Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“No. And I even asked. He said he didn’t recall Cleveland having a lighter.”

“A heavy smoker without a lighter? That didn’t strike the cop as unusual?”

“I’m just tellin’ you what he said.” Jones stared into near space for a moment, then said ruefully, “I’d have liked to have that lighter back. As a keepsake, you know, of Cleveland and my old man. But I guess Cleveland lost it, had it stole, something. He shit away everything else of value in his life, I guess he did that lighter, too.”

Raley and Britt looked at each other again, then Raley turned back to Jones. “Can you think of anything else that could be useful to my investigation? Was there a special place Cleveland liked to go? A favorite hangout?”

“Like I said, we hadn’t stayed in touch.”

“Was Cleveland a member of a gang?” Raley cast a glance toward the photos tacked to the wall. “A member of any group?”

“Not that I know of,” Jones replied. “I tried to get him to join up with me and some guys. He was good with weapons and enjoyed being out in the woods. But he didn’t have the patience to be a good hunter. Too fidgety, you know. And a true soldier needs discipline. Cleveland didn’t want nobody telling him what to do.”

Raley was disappointed that the interview hadn’t yielded more, but he could think of nothing else to ask. When he silently consulted Britt, she shook her head. Seeing no reason to continue, they thanked Jones for his time. Britt preceded Raley out. Jones ordered the dog to be quiet, but it growled deep in its throat, hackles raised while its slitted eyes followed Britt as she walked to the car.

His owner was watching her just as hungrily. In a confidential voice he said, “You got yourself a sweet and juicy peach there, Gannon.”

“Thanks,” Raley said tightly.

“She’s that TV gal gone missing, ain’t she?”

Raley vaulted the last of the cracked concrete steps and whipped back around.

“Relax,” Jones said as he sauntered down the steps. “I ain’t going to rat her out. I got all the respect in the world for a high-toned piece of tail like that.” His gaze shifted to Raley, and he winked. “Y’all are thinking there was something fishy about that fire and the way my boy died. Right? You’re trying to sniff out some bad cops and expose the corruption within the P fucking D.”

“Something like that.”

Jones grinned, showing gold caps on most of his molars. “More power to you.” He extended his fist, palm side down.

Raley stared at the tattoos on the man’s knuckles, then bumped his fist against Jones’s.

The grim reaper twitched as every muscle in the hard body contracted. “Gig ’em good, brother. I fuckin’ hate those commie government sons o’ bitches.”

BRITT GAVE RALEY A SIDELONG GLANCE AND TAPPED HER fists together. “You two are buddies now?”

“Brothers actually. Because I’m trying to expose the corruption in the police department.”

“Ah.” As they drove away, she gave the trailer one last glance and shuddered with revulsion. “He gave me the creeps.”

Tongue in cheek, Raley said, “He spoke highly of you.”

“He said something about me? What?”

“You don’t want to know. But he also recognized you as the TV gal gone missing.” Her surprise must have shown. Raley added, “I didn’t think he knew you, either, but we don’t have to worry about him blowing the whistle. He made it clear he hates cops.”

“And everybody else. I found myself feeling sorry for Cleveland Jones.”

“He raped a twelve-year-old.”

“I know, I know, but…He was baptized in hatred. It sounds like he never knew a single day of love or nurturing, not in his whole short life.”

“His granddaddy gave him a cigarette lighter, don’t forget.”

“With a naked girl on it.”

Her disgust made him smile. “Granted, it wasn’t a standard keepsake from a grandfather, like, say, a pocket watch, but it shows there was some affection there. Obviously it meant a lot to Cleveland.”

“Yet it was conspicuously missing from the things the unidentified policeman said Cleveland had on him the day of his arrest.”

“Um-huh. Funny that a lewd cigarette lighter would slip his mind when he could remember the exact amount of money Jones had, down to thirty-seven cents.”

“They had him cremated so his remains could never be exhumed and reexamined.”

“Very tidy.” He thought a moment, then said grimly, angrily, “They covered this thing, Britt, and they did it right. We are exactly nowhere.”

“I can’t continue playing Nancy Drew forever. I can’t stay in hiding the rest of my life.”

“If you come out of hiding, your life may not last all that long.”

“That much we have determined. So, what next? Any ideas?”

“If I made another run at George McGowan, he would only bow his back and tell me to fuck off. Or worse, if he’s the one having me tailed. I don’t want to risk leading them to you.”

“That leaves Cobb Fordyce.”

“Who’s in his ivory tower at the state capitol, protected by guards and his lofty office. I couldn’t get near him without being arrested, and even if I could, he isn’t going to raise his hands in surrender and confess.”

“Jay and Pat Wickham are dead.”

“Right. They’re not talking.”

She suddenly remembered something Raley had told her the night before. “What about Pat Junior?”

“What about him?”

“You said you caught him staring at you and George McGowan after the funeral, and that his attention seemed to make George nervous.”

“Nervous or angry, I couldn’t tell. But Pat Junior was definitely flustered.”

“Flustered? He’s a police officer,” Britt argued.

“Yeah, but he wasn’t looking at us like a cop would. His staring was covert, but in a jittery way, not a surveillance sort of way.”

“Two men who hadn’t seen each other in years, chatting at the funeral of a mutual friend. What about that would give a police officer the jitters?” she asked, surmising out loud. “Why would seeing you and George McGowan talking together bother him? But since it did, why didn’t he mosey over and check it out? Better yet, why didn’t he speak to you at all?”

Raley stopped at a red light and looked over at her. “Maybe we should ask him.”

“Maybe we should.”

“I wonder what his shift is.”

“Eleven to seven,” she replied. “A.m. to p.m. Unless that’s changed since I interviewed him.”

Raley turned his head toward her so quickly, his neck popped. “You interviewed Pat Junior?”

“When his father was killed.” Feeling the familiar stirring of excitement that came with being on the trail of a hot story, she checked her watch. “He’ll be on his lunch hour. We can catch him there.”

“You know where he’s having lunch?”

She nodded happily. “Same place every day.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, then said, “You’re full of surprises today. Where to?”

“That’s it,” Britt said, pointing. It was a basic house in a basic middle-class neighborhood.

“He eats lunch at home?”

“Every day,” she replied. “He told me he likes to take a power nap, so he comes home, eats a sandwich, then sleeps for twenty minutes before going back to work.”

“A creature of habit.”

“Apparently.”

“And kinda squirrelly.”

She shrugged. “Different strokes.”

“You got to know him pretty well.”

“Not really. I interviewed him three times, and the focus was Pat Senior. But I remember the bit about his lunch hour.”

Raley parked at the curb in front of the house. It was a white frame structure with dark green storm shutters and a well-maintained yard. “You’re a fugitive from the law,” he observed as he turned off the car’s ignition. “He’s a police officer. You’re about to come calling at his house.”