Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

Again Britt was left alone while Raley went into the office. He returned. “Number nine.”

“Presidential suite?”

“Yes, but there’s no room service after ten p.m.”

The appointed cabin had two double beds with a nightstand and lamp between them. There were a small table with two chairs, a bureau with a cracked mirror above it, a TV, and an air conditioner in the window just under the ceiling. Raley flipped a switch, and it came on with a reassuring hum and a waft of cool air.

Britt lifted the bedspread and inspected the sheets. She didn’t see any unsightly or suspicious-looking stains, and the percale smelled of strong detergent and bleach. There was a paper band across the bowl of the toilet, which was also reassuring.

“Not too bad,” she said as she emerged after washing her hands in the minuscule sink.

Raley had taken off his shirt. Seeing his bare chest was a reminder of the night before, which caused her to stub her toe on the doorjamb. “Mind if I take a turn?” He motioned with his head toward the bathroom behind her, but her mind was still snagged on the erotic memory and she failed to answer. “I’m gonna be late,” he said.

Snapping out of it, she stepped aside, and he squeezed through the narrow doorway, carrying his suit and dress shoes in with him. Since his hands were full, Britt reached for the door knob and closed the door for him.

She sat on the bed she’d claimed as hers, looked up at the acoustic tile ceiling, down at the orange shag carpet. The commode was flushed. Water ran in the sink. She heard a thump, as though a bony body part had bumped against the tile wall, followed by a muffled curse.

She’d never lived with a man and wondered if this was what it sounded like. Hearing a shoe drop, she smiled.

He came out five minutes after going in, but the change he’d brought about in that period of time was remarkable. He was dressed in the suit slacks and an ivory shirt. His hair had been finger-combed. He’d put on the dress shoes but was carrying the suit jacket.

“You look nice,” she said. Actually, he looked great.

“Thanks. I’ll put on the jacket when I get there.”

“Tie?”

“Forgot it because I didn’t see it in my closet. Maybe I threw them all away. Anyway, when Fordyce and McGowan see me, they won’t be thinking about neckwear.”

“So you’re going to make yourself seen?”

“Oh, yeah.” He glanced at the bank bag he’d set on the table, along with the plastic-wrapped files and the pistol. “In case of emergency, take those and run.”

“Do I have your permission to look through the files?”

He hesitated, then said, “After you do, don’t rush out and call your cameraman.”

“I won’t.” He looked at her with patent mistrust. “I won’t. I promise.”

He gave a curt nod. “Keep the door locked. Don’t even look through the peephole without having that pistol in your hand. Don’t open the door for anybody except me. Remember, not even a cop could possibly know you’re here, so don’t be deceived by a uniform. I’ll stop on my way back and pick up some food. Any requests?”

Come back soon. Come back safe. Don’t go at all. “Lysol spray.”

“For?”

“The car upholstery. And Diet Coke. Now go. Being late to a funeral is the height of disrespect.”

HE WASN’T LATE, BUT HE WAS AMONG THE LAST TO SLIP into the funeral home chapel before the service began. The entire left side had been reserved for policemen, and every seat was occupied. The other side was filled to capacity with civilians.

Raley stood against the back wall, along with dozens of others who’d arrived too late to get a seat. Hymns were piped through invisible speakers, but the service was more secular than religious. Indeed, if Jay had had a spiritual conviction of any kind, Raley was unaware of it. Raley had been required by his parents to attend church with them regularly. Jay had always ribbed him about it.

Familiar scriptures were read from both the Old and New Testaments, and the Protestant chaplain of the police department said a prayer. But most of the service was given over to eulogies that extolled Jay’s virtues and wit, his commitment to law enforcement, and of course, his heroism on the day of the police station fire.

The overriding theme of each speech was that the police department and the community as a whole had been robbed of one of their finest members and that the world was severely diminished by Jay Burgess’s departure from it.

One of the last and most touching eulogies was written by Judge Cassandra Mellors. It was read by the funeral director in her absence. Pressing matters and professional obligations prevented her from attending the service, he explained, and she deeply regretted not being there to express, in person, her affection for Jay Burgess and sorrow over his passing and the unfortunate circumstances surrounding it.

Ever since his arrival, Raley had been scanning the sea of heads looking for Candy. It was sorely disappointing to learn that she wasn’t there and that he wouldn’t have an opportunity to reestablish contact with her face-to-face.

Naturally he wouldn’t have broached the subject of the fire. Nor would he have mentioned Britt. Candy would be under the misconception that Britt was a fugitive from justice. But if it became necessary later on to seek Candy’s help, a prior personal meeting would have made it less awkward to contact her after such a long absence.

At the conclusion of the service, everyone stood. A bagpiper played “Amazing Grace” as the casket was carried up the center aisle and out the wide doors to the waiting hearse. Burial was to be private, with only Jay’s surviving kin-a smattering of cousins and one uncle-in attendance. Once the coffin had cleared the door, the congregation was ushered out by funeral home staff, a row at a time, starting with the first rows and working backward.

Among the first up the aisle was Cobb Fordyce, walking arm in arm with an attractive woman whom Raley assumed was his wife. Both wore stoic, solemn expressions, the standard visage of dignitaries at funerals. If the attorney general picked Raley out in the crowd, he gave no sign of it.

But George McGowan did. He wasn’t far behind Fordyce, and when he saw Raley, he did a double take and came to a dead stop, causing Miranda to look at him with consternation. His father-in-law, coming up behind him, gave him a slight push.

George averted his head and continued up the aisle and out the doors. Not wanting George to get away, Raley flouted protocol, maneuvered his way through the crowd along the back wall, and fell in with those who were exiting.

It was a hot, airless afternoon, heavy with humidity. Men not dressed in police uniform were discarding their suit jackets as they stood in groups, talking. A few were lighting up cigarettes. No one was really looking toward the hearse, but everyone was respectfully mindful of it and seemed reluctant to leave before it did.

Raley scanned the crowd that had spread out onto the chapel lawn. Fordyce and his missus were already being assisted into a limousine. But George McGowan was standing with his wife, father-in-law, and several people Raley didn’t know.

He made a beeline for the group.

George, seeing him, separated himself from the others and met him halfway. His smile was broad and guileless, his voice as big as his barrel chest. “Raley Gannon. I thought I spotted you in there. Christ, how long has it been?”

“Five years. Hello, George.” He played along with George’s blatant bullshit and pumped the hand extended to him.

George clapped him on the back as he looked him over. “Lookin’ good, Raley. Still fit. A few gray hairs, but hell.”