Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“Ooh. I bet that scared them.”

Apparently he knew she was being droll. “The point is,” he continued peevishly, “you’re not a favorite among officers of the CPD, especially Detectives Clark and Javier. They suggested to me, in very stern language, that you deliberately impeded their investigation.”

Calling the press conference had been a calculated risk. She’d realized it probably wouldn’t go over well with the police department. But she’d wanted to go on record-public record-that ingestion of a drug was the most plausible explanation for her lost memory of the night Jay died. Now that the urinalysis had come back negative, she was especially glad that she’d gone public with her suspicion.

“If I have to, I’ll submit to an MRI to prove I don’t have a brain tumor or some other affliction that caused me to black out.”

It was the lawyer’s turn to be droll. “There was the scotch.”

She started to ask him whose side he was on but decided not to waste her flagging energy. “Jay was my friend, and I grieve his passing. He had terminal cancer and died in his sleep, which many would consider a blessing. But because I’m a TV personality, and he was a hero, and we apparently slept together, his death has been turned into a media event. For his sake, I resent that. It dishonors his passing.”

“But you can understand the police department’s duty to determine exactly what happened to him.”

“Certainly. What I can’t understand is why that duty doesn’t extend to determining what happened to me.”

“The significant difference is obvious, isn’t it? You’re alive.”

That conversation left her feeling angry and dejected. If her own lawyer didn’t see her as a victim, how could she convince the police of it? Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to judge the motives of the friends who’d phoned her today. Perhaps their concern was genuine. Maybe she’d only imagined that their calls were ill-disguised fishing expeditions for salacious details.

She was in desperate need of staunch allies who wouldn’t question her claim of a memory loss or, more important, her integrity. She didn’t have the standard support group-parents and siblings, a spouse. She didn’t have a chaplain to give her advice and assurance.

But what she did have was a list of prominent people who owed her a favor. In addition to hard news reports, she often did personality profiles or human interest stories. The subjects for these reports were people who, in her opinion, deserved recognition for a job well done. Rarely, if ever, did she cash in these IOUs. But now was the time.

She called the first name on her list.

“Judge Mellors’s office.”

“Hello. Is the judge available?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

She identified herself and was told to hold on. When the assistant came back on the line, she was effusively apologetic. The judge had a very full schedule for the remainder of the afternoon. “So much is happening, with the presidential appointment.”

“I’m sure,” Britt said, sensing a brush-off. When the president had nominated Judge Mellors for the U.S. District Court, Britt had covered the story, including a lengthy interview. She’d wrapped up the story by saying, “The Senate vote on Judge Mellors’s nomination is sure to be only a matter of protocol.”

Apparently the judge wished it to remain only a matter of protocol and didn’t want even the slightest association with someone caught in a scandalous news story.

Next Britt tried to speak with the owner of a private insurance company who had exposed the deliberate errors and omissions of giant insurance carriers. His allegations had resulted in lawsuits and costly countersuits. When he ultimately won, Britt did a news feature on him, extolling him as a David who’d gone up against Goliath. He’d said, “If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

But when she called, like the judge, he was too busy to speak to her. Or so she was told.

A surgeon who devoted half his time to indigent patients. A couple who’d begun a foundation for juvenile diabetes following the death of their child. A pilot who had safely landed a disabled airplane, sparing the lives of all onboard.

She worked her way down the list. To no avail. Either everyone in Charleston was incredibly busy that afternoon or she had gone from superstar to leper the moment she woke up in bed with Jay Burgess dead beside her.

Finally, she called the general manager of the TV station, to thank him for responding so quickly to her plea for help that morning. “Mr. Alexander was a godsend.” That was a huge stretch, but she said it with as much sincerity as she could muster.

“This is a messy business, Britt.”

“Yes it is. I’m not enjoying it at all.”

“I gave my okay for our station to cover the press conference. I question that decision now.”

That surprised her. “Oh? Why?”

“People could accuse us of partial reporting.”

“Our reporters’ questions were as direct and incisive as any.”

“Some don’t see it that way.”

“Like who?”

“Police department personnel. People in local government. Jay Burgess was a hero. Folks don’t take well to him being accused of drugging a woman to get her into bed.”

“I made a point of not accusing Jay.”

“That’s what you said, but folks aren’t stupid. They can read between the lines.”

“I never-”

“Anyhow, I’m glad you called. I was going to call you later this evening.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

There was a brief but significant pause. “Actually, Britt, I was going to call and tell you not to bother coming to work tomorrow.”

What they said about the rug being jerked out from under you was an apt analogy. One moment, she was simply worried. The next, she was falling, flailing, knowing that rock bottom was somewhere beneath her and she was closing in on it fast.

She was stunned beyond speech, or breath, or thought. Of all the things he could have said to her, this was the most unexpected. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. Was he truly asking her-no, directing her-not to report to work as usual?

Finding her voice, she said, “I’m touched by your thoughtfulness, but I’m fine. Honestly I am. I want to work. I need to.”

And that was true. If she didn’t continue doing her job, people would assume that she was hiding, that she had something to hide. She didn’t, and she didn’t want it to appear that way. Besides, she would go mad if she spent another day cooped up inside her house, waiting for something to happen.

“Take some time off, Britt,” he said. “Take a leave of absence. Until further notice.”

Her mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to ask, “Are you firing me?”

“No! Hell, no. Did you hear me say that?”

I’m not stupid. I can read between the lines. “How long will this leave of absence last?”

“For however long it takes to clear up this mess. Let’s wait and see what happens in the next couple days. Then we’ll regroup.”

The escape hatch he’d left for himself was bigger than the Grand Canyon. He then became parental and expansive, offering his and the station’s unlimited help with anything she needed. “During the leave, you’ll be paid full salary,” he assured her. Just before saying good-bye, he encouraged her to eat well and get plenty of rest. Had he been there in person, he might have given her a patronizing pat on the head before beating a hasty retreat.

She hung up, furious over his hypocrisy. Britt Shelley had been caught in a compromising situation. Locally, that was big news. Her station would have the inside track, giving their newsroom a distinct advantage over its competitors as well as an instant boost in ratings.