Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

Bet he died with a smile on his face. Wink, wink.

He came and went at the same time. Wink, wink.

If these detectives were after details about the sex, they were out of luck. All Britt remembered was waking up and finding Jay lying dead beside her in his bed. She had no memory of anything else happening in that bed. Even after an hour of intense dialogue, she didn’t think the detectives believed that.

Moments ago, they had suggested taking a break, leaving her alone with her newly retained attorney, which gave her an opportunity to better acquaint herself with him but, more important, to get his read on the proceedings.

“They don’t believe me, do they?” she repeated, since he’d faltered on his answer the first time she’d asked.

This time, he gave her an insipid smile. “I don’t get that sense at all, Ms. Shelley.” His tone of voice suggested he was stroking a nervous cat. “They’re being thorough, which they must be whenever someone dies under unusual circumstances.”

“Jay Burgess’s cancer was terminal.”

“Yes, but-”

“He’d had a lot to drink. Probably the alcohol didn’t mix with the strong medications he was taking.”

“No doubt.”

“All too often people mix prescription drugs with alcohol and it kills them. Jay died of cardiac arrest, respiratory failure. Something like that.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Then explain to me why I’m being questioned so extensively.”

“In part, it’s a knee-jerk reaction to the sudden death of one of their own,” he said. “Jay Burgess was a decorated police officer, a hero to the men in this department and beyond. Naturally his colleagues want to know what happened during the hours before he died.”

She’d covered the funerals of fallen policemen, and had always been impressed by the global fraternity of law enforcement officers, who rallied ’round when one of them died.

Rubbing her forehead, she conceded the point with a tired sigh. “I suppose you’re right. But that’s just it. I don’t know! I’ve told them I can’t remember. I don’t think they believe that, but I swear it’s the truth.”

“Maintain that,” he said as though applauding the passion behind her voice. “Or, even better, say nothing at all.”

Shooting him a scornful look, she began pacing the compact interrogation room. “Everybody says, especially lawyers, that it’s better not to say anything. But as a reporter, I know that people who refuse to talk look like they have something to hide.”

“Then don’t deviate from your story.”

She came around, ready to object to his calling her account of Jay’s death a “story,” but just then the two detectives returned.

“Do you need a restroom break, Ms. Shelley?” Clark asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thank you.”

He was tall and rawboned with thinning reddish hair. Javier was short, swarthy, and his black hair was as dense as carpet. Physically they couldn’t be more dissimilar, yet she was equally wary of both. She mistrusted Clark ’s politeness, thinking it might be affected to cover suppressed redneck leanings. And Javier’s pockmarked cheeks made her think of fatal knife fights. Clark ’s eyes were blue, Javier’s so dark that the pupils were not discernible, but both pairs of eyes were quick and watchful.

Having dispensed with the courtesies, Javier resumed the questioning. “When we left off, you were saying that your memory got foggy after you had a glass of wine at The Wheelhouse.”

“That’s right.” Everything that had happened since she drank that glass of Chardonnay was a hazy, disjointed recollection. Up to a point. Then her memory of events had been completely obliterated. How could one harmless glass of wine wipe clean her memory? It couldn’t. Not unless…Unless…

“Date rape drug.”

Until the three men froze in place, she didn’t realize she had spoken the words. She stepped back from herself, examined what she’d just said, and was struck with the plausibility-no, almost certainty-that she was right.

“I must have been given one of the substances collectively known as date rape drugs.” The two detectives and the lawyer just stood there, staring at her as though she was speaking a foreign language. “They give you temporary amnesia,” she said with a trace of impatience. “I did a feature story on them. An incident at Clemson sparked concern about the increased usage of them at parties and bars where young people hang out. They cause a short-term memory loss. Sometimes the memory never comes back. But it doesn’t matter, because by the time the effects wear off, the damage has been done.”

She looked at each man in turn, expecting them to be sharing her excitement over this credible explanation for her blackout. Instead they continued to stare at her without reaction. With asperity she said, “Blink if you can hear me.”

“We hear you, Ms. Shelley,” Clark said.

“Well, then? Don’t you see? My wine was doctored with one of these drugs. They work quickly. That would explain why I can’t remember anything after reaching Jay’s apartment.”

“How about an empty bottle of scotch?” Javier asked.

“I don’t like scotch. I never drink scotch. If Jay had offered it to me, I would have declined it, especially since I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Your fingerprints were on one of the drinking glasses. Your lipstick on the rim,” said Javier.

“You’ve already examined the drinking glasses? Why?”

The two detectives exchanged a glance. Clark said, “Let’s start at the beginning and go through it again. Tell us everything that happened.”

“I don’t know everything that happened. I can tell you only what I remember.”

“Okay, then, what you remember. You don’t mind if we videotape it this time, do you?”

Immediately suspicious of Clark ’s dismissive tone, she said, “Why would you?”

“Just so we have it, so if the need should arise, we can refer back to the tape, get the details straight in our own heads.”

Mistrusting his explanation as well as his snake-oil salesman’s smile, she looked at Alexander, who said, “It’s standard practice, Ms. Shelley. You still don’t have to answer any question you don’t want to.”

“I want to answer the questions. I want the answers myself. Probably more than they do.”

Since calling 911, she’d been swept up in the disagreeable technicalities of an unexpected death-the pronouncement of the coroner that Jay was indeed dead, the questioning by police, the paperwork. She hadn’t had time to indulge the personal aspects of it. She hadn’t yet actually grieved the loss of her friend.

Nor could she now. Not until she got past this unpleasantness. Restating her point, she said, “I’m desperate to know what happened to Jay.”

“Then we’ve got no problem.” Javier sat down at the small table and motioned her into the chair facing the video camera. “I sure wouldn’t expect you to be camera shy.”

His grin made her think again of sharp blades piercing soft tissue. She turned away from it and sat down. Clark checked the focus of the camera, stated the time and date and who was present, then sat down on the edge of the table and began swinging his skinny leg back and forth. “Who called who?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who made the date?”

“Jay. I told you that.”

“We can check phone records.” Javier’s statement wasn’t just that. It was a veiled threat.

Looking him squarely in the eye, she said, “Jay called me earlier that day and asked if I would meet him at The Wheelhouse for a drink. He said he wanted to talk to me.”

“Before that, when was the last time you saw him?”