Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“This isn’t funny,” Miranda snapped.

“Did I say it was funny?”

“What does Gannon want to talk to the AG about?”

“Three guesses, Les, and the first two don’t count.”

His father-in-law looked past him and addressed Miranda as though he weren’t there. “Your husband does like to crack unfunny jokes, doesn’t he?”

George’s blood came to an instant boil. “No, Les, I don’t. I just don’t know how to handle this situation, so mocking the absurdity of it is the best I can do.”

“With that kind of chickenshit attitude, no wonder you’re a failure.”

“Boys,” Miranda said, tsking. “There’s no call to take potshots at each other. We’ll figure this out if everybody just stays calm. Although I must agree with Daddy, George.”

“Shocker.” He went to the portable bar and poured himself another scotch.

“This is serious,” she said.

“Right. It is. And urgent. She said Raley wants to set the appointment for tomorrow. He plans to confront Cobb about several issues. The judge said he was making noises about Cleveland Jones and Suzi Monroe. He’s also convinced that Jay was going to make a full confession to all his sins, but that someone bumped him off before he could.” He looked at them in turn and snuffled a mirthless laugh. “Got to hand it to ol’ Raley. He may be unstable, but he’s sure as hell not stupid.”

Miranda said irritably, “Surely the judge wouldn’t set up any such meeting between him and Cobb Fordyce.”

George would have sworn he saw a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. Although he was certain it was brought on by concern for her own sweet ass, not his. “She said she would prefer not to, especially not this week, when she doesn’t need any hassles. She tried stalling him. It didn’t work.”

“Already she’s playing politics,” Les grumbled. “Why didn’t she just hang up on him?”

“I asked her that,” George said. “She’s afraid that if she doesn’t get him his meeting with Cobb, he’ll do something crazy.”

“Like what?”

Again George shrugged. “Strap himself and a few sticks of dynamite to Cobb’s desk. Something. That’s why she asked my opinion on whether or not Raley is mentally and emotionally balanced.”

“What did you tell her?” Les asked.

“Personally? I think Raley Gannon is the sanest of us all. The most noble, too. Jay said he was always idealistic, taking up for the underdog. Called him Saint Raley behind his back.

“But Gannon’s also very pissed off. With all that righteous indignation bubbling inside him all these years, who’s to say he won’t blow at any moment?” Again, he gave a muffled laugh. “But then so could any of us.”

“What do you think she’ll do?” Miranda asked.

“Candy? Undecided.”

“She’s a fool even to consider it,” Les snapped. “It could be disastrous for her. Has she forgotten she’s the one who convinced Fordyce not to prosecute Gannon for that dead girl? Does she want that career blip exposed? This week, in particular.”

“No, I’m sure she doesn’t. But she’s more concerned about what Raley will do if he doesn’t get face time with Cobb than with what will happen if he does. If he were to raid the capitol building, it would draw a hell of a lot more attention than a closed-door meeting.”

Les was pacing the brick terrace, tugging his lower lip. “Have you talked to Fordyce since that night he called here?”

“No. He phoned the office the following day, but I never called him back. There was nothing more to say. But if he was bothered by what Bill Alexander told him, about Jay making a deathbed confession to Britt Shelley, imagine his reaction when Raley starts singing the same song. He could panic.”

It made George nauseated to think about the fallout this could cause. Up till now he’d thought that today’s bad news was hearing from Pat Jr. that Raley and Britt Shelley were sleuthing together. Miranda had gone ballistic when he’d told her and had demanded to know how that was possible. Les had also wanted to know. George had been helpless to provide them an explanation.

Tiredly, he massaged his forehead. “Fucking Jay. This is all his fault. Why’d he have to go and call Britt Shelley? Of all the dumb-ass things to do.”

“Stop your whining,” Miranda hissed, glaring at him. “We’ve got to do something, George. I’ve told you, and I meant it. I won’t get stuck holding a bag of your shit.”

“You’re in this as much as I am,” he shouted. “And so is daddy dear.”

Her face turned cold, and he could have chipped ice off her voice. “We don’t know what you’re talking about. Exactly what is the this we’re supposed to be in?”

“Good try, Miranda,” George said softly. “But you don’t really want me to call your bluff, do you? Do you, Les?”

In answer, she went to stand next to her father, the two of them facing him, as they had on the day he and Miranda got married. In St. Philip’s Church downtown. Everybody who was anybody in attendance. A dozen bridesmaids. Flowers by the truckload. Miranda wearing a designer gown that had cost more than most men earn in a year.

Standing together at the altar, Les had handed her over to him, her groom, her husband, her life partner. But it had been a symbolic gesture without substance. George had soon learned what his status was in the family structure. In this trio, he would always be the odd man out.

Les said, “Make this problem go away, George. Right now. For good this time.”

“How in hell am I supposed to do that?”

“F.I.O.,” Miranda said, tossing her hair. “Figure it out.”

It had been a slow day for the two men known as Smith and Johnson. They were having an early dinner at a steak house that featured an unlimited salad bar and free apple cobbler. Two clean-cut men sharing a meal and conversation, never drawing attention to themselves, men who’d be forgotten as soon as they left the restaurant.

Yesterday they had got their asses chewed for losing Raley Gannon after he left the funeral. It was pointed out to them that they’d missed a golden opportunity, especially since he was now partnered with Britt Shelley, who twice had survived them.

“No way she could’ve got out of that car,” Johnson had said when they learned she was alive and seemingly fine.

“Well, obviously she did,” their employer had said with rancor.

Had they been sharp enough, they were told, they could have followed Raley Gannon from the funeral, back to the newswoman, and taken care of both of them, then collected their pay and disappeared.

They took the reprimand stoically, knowing they deserved it. They had enjoyed the car play on that dark country road, but it hadn’t been an efficient form of assassination. In fairness to themselves, they cited that it had been their retainer’s idea to intercept the woman on the road and make her death look like a suicide.

At present, no one knew where Gannon and Britt Shelley were holed up. Charleston didn’t seem that large until you were trying to find someone in it, and most of the population seemed to be driving gray sedans. License plate numbers were pointless; Gannon was smart enough to switch them.

“We should have put a transponder on the car while he was inside the chapel,” Smith observed now as he cut off a piece of blood-rare sirloin.

“Too many people around. Late arrivals. Chauffeurs. Grave-diggers.”

The drop-in visit to Wickham’s house had been reported to them.

“Do you think Gannon is carrying, or was Wickham dramatizing?” Smith asked, chewing thoughtfully.

“From what we’ve been told about Wickham, I’d say he was probably dramatizing.”

“But is Gannon carrying?”