two are buddies now?”

“Brothers actually. Because I’m trying to expose the corruption in the police department.”

“Ah.” As they drove away, she gave the trailer one last glance and shuddered with revulsion. “He gave me the creeps.”

Tongue in cheek, Raley said, “He spoke highly of you.”

“He said something about me? What?”

“You don’t want to know. But he also recognized you as the TV gal gone missing.” Her surprise must have shown. Raley added, “I didn’t think he knew you, either, but we don’t have to worry about him blowing the whistle. He made it clear he hates cops.”

“And everybody else. I found myself feeling sorry for Cleveland Jones.”

“He raped a twelve-year-old.”

“I know, I know, but…He was baptized in hatred. It sounds like he never knew a single day of love or nurturing, not in his whole short life.”

“His granddaddy gave him a cigarette lighter, don’t forget.”

“With a naked girl on it.”

Her disgust made him smile. “Granted, it wasn’t a standard keepsake from a grandfather, like, say, a pocket watch, but it shows there was some affection there. Obviously it meant a lot to Cleveland.”

“Yet it was conspicuously missing from the things the unidentified policeman said Cleveland had on him the day of his arrest.”

“Um-huh. Funny that a lewd cigarette lighter would slip his mind when he could remember the exact amount of money Jones had, down to thirty-seven cents.”

“They had him cremated so his remains could never be exhumed and reexamined.”

“Very tidy.” He thought a moment, then said grimly, angrily, “They covered this thing, Britt, and they did it right. We are exactly nowhere.”

“I can’t continue playing Nancy Drew forever. I can’t stay in hiding the rest of my life.”

“If you come out of hiding, your life may not last all that long.”

“That much we have determined. So, what next? Any ideas?”

“If I made another run at George McGowan, he would only bow his back and tell me to fuck off. Or worse, if he’s the one having me tailed. I don’t want to risk leading them to you.”

“That leaves Cobb Fordyce.”

“Who’s in his ivory tower at the state capitol, protected by guards and his lofty office. I couldn’t get near him without being arrested, and even if I could, he isn’t going to raise his hands in surrender and confess.”

“Jay and Pat Wickham are dead.”

“Right. They’re not talking.”

She suddenly remembered something Raley had told her the night before. “What about Pat Junior?”

“What about him?”

“You said you caught him staring at you and George McGowan after the funeral, and that his attention seemed to make George nervous.”

“Nervous or angry, I couldn’t tell. But Pat Junior was definitely flustered.”

“Flustered? He’s a police officer,” Britt argued.

“Yeah, but he wasn’t looking at us like a cop would. His staring was covert, but in a jittery way, not a surveillance sort of way.”

“Two men who hadn’t seen each other in years, chatting at the funeral of a mutual friend. What about that would give a police officer the jitters?” she asked, surmising out loud. “Why would seeing you and George McGowan talking together bother him? But since it did, why didn’t he mosey over and check it out? Better yet, why didn’t he speak to you at all?”

Raley stopped at a red light and looked over at her. “Maybe we should ask him.”

“Maybe we should.”

“I wonder what his shift is.”

“Eleven to seven,” she replied. “A.m. to p.m. Unless that’s changed since I interviewed him.”

Raley turned his head toward her so quickly, his neck popped. “You interviewed Pat Junior?”

“When his father was killed.” Feeling the familiar stirring of excitement that came with being on the trail of a hot story, she checked her watch. “He’ll be on his lunch hour. We can catch him there.”

“You know where he’s having lunch?”

She nodded happily. “Same place every day.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, then said, “You’re full of surprises today. Where to?”

“That’s it,” Britt said, pointing. It was a basic house in a basic middle-class neighborhood.

“He eats lunch at home?”

“Every day,” she replied. “He told me he likes to take a power nap, so he comes home, eats a sandwich, then sleeps for twenty minutes before going back to work.”

“A creature of habit.”

“Apparently.”

“And kinda squirrelly.”

She shrugged. “Different strokes.”

“You got to know him pretty well.”

“Not really. I interviewed him three times, and the focus was Pat Senior. But I remember the bit about his lunch hour.”

Raley parked at the curb in front of the house. It was a white frame structure with dark green storm shutters and a well-maintained yard. “You’re a fugitive from the law,” he observed as he turned off the car’s ignition. “He’s a police officer. You’re about to come calling at his house.”

“I’ve done crazier things lately,” she said, pushing open the passenger-side door. “Ever since you kidnapped me, the rules of standard and sane behavior have ceased to apply.”

They went up to the front door, and Britt rang the bell. They waited, but a minute passed and no one came to answer. “Sound sleeper,” Raley said. “Or else he’s inside with his service revolver trained on us while he’s calling in backup. But somehow that image doesn’t jibe with the man I saw yesterday. He’s no Dirty Harry.”

Britt tilted her head to one side as though listening. “Do you hear that? Water running?”

She followed the sound to the corner of the house, then along the side of it toward the back. Walking behind her, Raley glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone on this placid, tree-lined street had a bead on his broad back. If there was a sniper, he didn’t see him. But then he wouldn’t, would he?

He wondered what Butch and Sundance were doing right now. Searching his cabin again for something they might have missed yesterday? Had they been dispatched first thing this morning to return and eliminate the dual problem of Raley Gannon and Britt Shelley? Finding the cabin abandoned, were they now scouring the city, checking hotels and motels for recent check-ins that fit his and Britt’s descriptions? Or were they just laying low, waiting for him and Britt to pop up again? Whatever, he felt certain the pair hadn’t been pulled off the job, and they wouldn’t be until it was finished.

So his paranoia wasn’t an overreaction. It wasn’t silly. He would continue to watch his back.

Pat Jr. kept a neat backyard. There was a sandbox and a swing set, but also a lawn of lush Saint Augustine grass and pretty flower beds. Using a hose and nozzle, Pat Jr. was watering a bed of red flowers with waxy green foliage. His back was to them, and he didn’t hear their approach.

To announce them, Britt said, “Those are beautiful begonias. They must be the hybrid that likes sun.”

Pat Jr. was so shocked to see them, he dropped the nozzle. The water pressure caused it to flip and roll, spraying wildly until he recovered his wits enough to rush to the faucet at the foundation of the house and turn it off. He was dressed in civilian clothes. A badge was clipped to his belt, but Raley noted that he wasn’t armed.

His eyes darted back and forth between him and Britt. To her he said, “You’re wanted for murder.”

“I didn’t kill Jay Burgess.”

“Clark and Javier think you did.”

“They’re wrong.”

He looked at Raley. “What are you doing with her?”

“We want to ask you some questions.”

“About what?”

The suburban backyard was as peaceful and benign a setting as could be, but Raley still felt exposed. “Inside.”

Pat Jr., who should have been reading Britt her rights, looked ready to bolt and run, or wet himself, or be sick on the begonias, but after a long hesitation, he nodded and led them toward a screened back porch. He went in ahead of them, something no savvy cop would do.

The porch was casually furnished. Britt chose a wicker chair, Raley took the matching settee, and Pat Jr. remained standing. “I can’t let you leave here. You know that.”

Under other circumstances, his aggressive posturing would have been comical. Raley certainly didn’t quail from it. “Is anybody else here?”

Pat Jr. shook his head. “My wife volunteers two days a week at the hospital. She drops the kids off at her mother’s. Did you plan to hold us hostage?”

It was such a ludicrous notion, Britt didn’t even honor it with a reply. “The last time I saw you, your wife was expecting.”

“With our son. We’ve had a girl since then. They came close together. Just a little over a year apart.”

“Belated congratulations,” she said.

The man seemed to mistrust her politeness. Nervously, he licked his misshapen lips, calling attention to them. His mouth and jaw were out of kilter. His mouth stretched toward the left side of his face, his jaw stretched toward the right. His nose, too, was off center and crooked. Raley wondered about the nature of the accident that had rearranged his face and couldn’t help but compare the young man with his late father.

Pat Sr. had been average looking, tall and slender, not brawny, but certainly beefier than his son. Until the morning that he’d woken up with Suzi Monroe beside him, Raley had known Pat Sr. only through Jay. Their paths had crossed a few times, always in Jay’s company, and always socially. He’d seemed a nice enough guy. He wasn’t gregarious, but no one was when around Jay, who was always the center of attention. In his company, no one else was allowed to shine. But Pat Sr. wouldn’t have shone anyway. He came across as reserved, serious, a man who could intimidate with his stoicism.

Raley saw nothing resembling Pat Sr. in his son, and the differences between them went beyond the physical. Pat Jr. possessed none of his father’s stolidness. He was unsettled. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and he couldn’t keep his eyes focused on any one spot for too long.

Despite these giveaways to his nervousness, he made another futile stab at seeming courageous. Addressing Raley, he blurted, “You left town in disgrace. Why’d you come back?”

“So you did recognize me yesterday at Jay’s funeral.”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you come over, say hi? Was it because you remember the circumstances of my getting fired and leaving town?”

Pat Jr. wet his lips again. “I remember my dad talking about it.”

“Oh, yeah? What did he say about it?”

“I…I don’t remember details. Just that you were involved in some sort of sex scandal and a girl wound up dead.” He looked at Britt. “Are you in cahoots with him now? I could have the whole police department here in under two minutes, you know.”

Britt didn’t even blink. Raley actually smiled. Rather than following through with what was so obviously an idle threat, Pat Jr. looked nearer to crying. “Whatever it is the two of you are doing, you’re going to get caught.”

“What do
you
think we’re doing?” Raley asked calmly.

“Evading capture.”

“I’m not wanted.”

“She is!” he said, his voice cracking. “You’re aiding and—”

“Abetting. I know. Sit down.” Raley put menace behind the order and the other man crumpled. He dropped into the chair behind him, again looking like he might throw up. Raley was afraid he would have a heart attack before he could ask him the important questions, so he started with something easy. “I didn’t see your mother yesterday at the funeral.”

“She’s in a…a facility. Alzheimer’s.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Britt said.

“Me, too,” Raley said.

“At first I thought her symptoms were part of the grieving process, you know, after Dad was killed, but she just kept getting worse. Couldn’t trust her to be alone anymore. She’s been there two years.”

“It must have been a terrible blow to her.”

Pat Jr. looked over at Britt. “What?”

“Your father’s death.”

“Oh. It was. Terrible for all of us.”

“Refresh my memory of how it happened,” Raley said.

“It’s painful. I don’t like to talk about it.”

Raley just stared back at him unsympathetically.

Reluctantly, Pat Jr. complied. “Dad was off duty. He’d gone to the supermarket for Mom. On his way back, he saw some guys fighting in an alley. He used his cell phone and called it in, said the officers on that beat should come check it out.” He raised his narrow shoulders and released a sigh through his twisted mouth.

“We can only speculate what happened after that. The best guess is that the fight turned violent quickly and Dad was afraid somebody was going to get hurt before the patrol officers could get there. In any case, he left his car and went into the alley.”

He paused for a moment, released another sigh. “When the officers arrived, Dad was lying in the alley. He’d been shot in the stomach. He was in shock. He bled out before the ambulance could get there.” He looked at Raley, at Britt, then back at Raley. “That was it.”

“The crime remains unsolved, correct?” Raley asked.

“There weren’t many leads,” Pat Jr. said. “No weapon, no eyewitnesses, nothing really to go on.”

“His killer has gone unpunished. That must be frustrating.”

Britt’s observation caused Pat Jr. to lower his head. “You have no idea.”

After a short silence, Raley asked, “Who investigated the homicide?”

Pat Jr. raised his head and looked at him. “Well, several detectives. The whole department was gung ho to catch the killer, or killers. You know how it is when a cop is killed,” he added, glancing at Britt, a none too subtle reference to the murder of Jay Burgess.

Raley said, “Was Jay on the case? George McGowan?”

“Along with others.” At the mention of their names, he became visibly more nervous. “Why do you ask?”

“Their names, along with Cobb Fordyce’s, are always linked to your dad’s because of their heroism the day of the fire.”

“Did your father ever talk about that?” Britt asked.

“The fire? No,” he said, answering hastily. “Not really. Not often.”