Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“Thanks.”

“Me?” he said, slapping his gut. “I’ve put on a few.”

There was nothing to say to that. He had. More than a few.

“I got married.”

“I heard.”

“I left the PD and went to work for my father-in-law.”

Raley acknowledged that this wasn’t news, either.

“You know my daddy worked for Les up till the day he keeled over,” George said. “I thought marrying the boss’s daughter would give me privileges. Don’t you believe it.” He socked Raley’s shoulder and laughed, but his laughter sounded hollow and forced.

Underneath the affected bonhomie, George was nervous. He kept wetting his lips; his eyes darted about. He wasn’t glad to see Raley, making Raley all the more convinced that George had good reason to be jittery. Had it already been reported to him that it appeared Britt Shelley was camped out at Raley’s cabin in the woods, not at the bottom of the river as believed?

“Enough about me,” he said, “what are you doing these days?”

“Well, today, I’m attending a funeral.”

George’s affability deflated like a punctured balloon. Without the balancing smile of large, white teeth, his facial features looked heavier. The flesh sagged, forming crevasses of dissipation and unhappiness.

He glanced toward the hearse still parked in front of the chapel. “Hell of a thing, wasn’t it?”

“Um-huh.”

“A total shock. Like the cancer. Did you know about that?”

“Not until after he was murdered.”

George took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and blotted his sweating upper lip. “First the big c, then…that.”

He was regarding Raley closely, as though gauging his reaction. Raley kept his features carefully schooled.

“You and Jay had been friends for a long time.”

“All our lives. Until five years ago.”

George shifted his big feet, rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat. Obvious signs of general discomfort, which an ex-cop should know how to conceal.

“Aw, Raley, you know how Jay was about women,” he said, deliberately skipping over any reference to Suzi Monroe. “He could have slept with a thousand and it wouldn’t have been enough. Always on the scent of fresh meat, and he’d had a lech for your lady for a long time. Besides, by the time they hooked up, you’d sorta moved on, hadn’t you?”

“No, I’d got kicked out. Disgraced, discredited, and fired.”

George was about to respond when he was interrupted. “George?”

He turned, looking grateful for the interruption. “Honey, come here.” He took his wife’s arm and pulled her forward. Miranda was wearing a snug black dress and high heels, a wide-brimmed, black straw hat, and dark sunglasses. Funeral attire gone glam. “Do you remember Raley Gannon? He was an old pal of Jay’s. From when they were kids.”

“The fireman. Of course I remember.” She removed her sunglasses and gave Raley a smile that suggested he was the only man on the planet and he had a twelve-inch dick she was just dying to treat like a lollipop.

“Hello, Miranda.”

“Where’ve you been keeping yourself all this time?”

“Here and there. Nowhere.”

Her laugh was throaty and sexy. “That sounds like an ideal place to be.” She paused, then said, “It’s good to see you. Shame about the circumstances, though.”

He nodded.

“But Jay wouldn’t want us to grieve, would he? And it’s so mother-lovin’ hot out here.” She dragged her finger down her throat as though to call attention to the dewy skin above the neckline of her black dress. Not that she needed to. If you were a man, and breathing, you’d have already noticed.

Keeping her gaze on Raley, she addressed her husband. “Daddy suggested we go to the club and have a drink.”

“Great idea,” George said, mopping his face with the handkerchief.

“Please join us, Raley. You can ride with George. He and I came in separate cars.” She put one earpiece of her sunglasses between her lips and sucked on it. “You will come, won’t you?”

He wondered if the double meaning of her phrasing was intentional, but he didn’t have to wonder much. “Sorry, I can’t. I have plans.”

“Oh, shoot.” Her lips formed a pout. “That’s too bad.”

“But I would like to talk to George for a minute.”

“Well then…” She reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “So nice seeing you. Don’t be a stranger. Bye.” She dropped her hand and said to George, “See you there, sweetheart.”

George and Raley watched as she rejoined her father, who was bidding good-bye to the group he’d been chatting with. Together she and Les walked down the incline toward a shiny red Corvette convertible. George came back around to Raley. “What do you think?”

“I think you did very well for yourself.”

The other man laughed, ducking his head and looking abashed. “You could say that, yeah.” Then he looked up at Raley from beneath his eyebrows. “Did you ever fuck her?”

Raley was taken aback. “Jesus, George. That’s your wife.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Did Jay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter if you tell me now. He’s dead.”

“I don’t know,” Raley repeated.

George held his stare for several seconds, then muttered, “I never got a straight answer from him about it, either.” He looked away, but when he did, something caught his eye that caused him to wince. Raley turned to see what had caused the facial tic.

Clusters of people were still standing around talking, fanning themselves with their service programs, waiting for the hearse to leave before they did. The circumstances were somber, but Raley didn’t detect anything sinister about the scene, nothing to make George any jumpier than he was.

But then he noted one couple among the crowd, his attention drawn to them because the man’s gaze was fixed on George and Raley while the woman with him was involved in conversation with other people.

When Raley caught the stranger staring, he quickly turned away. Raley looked back at George, sensing the other man’s increased agitation. He asked, “Who’s that?”

“Who?”

“The guy, George. The one who had a bead on us.”

“You mean Pat?”

Raley didn’t buy George’s dumb act, especially when he identified the man. “That’s Pat Wickham?”

“Junior.”

Raley wouldn’t have recognized him. Of course he was older now than when Raley had last seen him-and he couldn’t remember how long that had been. But the drastic change in Wickham’s appearance hadn’t been caused by aging. “What happened to his face?”

“It got fucked up in an accident. Long time ago.”

“Who’s that with him?”

“His wife.”

“He’s married?”

“Got a coupla kids. He joined the department, but he’s a desk jockey. Computers and shit. Not a real cop like his old man was.”

Raley gave Pat Wickham, Jr., a long, considering look, then came back around to George. “Do you two stay in close touch?”

“Not at all.”

“Huh. You and Pat Senior were best friends.”

“True. But after he died, you know how it is.” George looked around as though searching for rescue. “Look, Raley, it’s been great seeing you. But Miranda and Les will be-”

“Has it struck you as odd, George?”

George’s wandering eyes snapped him into focus. “What?”

“Come on. Cut the crap. You know what I’m talking about. The similarity between the night Jay died and the night Suzi Monroe overdosed.”

“Jay didn’t overdose. He was smothered by that newswoman.”

“Was he?”

“Yeah. I mean, that’s the allegation. That’s what I hear.”

“Did you also hear her say that she was drugged? Weird, don’t you think? Britt Shelley echoed exactly what I said the morning I woke up in bed with a naked dead girl and couldn’t remember how I got there.”