Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

Candy smiled. “I’ve got butterflies myself. Which is why I need some downtime. I’m going to the other office to rehearse my acceptance speech.” That was a plausible excuse to leave, and her assistant didn’t question her.

Because of all the interruptions and constant demands on Candy’s time when she was in her courthouse office, she often retreated to a sanctuary where she could concentrate, focus, and sometimes rest between sessions on the bench. Only her assistant knew about it, and that was the point. No one could find her there unless she wanted to be found.

“I have my cell. Call me the moment you hear anything.”

“Certainly, Judge.”

She slipped out a back door, taking a familiar path through connecting alleyways that allowed her to cover half a block of Broad Street without ever having to be on the street itself, except to cross it. She emerged from an alley between two buildings and checked to see that the coast was clear. A delivery truck rumbled past, but otherwise there was a break in the traffic. A horse-drawn carriage full of tourists was turning the corner away from her. The media were still assembled in front of the courthouse, but no one was looking in her direction.

She walked swiftly across the street and ducked into an alley that bordered an abandoned office building. It was wedged between its neighbors, but unlike those buildings, it hadn’t been renovated and was in a state of disrepair. It had six floors, but like many other structures in Charleston, it was only one room wide, so unless one were looking for it, the narrow building could easily go unnoticed.

It was so old and neglected that ferns sprouted from cracks in the mortar holding the ancient bricks onto the exterior walls. The judge was the single tenant and was allowed to occupy one small office only because of a favor she’d done the real estate agent who had been trying for years to unload this listing.

At the back of the building was a scratched and dented metal door. Waiting for her there was Britt Shelley, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap. She looked like a coed on her way to the ballpark to cheer on the home team, not like a woman accused of murder, fleeing both the law and a purported bad guy.

When Candy appeared, the reporter’s relief was plain in her wide smile. “Thank God Raley reached you.” Sounding breathless, she flattened her hand on her chest. “I was so afraid he wouldn’t get through. I’ve come to surrender to you.”

“Let’s get inside first.” Candy used a key to unlock the dead bolt, then hustled Britt into the musty, dim, damp interior. Reaching around her, she flipped on a light switch so they could see their way across a littered floor to the metal staircase.

Britt handled the climb better than Candy, who was panting by the time they reached the sixth-floor landing. The same key opened the office she had furnished with a desk, a couch for power naps, and a massage chair.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, she said, “Britt, have you heard the news from Columbia?”

Her dire tone didn’t escape the newswoman. Apprehensively, she said, “If you talked to Raley, you know we didn’t wait for our eleven o’clock appointment. We went to Fordyce’s house.”

“Yes, well, there’s more, I’m afraid.” Candy nodded toward a chair facing her desk. “You’d better sit down.”

George was obviously drunk. Raley hoped he was too drunk to shoot straight. Surreptitiously he flipped the record button on the camcorder as Britt had instructed. Even if he didn’t get a good picture, the audio would be there.

He stepped into the study. The first thing that captured his attention was the framed photograph of the four heroes of the fire hanging in a prominent place on the wall. If Fordyce didn’t pull through, then George would be the only surviving one. The last keeper of the secret.

“Nice picture,” Raley remarked.

George didn’t lower the pistol aimed at Raley, but he gave the photo a glance. “Yeah. Made me a fucking hero.” He gestured at the room. “Look at what all my heroism got me.”

Raley walked to the chair across the desk from George and sat down. When he did, he saw the object on the desk near the bottle of whiskey. A vintage cigarette lighter with a lurid picture of a naked woman on it, a hologram. Formerly owned by Cleveland Jones, a gift from his grandfather, souvenir of a carnival.

George’s eyes were bloodshot, his face florid, indicating recent and ample consumption of the bourbon. Unfortunately, however, his gun hand was rock steady. He’d been a cop. He couldn’t miss at this range.

Raley said, “You’re no hero, George.”

The man gave a bitter laugh and quaffed the glass of bourbon, then poured himself another. “She thought so.”

“She?”

“Miranda.”

“Is she here?”

“She’s out.”

“Out where?”

“Just…out. Who knows? Who gives a shit?”

“I think you do, George.”

Another laugh, as bitter as the first. “Yeah, well. My lovely wife. Wouldn’t you agree she’s lovely?”

“And then some.”

George grinned as he took another sip of his fresh whiskey. “You know what it’s like to have the hottest, richest girl around come on to you full throttle?”

“Must be nice.” Raley was glad George was rambling drunkenly. It gave him time to think. He was wondering if he could wrest the pistol away without getting shot in the process. Had the liquor slowed George’s reflexes enough for him to grab the gun before the former cop could react?

Had Britt made it safely to Candy? Was she, even now, pouring out the bizarre story of the crime George had helped orchestrate?

“Our first date,” George said, “Miranda went down on me. In my car, no less. I was driving. Nearly killed us both when I came, but it was one hell of a rush.”

“I can imagine.”

“First time we fucked, guess what I discovered.”

“She wasn’t a virgin.”

George laughed for real then. “That’s a good one, Gannon. You have a sense of humor after all. Yeah, that was a good one. But seriously…” He took another slurp from his glass. “No, what I found was this itsy-bitsy gold stud in her clit. Man, you talk about a turn-on. Thought I’d died and gone to pussy heaven.”

He paused to offer Raley a drink.

“No thank you.”

“You sure? Kentucky’s finest.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself. Where was I?”

“Heaven.”

George belched. “Right. We hadn’t dated a month before Miranda started talking marriage. Course I was all over that idea. She’s hot and her old man’s loaded. What’s not to like, right?”

“Right.”

“So down the aisle we went. Honeymooned in Tahiti. Swam naked in the surf. In fact, Miranda stayed naked most of the time. Practically wore blisters on my dick. I thought, George, you lucky bastard, you have hit the jackpot for sure. She had beauty, money, and a button that stayed excited twenty-four/seven on account of that little gold stud.”

His eyes went vacant for several moments, then he squinted Raley back into focus. “She killed my kid, you know.” Seeing Raley’s shock, he said, “Yeah, you heard right. She came back from the honeymoon pregnant. I was thrilled, and for weeks strutted around here like a goddamn peacock. But I noticed she wasn’t getting a tummy on her, and when I remarked on it, she started laughing and said, ‘And I never will, darlin’.’ She’d got rid of the baby and hadn’t even bothered to tell me.”

Raley felt a twinge of pity for the man, and had to remind himself of the lives George was responsible for taking.

“But my consolation prize was all the sex,” George continued. “She’s all about fun and games. Knows every trick in the book. Guess how she knows.”