Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

She must have hollow bones, he thought. He hadn’t realized how dainty she was, how unsubstantial, until she’d been under him and he was too far gone to be gentle. Andre the Giant ravaging Tinker Bell.

On the other hand, the depth of her passion had surprised him. Yeah, she’d been upset, scared out of her wits, in the grip of hysteria, her emotions off the charts, but still…Who would’ve guessed that the cool lady on TV was one and the same with the woman who fucked like-

“Raley?”

Her soft voice stopped his breath. He swallowed, managed to say, “Hmm?”

“I’m staying.”

George air-kissed the teenybopper cocktail waitress good-bye and let himself out of her apartment. He’d given her quite a workout tonight. Or, more truthfully, she’d given him one; as he made his way to his car, he realized how dog tired he was.

It had been one hell of a day. He’d spent all morning at the office, finishing up a contract Les had reminded him was already late. He’d barely had time to scarf down a sandwich lunch before leaving for the funeral. The ceremony would have been bad enough, but added to it was the encounter with Raley Gannon, who had appeared like some chain-rattling ghost.

Jay’s death had resurrected Raley Gannon. There was an irony in there somewhere, but George was too tired to think it through.

He turned his car toward home, hoping to God Miranda would be asleep when he got there. He might even forgo their comfortable bed for the sofa in the study, just to avoid her shit. Their cocktail hour at the country club had been too short, the dinner in the club dining room too long. All through it Les had badgered him about this and that, while Miranda sat there sighing with boredom when she wasn’t gazing at her reflection in the mirror behind their table.

When the meal finally concluded, George asked Les if he would drive Miranda home, saying he needed to return to the office to check his e-mails. He did make a quick stop at the office, but only to pick up condoms, which he kept in his desk drawer, then he spent the next hour with the cocktail waitress who wasn’t only good looking but also one hell of a contortionist.

Their acrobatics in bed had left him sated, almost too weary to drive home. But while his body was languishing, his brain was acting like an overloaded circuit board, sizzling and sparking with a fresh worry every few seconds.

Les and Miranda had dismissed his concern over Raley’s unexpected appearance at the funeral. “He taunted you. So what?” Les had said as he stirred cream into his after-dinner coffee. “If that guy had anything to back up his beef, he would have used it five years ago. He’s history. Forget him.”

But worry continued to gnaw at George, and apparently Pat Wickham was also feeling its bite. He wasn’t as good at hiding his uneasiness as George was. George could choke the little turd for letting Raley catch him staring at them. He’d looked bug-eyed and scared enough to wet himself, and Raley had picked up on it.

George’s cell phone rang. Probably Miranda, checking up on him, although she must have had a good idea where he’d been. He flipped open his phone. “I’m on my way.”

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Candy.”

“Oh, hell, Candy, I thought you were Miranda.”

“I get that a lot,” she said with drollness and good-natured self-deprecation. “Don’t I wish.” Then in a lower, sadder tone, she asked, “Is this a bad time?”

“No. I’m in my car on my way home.”

“Sorry it’s so late, but I wanted to call before the day was over. I hated like hell having to miss the funeral. George, you know that if it weren’t for this-”

“You don’t need to explain, Candy. We all know and understand why you couldn’t make it.”

“I appreciate your understanding. But that doesn’t make me regret it any less. How did it go?”

“I think Jay would have liked it. Except for the organ music. He would have preferred a jazz quartet.”

She laughed.

“The thing you wrote was a highlight. If Jay’s in heaven, he’s blushing.”

“I meant everything I said. He was a good friend. I’m going to miss him.”

“Yeah.” George waited a beat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Guess who showed up?”

“Half the city, I expect.”

“Nearly.”

“Cobb Fordyce, I’m sure.”

“He even brought the wife.”

“He’s a politician,” she said, but without rancor. “He’s got an image to uphold.”

“And Raley Gannon.”

“Seriously?”

“I shit you not. In the flesh.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“We had an…uh…exchange.”

“Exchange? That word sort of qualifies what would normally be referred to as a conversation.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what kind of qualification, George?”

He began by describing Raley’s appearance and general demeanor. “He looked basically the same, except he’s wearing his hair longer. Some gray in it now. Friendly enough, but he never was as outgoing as Jay. He didn’t say what he was doing or where he was living these days. But he, uh…” He hesitated, then said, “He did bring up the business with Suzi Monroe.”

“That surprises me,” Candy said thoughtfully. “You would think he’d want to keep that well buried in his past. What was the context?”

“He remarked on the similarity between the night Jay died and the night the Monroe girl overdosed.”

“Jay didn’t overdose.”

By now George had arrived at his house. He parked in front but kept the engine running so the air conditioner would stay on. “I was quick to point that out to him. He said the similarity was that Britt Shelley claimed she was drugged the night she was with Jay, same as he was the night he was with Suzi Monroe.”

“Suzi Monroe was a habitual drug user. Jay never used drugs. So did he venture to guess who’d slipped Britt Shelley a Mickey?”

“We didn’t get that far, but Raley is of the opinion-” He broke off when Miranda opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Light from the doorway outlined her body through the sheer nightgown she was wearing.

“Raley is of the opinion…?” Candy prompted.

Holding his wife’s gaze through the car window, George said, “He’s of the opinion that Jay made the date with Britt Shelley to give her a big news story. One with a deathbed confession built in.”

She groaned. “Poor Raley. He just won’t give up.”

“I called his bluff, told him he was full of shit, said he was still pissed at Jay over him snatching Hallie out from under his nose.”

Candy sighed. “I guess you can’t blame him. Even after all this time, even now that Jay’s dead, Hallie’s rejection is bound to hurt. But Raley refuses to accept responsibility for his misfortune, which came about because of his own stupidity.”

“And his dick.”

“Redundant.”

George snuffled a laugh. “You have a point, Judge.”

“Do you know how to get in touch with Raley?”

“No. Why?”

“It might help if I talked to him.”

George waited several beats, then said, “I wonder…”

“What?”

“Could Raley’s grudge against Jay have driven him to commit murder?” He let the question reverberate. The judge didn’t respond immediately, but he knew he had her attention. “I halfway accused him of it. He said if he’d wanted to kill Jay, it wouldn’t have taken him five years. But it smacks of poetic justice, doesn’t it? Using a date rape drug? It’s something to think about.” Another short pause, then, “What do you hear about Britt Shelley?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought maybe you’d picked up some scuttlebutt going around the courthouse.”