Smoke Screen (35 page)

“They could be looking for the truck, too.”

“They could, but it’s meaner than the sedan. Harder for them to push off the road.” Even though he’d said that, she read the worry in his expression as he got out of the cab, leaving the motor running.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

“Are you trying to reassure me or yourself?”

“Both,” she admitted. “But once I get where I’m going, I’ll be safe. In handcuffs, perhaps, but safe.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a long, meaningful look. “Britt…”

She smiled gently and pressed her fingers vertically against his lips. “You don’t have to say anything, Raley Gannon. I know you like me, and more than a little.”

He pulled her against him and kissed her long and deeply, then released her and in a voice made gruff by emotion said, “Be careful. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, he boosted her into the cab of the pickup.

He followed her in the sedan from the airstrip to the main road, and then for several miles until their paths split. She waved to him from the driver’s window. He gave her a thumbs-up, but for a full five minutes after they separated he was tempted to say
screw it
to this plan, make a quick U-turn, and go after her. He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. He would much rather they stuck together no matter what.

But he kept to the plan. Each had an assignment, and both were equally crucial to success. The video recording of Fordyce empowered Britt. As long as it was in her possession, she would have a measure of protection and control. Raley was unarmed, except for the camcorder, which was nothing more than a stage prop, really. He hoped George McGowan would fall for it.

He wanted to ambush George before he had time to call the police, or his lawyer, or to prepare answers for Raley’s accusations. Raley didn’t want to give him time to summon Les and Miranda for backup, either. He wanted him alone and defenseless.

But, first, he had to know where to find him.

He stopped at a service station and used a pay phone to call Conway Concrete and Construction. When the receptionist answered, Raley gave her a fictitious name and told her he wanted to speak to George McGowan about a potential project. He only wanted to verify that George was in the company office and intended to hang up once it was confirmed.

Instead, the receptionist informed him that Mr. McGowan was feeling under the weather and, after having put in only a brief appearance at the office, he had gone home and was expected to stay there for the remainder of the day.

Even better,
Raley thought.

He thanked the receptionist and was about to hang up when she said in a near whisper, “Actually, I think he was upset over the news about Attorney General Fordyce.”

Raley’s hand was arrested in motion. Indeed, everything inside him went terribly and suddenly still with foreboding. “Attorney General Fordyce? What about him? What news?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Now there was an underlying excitement in her voice, the inflection of someone titillated by tragic news. “It’s just
awful.
Cobb Fordyce was shot this morning in his home.”

Raley’s stomach dropped.

“His wife found him when she returned from an errand. She was hysterical, of course, but told the police that her husband had greeted the man and woman who shot him. They’d arrived unexpectedly, but he’d let them come inside. Mrs. Fordyce was wary, but he told her that everything was okay, for her to go ahead and drive their sons to baseball practice. She’ll never get over leaving him alone with them, you can be sure of that.
And
she’s almost positive that the woman was Britt Shelley. You know that reporter who’s been missing? Her.”

Raley squeezed his eyes shut and leaned heavily against the telephone. “You said he was shot. Is he dead?”

“They haven’t announced it officially, but he’s as good as. He was shot in the head, and his condition is critical.”

R
ALEY HUNG UP ON THE TALKATIVE RECEPTIONIST.

With shaking hands, he fed coins into the slots and punched in another number. He looked over his shoulder, feeling like the phone booth was a shooting gallery and there was a bull’s-eye on his back.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” He’d called Candy’s cell phone in order to circumvent her secretary, and he intentionally didn’t say his name.

“Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“I sent you to him. That implicates me.”

“Is he dead?”

“There hasn’t been an official announcement. It’s touch and go. Media are camped out at the hospital awaiting word.” Then, angrily, “That is, every reporter in the state except your new girlfriend. She
was
with you this morning, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Christ. First Jay, now—”

“She didn’t smother Jay. You know I didn’t shoot Fordyce in the head.”

“Then how is it that he has a bullet in his brain? Why did you go to his house in the first place? Why didn’t you keep the appointment I set up for you—which will mean my career and my ass if anyone finds out. Why a surprise visit to his house?”

“I wanted to catch him off guard.”

She groaned. “Not a good answer, you idiot. Until you get a defense attorney, I advise you not to say that to anyone else.”

“When we left him, Cobb Fordyce was alive and well. We thought he had double-crossed us.”

“Another motive for shooting him.”

“I didn’t shoot him!”

“The police have the weapon. A Taurus .357. Will your prints be on it? Will hers?”

Raley rubbed his forehead, muttering, “Fuck me.”

“In other words, yes.”

“He must have used my pistol.”

“He?
Who?”

“She’ll tell you. She’s on her way to you.”

“To me? Wha—”

“Listen! Listen to me. She doesn’t even know about Fordyce unless she’s heard it on the radio since we separated. I was to call and tell you to meet her where she interviewed you a few months ago. Do you know where she’s talking about? She said you would.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“She’ll be at the door where you let her in before. She’s got a video.”

“Of what?”

“She’ll explain everything. Will you meet her?”

“Do you realize what you’re asking? I have people—”

“I know this is a bad time.”

“Bad? No, it’s the
worst
time. Today of all days. Inconvenience and bad timing aside, you’re asking me to break the law.”

“She’s coming to turn herself in.”

“Great. I’ll call the police, tell them—”

“No. No police.”

“If I don’t, it smacks of aiding and abetting, obstruction of justice, and—”

“I know all that, Candy. But you gotta do this, and you gotta do it this way.”

“Why?”

“To save our lives.” He let that settle, then said, “The man who killed Jay showed up at Fordyce’s house this morning. Britt recognized him instantly.” He was past worrying about using their names. “After we bolted, Fordyce was shot in the head. Now, do the math. We would have been killed, too, if we hadn’t managed to escape. But we did, we can identify him, and this guy ain’t gonna quit.”

Subdued a bit, she said, “Who is this man? Why’d he kill Jay and shoot Fordyce? Does he have a name?”

“Not that I know.”

“A description?”

“Britt will fill you in. Hopefully she won’t be apprehended before she can get to you.”

“She’ll be half a block away from the courthouse. It’s a circus down here. Reporters are camped out along Broad, waiting—”

“I know. She’s taking a huge risk to get that video to you. Which should give you some idea of how vital it is.”

“Why is it so important?”

“When you watch it, you’ll know.” A customer at one of the service station pumps was eyeing him. Probably he was just an average Joe whose Dodge Ram was running low on fuel, but Raley didn’t know what the fourth hit man looked like. Until he did, he would regard every stranger as a potential assassin. “I can’t talk any longer. I’ve got to move.”

“Wait! Where are you? Why aren’t you with Britt?”

If he told Candy that, he would be creating for her another impossible choice, because she would be duty-bound to dispatch police to the McGowans’ estate. Sidestepping her question, he said, “Britt’s on her way. For godsake, Candy, be there.” He hung up before she could say anything more.

A silver Navigator was parked in the circular drive in front of George McGowan’s mansion, indicating that he was at home, but Raley saw no one around. Several sleek horses grazed in a paddock about fifty yards from the house. Otherwise the place looked deserted.

Taking the camcorder with him, Raley alighted from the car and walked up to the front door. He didn’t ring the bell, didn’t knock, just turned the knob and, finding the door unlocked, walked in.

He closed the door soundlessly, then paused to listen. The house was as still and silent as a tomb.

He started down the central hallway, his footsteps muffled by a long, narrow Oriental carpet. He looked into the room on his left, a dining room. On his right was a formal living room with a marble fireplace and a crystal chandelier, both as tall as he was. Oil paintings in gilt frames. Heavy drapes made of shiny material. Collectibles. Rich people stuff.

Murder had been profitable for George McGowan.

Raley continued down the wide foyer on tiptoe, halting when he heard the clink of glass against glass coming from a room on his right, behind the staircase. He approached stealthily, hesitating when he reached the open doorway, then cautiously peering around the doorjamb.

George was seated behind a large desk, a bottle of bourbon in front of him. A full highball glass was in one hand, a nine-millimeter pistol in the other. He saw Raley immediately and smiled.

Waving him in with his gun hand, he said, “Come in, Raley. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I have every confidence that my appointment will be approved by the Senate.”

Despite the upsetting call from Raley, Judge Cassandra Mellors didn’t postpone her scheduled press conference. The room was crowded with reporters jockeying for the best positions, but it wasn’t as well attended as it might have been.

The attempt on Cobb Fordyce’s life had divided the press corps. Many reporters who would have been here covering her all-important day were instead keeping vigil outside the hospital in Columbia, awaiting word on Fordyce’s condition.

“I spoke with the president just a few minutes ago,” she told her audience. “He assured me that the vote taking place later today is a formality. I hope he’s right.” She staved off the chorus of questions. “Naturally, my excitement has been overshadowed by the tragedy that took place this morning at the home of our attorney general, a former colleague and a man I consider still to be a friend. My thoughts and prayers are with Mrs. Fordyce and the boys, as well as with the medical personnel who are valiantly trying to save Cobb Fordyce’s life.”

A reporter asked, “If he survives, will there be permanent brain damage?”

“The extent of the injury and its residual effects haven’t been determined. At this point the doctors are trying to keep him alive.”

“Have you spoken to the detectives who are investigating the crime scene at the AG’s home?”

“No. Regarding that, I have no more details than you.”

“Have you spoken to Mrs. Fordyce?”

“No. Her brother is acting as spokesperson for the family. He’s said that Mrs. Fordyce is at her husband’s side and has requested all our prayers.”

“Is it true that Britt Shelley and Raley Gannon are being sought for questioning in the shooting?”

“I have no comment on that.”

“Mrs. Fordyce identified—”

She raised her hand. “That’s all I have time for now.”

She turned quickly and left them hurling questions at her. When she reached her office, she asked her secretary if there had been any messages. “Nothing, Judge,” she said.

“No word from the hospital?”

She shook her head. “Or from Washington.” Sheepishly, she added, “In spite of what happened today to Mr. Fordyce, I can’t help but be excited for you.”

Candy smiled. “I’ve got butterflies myself. Which is why I need some downtime. I’m going to the other office to rehearse my acceptance speech.” That was a plausible excuse to leave, and her assistant didn’t question her.

Because of all the interruptions and constant demands on Candy’s time when she was in her courthouse office, she often retreated to a sanctuary where she could concentrate, focus, and sometimes rest between sessions on the bench. Only her assistant knew about it, and that was the point. No one could find her there unless she wanted to be found.

“I have my cell. Call me the moment you hear anything.”

“Certainly, Judge.”

She slipped out a back door, taking a familiar path through connecting alleyways that allowed her to cover half a block of Broad Street without ever having to be on the street itself, except to cross it. She emerged from an alley between two buildings and checked to see that the coast was clear. A delivery truck rumbled past, but otherwise there was a break in the traffic. A horse-drawn carriage full of tourists was turning the corner away from her. The media were still assembled in front of the courthouse, but no one was looking in her direction.

She walked swiftly across the street and ducked into an alley that bordered an abandoned office building. It was wedged between its neighbors, but unlike those buildings, it hadn’t been renovated and was in a state of disrepair. It had six floors, but like many other structures in Charleston, it was only one room wide, so unless one were looking for it, the narrow building could easily go unnoticed.

It was so old and neglected that ferns sprouted from cracks in the mortar holding the ancient bricks onto the exterior walls. The judge was the single tenant and was allowed to occupy one small office only because of a favor she’d done the real estate agent who had been trying for years to unload this listing.

At the back of the building was a scratched and dented metal door. Waiting for her there was Britt Shelley, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap. She looked like a coed on her way to the ballpark to cheer on the home team, not like a woman accused of murder, fleeing both the law and a purported bad guy.

When Candy appeared, the reporter’s relief was plain in her wide smile. “Thank God Raley reached you.” Sounding breathless, she flattened her hand on her chest. “I was so afraid he wouldn’t get through. I’ve come to surrender to you.”

“Let’s get inside first.” Candy used a key to unlock the dead bolt, then hustled Britt into the musty, dim, damp interior. Reaching around her, she flipped on a light switch so they could see their way across a littered floor to the metal staircase.

Britt handled the climb better than Candy, who was panting by the time they reached the sixth-floor landing. The same key opened the office she had furnished with a desk, a couch for power naps, and a massage chair.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, she said, “Britt, have you heard the news from Columbia?”

Her dire tone didn’t escape the newswoman. Apprehensively, she said, “If you talked to Raley, you know we didn’t wait for our eleven o’clock appointment. We went to Fordyce’s house.”

“Yes, well, there’s more, I’m afraid.” Candy nodded toward a chair facing her desk. “You’d better sit down.”

George was obviously drunk. Raley hoped he was too drunk to shoot straight. Surreptitiously he flipped the record button on the camcorder as Britt had instructed. Even if he didn’t get a good picture, the audio would be there.

He stepped into the study. The first thing that captured his attention was the framed photograph of the four heroes of the fire hanging in a prominent place on the wall. If Fordyce didn’t pull through, then George would be the only surviving one. The last keeper of the secret.

“Nice picture,” Raley remarked.

George didn’t lower the pistol aimed at Raley, but he gave the photo a glance. “Yeah. Made me a fucking hero.” He gestured at the room. “Look at what all my heroism got me.”

Raley walked to the chair across the desk from George and sat down. When he did, he saw the object on the desk near the bottle of whiskey. A vintage cigarette lighter with a lurid picture of a naked woman on it, a hologram. Formerly owned by Cleveland Jones, a gift from his grandfather, souvenir of a carnival.

George’s eyes were bloodshot, his face florid, indicating recent and ample consumption of the bourbon. Unfortunately, however, his gun hand was rock steady. He’d been a cop. He couldn’t miss at this range.

Raley said, “You’re no hero, George.”

The man gave a bitter laugh and quaffed the glass of bourbon, then poured himself another. “She thought so.”

“She?”

“Miranda.”

“Is she here?”

“She’s out.”

“Out where?”

“Just…out. Who knows? Who gives a shit?”

“I think you do, George.”

Another laugh, as bitter as the first. “Yeah, well. My lovely wife. Wouldn’t you agree she’s lovely?”

“And then some.”

George grinned as he took another sip of his fresh whiskey. “You know what it’s like to have the hottest, richest girl around come on to you full throttle?”

“Must be nice.” Raley was glad George was rambling drunkenly. It gave him time to think. He was wondering if he could wrest the pistol away without getting shot in the process. Had the liquor slowed George’s reflexes enough for him to grab the gun before the former cop could react?

Had Britt made it safely to Candy? Was she, even now, pouring out the bizarre story of the crime George had helped orchestrate?

“Our first date,” George said, “Miranda went down on me. In my car, no less. I was driving. Nearly killed us both when I came, but it was one hell of a rush.”

“I can imagine.”

“First time we fucked, guess what I discovered.”

“She wasn’t a virgin.”

George laughed for real then. “That’s a good one, Gannon. You have a sense of humor after all. Yeah, that was a good one. But seriously…” He took another slurp from his glass. “No, what I found was this itsy-bitsy gold stud in her clit. Man, you talk about a turn-on. Thought I’d died and gone to pussy heaven.”