Smoke Screen (4 page)

The press conference ended with her saying that she wanted to learn the cause of Jay Burgess’s death. She said it with enough conviction that, despite his skeptical nature, Cobb Fordyce believed her.

He was about to switch off the TV when the local news station went live with a follow-up story. The Charleston PD public information officer had been asked if Britt Shelley was under arrest. “Absolutely not,” he replied. “Up to this point, there’s been no evidence of any wrongdoing.”

Standard-issue statement,
Cobb thought.

“Jay Burgess died in his sleep. That’s all we know at this time.”

Cobb doubted that. That wasn’t all they knew. They had something. Maybe nothing more than a hunch. But something had spooked Britt Shelley, or she wouldn’t have made a preemptive strike by calling the press conference to claim friendship with Jay Burgess and express her deep regret over his untimely death—in effect to profess her innocence.

The CPD were fools for letting her get the jump on them. They should have kept her under wraps, or issued a gag order. That was a giant blunder on their part, letting her use her media advantage to state her defense before it even became a criminal case.

Again he was about to switch off the set when a local reporter was shown standing outside the state capitol. If Cobb looked out his office window, he’d probably see the news vans parked along the boulevard.

This was exactly what he’d dreaded and had hoped to avoid.

“We’ve tried to contact Attorney General Cobb Fordyce this afternoon for a statement on the unexplained death of Jay Burgess, but Mr. Fordyce was unavailable for comment. As many of you may recall, Fordyce and Burgess were two of the four men who valiantly saved lives, at tremendous risk to their own, during the Charleston police station fire five years ago.”

Cut to file footage of the building in full blaze, surrounded by fire trucks spraying water on an inferno that had burned out of control. Then, appearing on the screen was a photo of himself, Jay Burgess, Patrick Wickham, and George McGowan, oxygen masks strapped over their smoke-stained faces, their clothing charred, hair singed, heads bowed, and shoulders slumped in abject fatigue.

That picture had made the front page of
The New York Times
in addition to every newspaper in the South. National magazines had printed it with stories that extolled their bravery. The photographer had been nominated for a Pulitzer.

“Attorney General Fordyce was working for the Charleston County DA’s office at that time,” the reporter explained when they came back to him on camera. “The other three men were police officers. Jay Burgess is the second hero of that day to die. Patrick Wickham, tragically, was killed in the line of duty barely a year following the fire.

“Yesterday, I spoke with George McGowan, now a businessman in Charleston. I asked him to comment on his fellow hero’s death. He declined to appear on camera but told me that Jay Burgess was the best friend a man could ever hope to have and that he will be missed by everyone who knew him.”

The reporter then pitched it back to the anchors in the studio, who commented on the poignant and dramatic elements of the story. The segment ended on the legendary photograph, the studio camera going in for a close-up on Jay Burgess’s face, where there was a reflection of the flames in his eyes and tear tracks in the soot and smoke stains on his cheeks.

Cobb clicked the remote, and the image blinked out. He loathed that damn photograph. Because of the boost it had given his career, people expected a framed copy of it to be prominently displayed in his office. And that was precisely why he didn’t have one.

He left his desk chair and moved to the window. As expected, news vans were lined up along the curb; reporters from various stations across the state were doing stand-ups with the capitol serving as backdrop.

The police station fire. It was like a recurring nightmare. Every so often it would come around again. This time, Jay Burgess’s death had resurrected interest in it. Cobb wished for nothing more than that it would never be mentioned again. He wanted it kept out of the media, which seemed to relish replaying footage, retelling the story, showing that damn immortalized picture. He wished for voters not to be reminded that, were it not for that fire, he might not occupy this office.

Most of all, he wished not to be reminded of that himself.

F
OLLOWING THE PRESS CONFERENCE
, B
RITT SPENT THE
remainder of the day at home.

She fielded telephone calls. Some were from acquaintances, others from reporters. All wanted the lowdown, the nitty-gritty on her night with Jay Burgess. Her acquaintances were only slightly more subtle in their approach than the brash reporters. They expressed shock over her situation and outrage that she was being placed on the defensive. But behind their commiserations she sensed a raging curiosity to know what had
really
happened. Weary of repeating herself, she stopped answering the phone.

The only person she wished would call was Bill Alexander, telling her that her urinalysis had revealed traces of Rohypnol, one of the very effective date rape drugs, which sometimes remained in the individual’s system for as long as seventy-two hours.

When the anticipated call did come, that wasn’t his message. “I’m sorry,” he said, cutting straight to the chase. “The urinalysis was negative for any of the suspected substances.”

Curled up in the corner of her sofa, cell phone in hand, she expelled a long breath. “I didn’t really expect otherwise. They act quickly, hit hard, and soon disappear. That’s the beauty of them for the son of a bitch who puts one in a woman’s drink.”

“Yes, well…”

He went on to say that he’d received a harsh dressing-down from the chief of police, as well as the district attorney’s office, for conducting the press conference. “They said I might have cleared it with them first. I reminded them that you are not a suspect of a crime, that, indeed, it hasn’t yet been determined that a crime was committed, and that you were exercising your First Amendment right to free speech.”

“Ooh. I bet that scared them.”

Apparently he knew she was being droll. “The point is,” he continued peevishly, “you’re not a favorite among officers of the CPD, especially Detectives Clark and Javier. They suggested to me, in very stern language, that you deliberately impeded their investigation.”

Calling the press conference had been a calculated risk. She’d realized it probably wouldn’t go over well with the police department. But she’d wanted to go on record—public record—that ingestion of a drug was the most plausible explanation for her lost memory of the night Jay died. Now that the urinalysis had come back negative, she was especially glad that she’d gone public with her suspicion.

“If I have to, I’ll submit to an MRI to prove I don’t have a brain tumor or some other affliction that caused me to black out.”

It was the lawyer’s turn to be droll. “There was the scotch.”

She started to ask him whose side he was on but decided not to waste her flagging energy. “Jay was my friend, and I grieve his passing. He had terminal cancer and died in his sleep, which many would consider a blessing. But because I’m a TV personality, and he was a hero, and we apparently slept together, his death has been turned into a media event. For his sake, I resent that. It dishonors his passing.”

“But you can understand the police department’s duty to determine exactly what happened to him.”

“Certainly. What I can’t understand is why that duty doesn’t extend to determining what happened to
me.”

“The significant difference is obvious, isn’t it? You’re alive.”

That conversation left her feeling angry and dejected. If her own lawyer didn’t see her as a victim, how could she convince the police of it? Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to judge the motives of the friends who’d phoned her today. Perhaps their concern was genuine. Maybe she’d only imagined that their calls were ill-disguised fishing expeditions for salacious details.

She was in desperate need of staunch allies who wouldn’t question her claim of a memory loss or, more important, her integrity. She didn’t have the standard support group—parents and siblings, a spouse. She didn’t have a chaplain to give her advice and assurance.

But what she did have was a list of prominent people who owed her a favor. In addition to hard news reports, she often did personality profiles or human interest stories. The subjects for these reports were people who, in her opinion, deserved recognition for a job well done. Rarely, if ever, did she cash in these IOUs. But now was the time.

She called the first name on her list.

“Judge Mellors’s office.”

“Hello. Is the judge available?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

She identified herself and was told to hold on. When the assistant came back on the line, she was effusively apologetic. The judge had a very full schedule for the remainder of the afternoon. “So much is happening, with the presidential appointment.”

“I’m sure,” Britt said, sensing a brush-off. When the president had nominated Judge Mellors for the U.S. District Court, Britt had covered the story, including a lengthy interview. She’d wrapped up the story by saying, “The Senate vote on Judge Mellors’s nomination is sure to be only a matter of protocol.”

Apparently the judge wished it to remain only a matter of protocol and didn’t want even the slightest association with someone caught in a scandalous news story.

Next Britt tried to speak with the owner of a private insurance company who had exposed the deliberate errors and omissions of giant insurance carriers. His allegations had resulted in lawsuits and costly countersuits. When he ultimately won, Britt did a news feature on him, extolling him as a David who’d gone up against Goliath. He’d said, “If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

But when she called, like the judge, he was too busy to speak to her. Or so she was told.

A surgeon who devoted half his time to indigent patients. A couple who’d begun a foundation for juvenile diabetes following the death of their child. A pilot who had safely landed a disabled airplane, sparing the lives of all onboard.

She worked her way down the list. To no avail. Either everyone in Charleston was incredibly busy that afternoon or she had gone from superstar to leper the moment she woke up in bed with Jay Burgess dead beside her.

Finally, she called the general manager of the TV station, to thank him for responding so quickly to her plea for help that morning. “Mr. Alexander was a godsend.” That was a huge stretch, but she said it with as much sincerity as she could muster.

“This is a messy business, Britt.”

“Yes it is. I’m not enjoying it at all.”

“I gave my okay for our station to cover the press conference. I question that decision now.”

That surprised her. “Oh? Why?”

“People could accuse us of partial reporting.”

“Our reporters’ questions were as direct and incisive as any.”

“Some don’t see it that way.”

“Like who?”

“Police department personnel. People in local government. Jay Burgess was a hero. Folks don’t take well to him being accused of drugging a woman to get her into bed.”

“I made a point of
not
accusing Jay.”

“That’s what you said, but folks aren’t stupid. They can read between the lines.”

“I never—”

“Anyhow, I’m glad you called. I was going to call you later this evening.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

There was a brief but significant pause. “Actually, Britt, I was going to call and tell you not to bother coming to work tomorrow.”

What they said about the rug being jerked out from under you was an apt analogy. One moment, she was simply worried. The next, she was falling, flailing, knowing that rock bottom was somewhere beneath her and she was closing in on it fast.

She was stunned beyond speech, or breath, or thought. Of all the things he could have said to her, this was the most unexpected. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. Was he truly asking her—no,
directing
her—not to report to work as usual?

Finding her voice, she said, “I’m touched by your thoughtfulness, but I’m fine. Honestly I am. I want to work. I need to.”

And that was true. If she didn’t continue doing her job, people would assume that she was hiding, that she had something to hide. She didn’t, and she didn’t want it to appear that way. Besides, she would go mad if she spent another day cooped up inside her house, waiting for something to happen.

“Take some time off, Britt,” he said. “Take a leave of absence. Until further notice.”

Her mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to ask, “Are you firing me?”

“No! Hell, no. Did you hear me say that?”

I’m not stupid. I can read between the lines.
“How long will this leave of absence last?”

“For however long it takes to clear up this mess. Let’s wait and see what happens in the next couple days. Then we’ll regroup.”

The escape hatch he’d left for himself was bigger than the Grand Canyon. He then became parental and expansive, offering his and the station’s unlimited help with anything she needed. “During the leave, you’ll be paid full salary,” he assured her. Just before saying good-bye, he encouraged her to eat well and get plenty of rest. Had he been there in person, he might have given her a patronizing pat on the head before beating a hasty retreat.

She hung up, furious over his hypocrisy. Britt Shelley had been caught in a compromising situation. Locally, that was big news. Her station would have the inside track, giving their newsroom a distinct advantage over its competitors as well as an instant boost in ratings.

The GM was licking his chops over the furor she’d caused while at the same time distancing himself from it. If something really unsavory was forthcoming, his news staff would be first on the scene to cover the story, but he wouldn’t want her shadow of disrepute to fall on his station.

But in addition to her anger, she felt abandoned. Without her work, she truly was at loose ends and lacking any bastion of support. She watched the highlights of her press conference on the evening news and concluded that she’d come across as sincere in her sorrow over Jay’s sudden death, and truthful in her allegation that she couldn’t remember anything because she’d been drugged.

But she wasn’t naïve. People were more likely to suspect the worst than to believe the best.

Darkness fell, and her spirits sank further. Telling herself she was hungry, she heated a Lean Cuisine but finished less than half of it. She took a long bath but couldn’t really relax. Her mind returned again and again to that night. She’d already gone through it a thousand times, from the moment she entered The Wheelhouse until she woke up the following morning.

Hours of time were missing from her memory, hours during which anything could have happened. She didn’t remember having sex with Jay, but she didn’t remember drinking the scotch, either, and obviously she had.

If Jay hadn’t given her the drug, who had? And for what purpose? The possibilities caused shudders of revulsion. Did she want to remember? Or was it a blessing that she couldn’t recall what had been done to her while she was stripped naked and incapable of protecting herself?

She had gone to her gynecologist and requested an examination. Britt had insisted the doctor prepare a rape kit, in case the need for it should ever arise. The doctor did as she requested, swabbing her mouth, vagina, and anus, all the while telling Britt that the chances of the swabs providing any conclusive evidence of rape were slim. She had showered. Too much time had passed.

At least she was comforted to learn that any sexual congress hadn’t been violent. She’d suffered no apparent physical damage.

Even if she hadn’t been sexually abused, she’d been emotionally and psychologically violated, and because she couldn’t remember it and deal with it, the assault continued. Sitting in her bathtub, knees to her chest, her head resting on them, she cried so hard her sobs echoed off the walls. She cried until she had no tears left.

Eventually she got out of the tub and prepared for bed, then went through her house turning out lights. She peered out her front windows to make certain that some resourceful reporter hadn’t discovered where she lived. It would have been difficult, because Britt Shelley was a professional name, not her real one. All her tax records, deeds, debts, and such were in her legal birth name.

Her phone number wasn’t listed under either name, and she received her mail at a post office box. Only her most trusted acquaintances knew her address. She’d been able to elude reporters when she left the police station after being questioned the last time, so she didn’t think she’d been followed. Nevertheless, she checked to make sure.

The street was dark and quiet.

Later, she would marvel that she had managed to go to sleep at all, much less fall into a slumber so deep that she hadn’t heard the chirp of the alarm when the contact was broken, hadn’t sensed him looming over her bed, hadn’t been signaled of his intrusion in any way until he clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Turn it off.” A growl close to her ear.
“Turn it off!”

He shoved the portable keypad into her hand. Terrified, she fumbled with the rubberized digits, trying to remember the duress code, which would signal the monitoring agency that she was indeed being forced to disengage the alarm. But she couldn’t remember anything except her standard code.

How long had it been chirping? When would the actual alarm go off?
Please, God. Now! Now!

“The code.” His breath was hot on her neck. “Do it.”

Over the back of his gloved hand she could see the lighted numbers. She punched in the correct sequence, and the chirping stopped. He relaxed, marginally, but the hand across her mouth did not.

With his free hand, he tossed back the covers and jerked her from the bed. She stumbled, fell, hard and hurtfully, but freely. His hand no longer over her mouth, she screamed, then scrambled across the floor.

He grabbed her hair, causing her to scream again. “Shut up!” he commanded as he hauled her up by her hair and clamped his hand over her mouth again.

She thrust her elbow back as hard as she could and got some satisfaction from his grunt of pain.

That was the last thing Britt heard before her world faded to black.