Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

Without the pistol, their only weapon was the video recording. As she had pointed out, it was hardly a signed confession. But it was all they had, so they had to make the most of it.

“Can you make a copy of that video?” he asked.

“I’d need two machines, and videotape only duplicates at real time. I don’t have access to the machines and-”

“We don’t have the time.” But he’d begun to formulate an idea. “Actually, just the threat of the video might be enough.”

“Enough to do what?”

“To get George McGowan to spill his guts.” He glanced at her, saw that she was listening closely. “On the video, Fordyce doesn’t implicate himself, but he doesn’t refute my allegation that the three detectives were guilty. He even went so far as to venture that George had disposed of Jay. I don’t think George will take too kindly to that.”

“He won’t want to take the fall all by his lonesome,” she said. “He’ll want to set the record straight.”

“If I can coax something out of McGowan that would incriminate them both, then the video of Fordyce would be useful after all. We’d have caught him lying and trying to transfer blame.” He motioned toward the camcorder. “Take out that tape and put in a fresh one. Has it been juiced up enough to run? Show me how to operate it.”

“I’ll do the camera work.”

He shook his head. “I’ll go to George. You have another chore.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then said, “You want me to turn myself in.”

“It’s the only way you’ll be safe, Britt.” He outlined his plan to her. When he was finished, she asked, “What about Clark and Javier?”

“I don’t trust the PD. I don’t want you anywhere near police headquarters. McGowan and Fordyce have too many friends there. The tape might conveniently disappear.”

“My lawyer?”

“We’re not sure how trustworthy he is, but we know for certain he’s got no balls.”

She thought about it, then said, “All right, I’ll do it. But it won’t be easy. Especially today.”

“If someone accosts you, you start talking fast, create a scene, draw attention to yourself if you have to do cartwheels up and down Broad Street. Produce that tape, make sure some of your media pals see it. Make yourself heard.”

She smiled at him. “That I can do.”

“But can you drive my pickup?”

“Automatic shift?”

He nodded.

“Then I can drive it.”

The way their luck had been running, they were surprised to find the truck where they’d left it at the deserted airstrip. It was covered with a thick layer of dust but otherwise appeared not to have been touched.

“This spot is still our secret,” Raley remarked as he brought the sedan to a stop.

Britt unplugged the camcorder. “You’re clear on how to use it?”

“A three-year-old could do it.”

They got out of the sedan. Raley climbed behind the steering wheel of his pickup, started the engine, checked the gas gauge. “Half a tank, which should be plenty to get you into Charleston.”

She offered to take the sedan.

He shook his head adamantly. “Too dangerous. They’ll be looking for it. I only hope I can get to George before Fordyce’s heavies get to me.”

“They could be looking for the truck, too.”

“They could, but it’s meaner than the sedan. Harder for them to push off the road.” Even though he’d said that, she read the worry in his expression as he got out of the cab, leaving the motor running.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

“Are you trying to reassure me or yourself?”

“Both,” she admitted. “But once I get where I’m going, I’ll be safe. In handcuffs, perhaps, but safe.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a long, meaningful look. “Britt…”

She smiled gently and pressed her fingers vertically against his lips. “You don’t have to say anything, Raley Gannon. I know you like me, and more than a little.”

He pulled her against him and kissed her long and deeply, then released her and in a voice made gruff by emotion said, “Be careful. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, he boosted her into the cab of the pickup.

He followed her in the sedan from the airstrip to the main road, and then for several miles until their paths split. She waved to him from the driver’s window. He gave her a thumbs-up, but for a full five minutes after they separated he was tempted to say screw it to this plan, make a quick U-turn, and go after her. He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. He would much rather they stuck together no matter what.

But he kept to the plan. Each had an assignment, and both were equally crucial to success. The video recording of Fordyce empowered Britt. As long as it was in her possession, she would have a measure of protection and control. Raley was unarmed, except for the camcorder, which was nothing more than a stage prop, really. He hoped George McGowan would fall for it.

He wanted to ambush George before he had time to call the police, or his lawyer, or to prepare answers for Raley’s accusations. Raley didn’t want to give him time to summon Les and Miranda for backup, either. He wanted him alone and defenseless.

But, first, he had to know where to find him.

He stopped at a service station and used a pay phone to call Conway Concrete and Construction. When the receptionist answered, Raley gave her a fictitious name and told her he wanted to speak to George McGowan about a potential project. He only wanted to verify that George was in the company office and intended to hang up once it was confirmed.

Instead, the receptionist informed him that Mr. McGowan was feeling under the weather and, after having put in only a brief appearance at the office, he had gone home and was expected to stay there for the remainder of the day.

Even better, Raley thought.

He thanked the receptionist and was about to hang up when she said in a near whisper, “Actually, I think he was upset over the news about Attorney General Fordyce.”

Raley’s hand was arrested in motion. Indeed, everything inside him went terribly and suddenly still with foreboding. “Attorney General Fordyce? What about him? What news?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Now there was an underlying excitement in her voice, the inflection of someone titillated by tragic news. “It’s just awful. Cobb Fordyce was shot this morning in his home.”

Raley’s stomach dropped.

“His wife found him when she returned from an errand. She was hysterical, of course, but told the police that her husband had greeted the man and woman who shot him. They’d arrived unexpectedly, but he’d let them come inside. Mrs. Fordyce was wary, but he told her that everything was okay, for her to go ahead and drive their sons to baseball practice. She’ll never get over leaving him alone with them, you can be sure of that. And she’s almost positive that the woman was Britt Shelley. You know that reporter who’s been missing? Her.”

Raley squeezed his eyes shut and leaned heavily against the telephone. “You said he was shot. Is he dead?”

“They haven’t announced it officially, but he’s as good as. He was shot in the head, and his condition is critical.”

RALEY HUNG UP ON THE TALKATIVE RECEPTIONIST.

With shaking hands, he fed coins into the slots and punched in another number. He looked over his shoulder, feeling like the phone booth was a shooting gallery and there was a bull’s-eye on his back.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” He’d called Candy’s cell phone in order to circumvent her secretary, and he intentionally didn’t say his name.

“Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “What have you done?”