Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“Pull in there.”

“Wal-Mart?”

It was one of the chain’s superstores, open twenty-four hours. Since the sun was barely up, there were only a few other cars in the vast parking lot. He wondered what this was about but did as she asked.

She opened the glove box and rifled through the contents: the paperwork he’d got when he bought the car, the owner’s manual, a folded state map, a card about air bag safety. She ripped a blank page from the back of the manual. “Do you have something to write with?”

He didn’t, but a former owner had left behind a ballpoint pen. It was almost dry, and the tip had lint on it, but it was usable enough for her to scratch several words onto the paper. Passing it to him, she said, “Your shopping list. If they don’t have that particular brand in stock, it’s okay to buy another so long as it has the same features. I’ll reimburse you, of course.”

He read what she’d written, then nodded his understanding. “Keep your head down. I won’t be long.”

In less than ten minutes he returned with a package tucked under his arm and carryout cups of coffee in both hands. Once they were under way again, she placed her coffee in the cup holder and began unpacking the shopping bag. Raley watched out of the corner of his eye as she tore into the box containing the camcorder.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“Do I know how to use it,” she muttered with scorn. Then she told him about the smaller stations where she’d got on-the-job training in every aspect of broadcast news. Some of the work had been menial.

When she finished, he said teasingly, “If this TV thing doesn’t work out for you, you can always go back to sweeping floors.”

“Ha-ha.” She plugged an adapter cord into the car’s cigarette lighter so the camcorder battery could charge. She adjusted the small video screen that served as a viewfinder, fiddled with the zoom, and tested the built-in microphone. “I’ve operated cameras more sophisticated. This one is a no-brainer. I’m no Spielberg, you understand, but I’ll get an image and audio. Besides, I’ve got hours to practice.”

“You’ve got less than two,” he said.

“But the appointment isn’t until eleven.”

“That’s when the appointment is, but that’s not when we’re meeting with the attorney general.”

“How did you know where he lives?” Britt asked when Raley pointed out the stately, red-brick Colonial. They cruised past it slowly, then continued down the street and turned at the next corner.

“After he was elected, I followed him home from the capitol one day.”

“To confront him?”

“No, just to seethe. I had a lot of time on my hands, nothing else to do but stoke my bitterness. His career had soared at my expense. At Suzi Monroe’s expense. I resolved to set things right one day.”

“And today is that day.”

“Not a day too soon, either.” He parked at the curb on the next street and cut the engine, then reached across the console and caught Britt’s arm before she could open the door.

He understood and respected her need to be personally involved in the solution to her problem. Her stake in this was as high as his, maybe ever higher because she stood to lose the most. She deserved a chance to remedy the wrong that had been done to her. In theory, he empathized.

But from a personal standpoint, he was afraid of something going terribly wrong and her getting hurt. “This could be ugly, Britt. You don’t have to go along.”

“I expect it to be ugly, and I most certainly do have to go along.”

He nodded, acknowledging that she was capable of making her own decisions and had the right to do so. But knowing that didn’t mitigate his fear for her safety. “This is a last resort kind of plan. We’re taking a huge risk.”

“Some risks are worth taking.” Her quiet tone, and the way she looked at him when she said that, let him know she was referring to more than their ambushing Fordyce at home.

“Damn right.” He hooked his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him, giving her a hard, quick kiss before setting her away. He ran his thumb across her damp lower lip, then said hoarsely, “Let’s go.”

They followed the sidewalk around the block. It was an upscale neighborhood with its own police force and a crime watch co-op among homeowners. So as not to attract attention, they kept to a leisurely pace. A dog barked at them from behind an estate wall, and a jogger with iPod earplugs gave them an absentminded nod as he huffed past on the opposite side of the street. Other than that, they didn’t draw anyone’s attention.

When they reached the attorney general’s house, they turned and started up the central walkway as though that was their morning routine. Britt had expressed some misgivings when Raley outlined his plan to her.

“He may have security guards,” she’d said.

“He may. If so, we’ll create a ruckus. Media would get on it. Even if we’re dragged away in shackles, he’ll eventually have to address why we came knocking.”

“He could refuse to give us an audience.”

“I doubt it. Not after what Candy told him. She hinted that I was at my wit’s end and likely to do something crazy. I’m betting he doesn’t want a public spectacle and would much rather meet me in private.”

“But not quite this private.”

“No. We’ll definitely be an unwelcome surprise,” he’d said.

Now, Britt remarked, “One less worry. I don’t see any guards.”

In fact, the house and property had an aspect of serenity. Automatic sprinklers had left the lawn looking dewy and fresh. The front porch, running the width of the house, had four fluted columns supporting the second-floor balcony. Large urns containing Boston ferns framed the double front door, which was painted high-gloss black.

Reaching it without being challenged, Raley looked at Britt. “Ready?”

“Get to the good stuff soon. This battery isn’t fully charged.”

She aimed the camera’s lens at the door. Raley rapped the polished brass knocker three times. While waiting for it to be answered, he braced himself. For what, he didn’t know. He tried mentally and physically to prepare himself for anything. An attacking Doberman? A formidable housekeeper? A child in Lightning McQueen jammies?

Surprisingly, the door was opened by Cobb Fordyce himself. He was dressed in suit trousers, shirt, and tie but wasn’t wearing his jacket. He was holding a linen napkin. Apparently they’d caught him having breakfast.

Britt started recording.

He reacted as though the camcorder was an Uzi, staggering backward several steps. “What’s this?”

“Good morning, Mr. Fordyce,” Britt said. “It’s been a while.”

Identifying her as the newswoman cum fugitive, his eyes went wide. Then his gaze swung to Raley, and again he asked, “What is this?”

“This is the day you’ve been dreading for five years. We’ve come to talk to you about Cleveland Jones. Remember him?” Raley held up his files, which he’d brought with him. “If your memory needs refreshing, it’s all in here.”

The AG’s eyes skittered beyond them, and he looked relieved to see that they were unaccompanied. Coming back to Raley, he said, “Cleveland Jones. Of course I remember. He was the man who started the fire at the police station.”

“You’re sticking to that story, then?” Britt asked.

Irritably, Fordyce raised his hand as though about to cover the lens of the camera with the napkin, then thought better of it and lowered his hand back to his side. “He set it just before he died of head wounds.”

“Ms. Shelley and I think otherwise,” Raley said. “And you know otherwise. So did Pat Wickham, Senior. So did Jay Burgess. That’s why they’re dead.”