Smoke Screen

CHAPTER 19

CLEVELAND JONES WAS IN A SMALL, ENCLOSED OFFICE WITH no window, not even in the door. It was being used that day as an interrogation room,” Raley said.

“Why that day?”

“Curious, isn’t it? Especially when there were two other bona fide interrogation rooms. Anyway, it’s believed that he set the fire.”

“By igniting the contents of a wastebasket. You said it wasn’t that simple.”

“It wasn’t. As a seasoned inspector, Brunner knew that, too. Ordinarily, the trash can fire would have burned itself out in a matter of minutes, when all the combustibles were consumed. But this trash can was placed near an intake air vent. The grille was missing and no telling for how long.”

“I only saw the building as a pile of charred rubble,” she said. “But I understand that it was old. The department was mere months away from moving into new headquarters.”

“That’s right. The building was overcrowded, outdated, and in need of extensive repair. The insulation was old. There were holes in the ductwork. Old wood beams formed the infrastructure, and many were rotted. The wiring was faulty. It had a sprinkler system, but it was an antique, insufficient and unreliable on its best day. The day of the fire, it failed completely.

“But no one wanted to spend money on extensive repairs when the department would soon be vacating the place for the new facility. Repairs that were absolutely necessary were done hastily and sloppily. Band-Aids put on a massive hemorrhage. Unfortunately, all this was discovered during our inspection after the fire, not before. Even dust is flammable, and it had been accumulating in the structure since the turn of the last century. It was a disaster waiting to happen.”

“When the small trash can flame was sucked into the wall through the intake vent…”

Raley made a motion with his hands, indicating ignition. “It had a draft pulling it upward. It had more than enough flammable material and virtually nothing to impede its path through the walls. From the first spark, it was deadly.”

“Seven people,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

“Six.”

She gave him a sharp look. “What?”

“Six. Cleveland Jones didn’t die in the fire. He was dead before it started.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “How do you know?”

“Did you come across Jones’s autopsy report?”

“I did, yes. It’s here somewhere.” She shuffled through the documents scattered across the bed until she found that report and handed it to him. “It says his body was found on the floor of that locked room, curled inward, hands under the chin.”

“Which is typical. As a burning body dehydrates, the muscles contract and pull it into a fetal-like position. That doesn’t mean the victim burned to death. Cleveland Jones didn’t. His cause of death was blunt trauma to the head.”

He flipped over a few pages of the autopsy report to a page on which there was a diagram of a human male body. He pointed to the head, where the coroner had made markings. “Skull fractures. Both significant.”

Britt read out loud what the coroner had written. “Fatal.” She looked up at Raley. “A falling beam? Collapsing ceiling?”

He shook his head. “If that was the case, the fire would have been raging for some time. Jones’s lungs would have shown significant soot and smoke inhalation. There would have been a high level of carbon monoxide.” He held up the report. “That’s not what the ME found. As soon as he made these determinations, he called Brunner and told him that one of the victims was dead before the fire started. Brunner asked me to inform detectives that they had a possible homicide. I was to work with them on the investigation. That’s what I was doing when Jay called to invite me to his party.”

She exhaled deeply, readily seeing the import of that.

“As soon as I started asking questions about Jones and his arrest, I began to get the runaround. Jay claimed not to remember the details of Jones’s arrest. It wasn’t his case, he said, but he promised to find out what he could.

“Keep in mind that the PD was in chaos. Construction on the new building was still months away from completion, so they were working out of temporary headquarters. Jay’s procrastination made sense. Now, I see it as avoidance. He didn’t want me to know anything about Cleveland Jones, other than that he was the firebug. And that’s another thing. Jones had committed a wide range of crimes, but arson wasn’t one of them. I learned that from his rap sheet, which I had to obtain from the state.”

Tiredly, he rolled his shoulders. He was tempted to save some of this until tomorrow, but he knew Britt wouldn’t let him stop until she had the whole story, so he continued. “After repeated calls, Jay finally sent me a message through a PD secretary, telling me that Jones’s blows to the head had been sustained prior to his arrest. The arresting officers-never identified-didn’t realize how serious the injuries were until Jones began behaving irrationally while under interrogation.

“He was left alone while arrangements were being made to transfer him to the hospital. Apparently that’s when he started the fire. Jay’s message went on to say that he was sorry, that was all he knew, but he was checking into it and when he had further details he would get back to me. He didn’t, of course.”

“What about Brunner? After you were ousted, didn’t he pursue the matter of Jones’s death?”

“In the final report, he went with Jay’s explanation. The paperwork regarding Cleveland Jones’s arrest had been destroyed in the flames, so there was no documentation, but Jay was a hero, so Brunner didn’t doubt his word. You and the other media were so swept up in my story, so busy extolling the heroes, that the small footnote about Jones faded into obscurity. And anyway, he was the arsonist who’d caused death and destruction. Who cared how he’d died?”

“Brunner might now. If you went to him-”

“Can’t. He died. About six months after the fire. Cardiac arrest.”

“Oh.”

“In a way I’m glad he won’t be here to experience the shakedown. Whatever form it ultimately takes, a lot of blame would fall on him. I don’t think he was corrupt. A bit tired and lazy, maybe. Or just unwilling to rock the boat.”

She thought this over for several seconds, then said, “What about Cleveland Jones’s family?”

“A father. I called him, hoping to get some background information. The guy was hostile, said he didn’t want to talk about his wayward son. I stayed after him and finally wore him down. He agreed to meet with me. But when I got to his place, he wasn’t there. I went back several times. Called. Never could contact him again.”

“You know no more details than you did the night you went to the party.”

“No.”

“Did you ever learn why Jones was arrested?”

“Assault. Conveniently, no one could remember the nature of his crime, or where it was committed, or what time of day he was brought into the station. Amid all this hazy information, there was one fact of which everyone was absolutely certain: Jones’s fatal head injuries hadn’t been inflicted by anyone within the CPD.”

“Hmm. Just a tad suspicious.”

“You think?”

“Jay promised he’d have the arrest report to you by Monday.”

“It was an easy promise for him to make. He knew that by Sunday morning I’d have a dead girl in bed with me.”

He went to the window and parted the faded orange curtains, which matched the ugly carpet. Satisfied that no one was about to ambush them, he turned back into the room. “There was another unanswered question, and it was a dilly. How did Jones start the fire? With what? When he was arrested, his pockets would have been emptied, right?”

She shrugged. “He sneaked something past.”

“I’d buy that, except that no accelerants were found in that room.”

“They would have burned up.”

“Gasoline, kerosene leak into cracks and corners. It would have been detected even in that devastation. Anyway, Jones couldn’t have carted a gas can in there.”

“Matchbook?” she suggested. “Something that small would have been easy for him to conceal. In his sock or something. He could have lit one match, then thrown the book of them into the trash can, maybe saving some to light debris inside the air vent.”

Long before she finished, he was shaking his head. “No silica. It’s a compound found on match heads. It can withstand a fire. There was none.”

“So it was never determined exactly what was used to ignite the matter in the wastebasket?”

Facetiously he replied, “I suppose Jones could have rubbed two sticks together. Besides that, how did he light the fire, and see to it that it spread into the building, without inhaling any smoke? But for the sake of argument, let’s say he did. What did he hope to accomplish?”

“Escape?”

“Okay. That’s reasonable. But he’d been through this process dozens of times. He was only twenty-one, but he was a veteran criminal. He would have known that he would be locked inside that room. Seems really stupid, doesn’t it, to set a fire in a room where he’d be trapped?”

“If he was suffering from a skull fracture and behaving irrationally-”

“Assuming that much is true.”

“He could have been trying to commit suicide.”

“A tough guy like that?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. And who, even someone with a bone fragment short-circuiting his brain, would condemn himself to such a horrible death?”

“Maybe he only wanted to scare people,” she said. “He didn’t realize that, once the fire was inside the walls, it could spread that quickly. It was a prank, or the desperate act of an irrational man, that went haywire.”

“That still doesn’t explain the absence of smoke in his airways,” he argued. “But the biggest mystery of this whole thing is Jay’s stonewalling. He loved being in the spotlight, Britt. You know that. He was ambitious, and he had high goals. He freely admitted that he wanted to work his way up to chief of police. So why wouldn’t he want to be in the thick of the investigation, especially when the ME determined that one of the casualties was a possible murder?”

He began to pace. “Jay was a homicide detective. He should have been all over that unexpected development. The investigation would have kept him in the news, made his celebrity star shine even brighter. Instead, he distanced himself from it and avoided involvement. Very unlike Jay.”

“Very.”

“I think he stayed at arm’s length of the investigation because he feared the outcome. He was afraid it would be ruinous to either him or one of his buddies.”

“You were his buddy, too, Raley.”

“But I wasn’t in on the crime.” He stopped pacing and looked directly at her. “My gut tells me that our four heroes were covering up something having to do with Cleveland Jones, specifically the way he died. The fire was set so no one would ever know what took place in that room. That’s what Jay was going to confess to you at The Wheelhouse.”

She didn’t rush to either dispute him or agree, but held his stare, her brow furrowed with contemplation. After several long moments, she looked away, releasing a long breath. “You think someone killed him in that room.”

“Yes, I do. Do you believe I’m right?”

Her eyes moved back to him. “More than I believe you’re wrong. Everything points to it. Why would they go to such lengths to cover up anything less? But how do we prove it? How do we prove it and remain alive?”

“I’m not sure we can.”

She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, her face turned up to him. He could tell that the candid statement had taken her aback. He’d outlined the problem; she’d expected him to have ideas on how to solve it.

He had an intense but misplaced urge to reach down and touch her cheek, but he restrained it. After holding her gaze for a long moment, he said, “Britt, listen to me now, and listen good. You saw how I live. I’ve got nothing to lose. No career, no possessions or relationship…no nothing. But you’ve got everything going for you. You’re on the brink of a career breakthrough.”

“What are you saying?”

“Turn yourself in.”

“To Clark and Javier?”

“To the FBI.”

Her reaction wasn’t what he expected. She actually smiled. “I’ll admit, I’ve considered it. But murder is a state offense. The FBI would be reluctant to touch it. They don’t like interfering with local and state agencies unless they’re invited to, and the chances of that happening in this case are slim to none. Within hours, I’d be right back with Clark and Javier, and would look even more desperate than I already do. Not to mention how chapped they’d be that I’d gone over their heads.”

“You could tell them where to find your car.”

“But could I prove I was forced off the road?”

“Did the guys ram your bumper?”

“No.”

“Bump against your fender enough to scrape paint?”

“I don’t think so. Near misses, but-”

“No metal-to-metal contact?”

She shook her head. “Clark and Javier, probably even the FBI, would think I’d staged it to appear innocent.”

“Shit. That only goes to show how good Butch and Sundance are.” He plowed his fingers through his hair and, after a litany of curses, said stubbornly, “You can’t be convicted of murdering Jay. Not without more solid evidence than they’ve got.”

“Maybe not, but the circumstantial evidence is compelling. Besides, what do you think a murder trial would do to my career? Not to mention my checking account. Retaining a good defense attorney would deplete my savings in about a week and a half. After the trial, I’d have an enormous debt. Even if I was acquitted, I would have lost a year of my life defending myself, and who would hire me with that taint on my record?

“Just like you, Raley, the moment I woke up with Jay, the life I had lived to that point was over. They used me, just like they used Suzi Monroe to get to you. I’m lucky they kept me alive, a decision which they obviously regret now. I had a good thing going, and they robbed me of it. So, not only do I want the story, and want to see justice done, but I want my payback from these bastards.”

Secretly he admired the fire he saw in her eyes, but he was still afraid for her. Afraid for them both. “Sleep on it.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Sleep on it.”

To put an end to the discussion, he went around the room switching out lights, then dragged one of the chairs over to the window, sat down in it, and opened the curtains a crack.

He heard papers rustling and knew she was moving aside the open folders so she could lie down. Fifteen minutes of silence elapsed, then she said, “Butch and Sundance?”

“The only pair of crooks that sprang to mind. We could refer to them as Assassin A and Assassin B, I guess.”

“No, I like Butch and Sundance.”

Another five minutes ticked past, then she asked, “Are you going to sit there all night?”

“For a while longer.”

He waited another forty-five minutes before he felt comfortable enough to give up the vigil. If someone had been out there watching, they likely would have made a move once the lights went out, especially since they were unaware that he and Britt knew they were being hunted.

Still dressed, he felt his way to the second bed and stretched out on it. He set the pistol on the nightstand, then thought better of it and placed it on the bed beside him.

Britt was long asleep. The room was silent except for her soft breathing and the hum of the mercury-vapor light outside in the parking lot. Lying on his back, his head barely denting the hard pillow, he stared up through the darkness. He tried not to think about how narrow the space separating them was, tried not to think about last night.

But he thought about it anyway. Remembered every detail with stark clarity. Insisted to himself that it wasn’t those recollections that gave him an uncompromising erection he couldn’t do a damn thing about.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind wouldn’t shut down. It obstinately seesawed between their predicament and last night’s sexual peccadillo, until finally thoughts of the former were obscured by thoughts of the latter. He surrendered and let his mind drift on a current of erotic recollections.

She must have hollow bones, he thought. He hadn’t realized how dainty she was, how unsubstantial, until she’d been under him and he was too far gone to be gentle. Andre the Giant ravaging Tinker Bell.

On the other hand, the depth of her passion had surprised him. Yeah, she’d been upset, scared out of her wits, in the grip of hysteria, her emotions off the charts, but still…Who would’ve guessed that the cool lady on TV was one and the same with the woman who fucked like-

“Raley?”

Her soft voice stopped his breath. He swallowed, managed to say, “Hmm?”

“I’m staying.”

George air-kissed the teenybopper cocktail waitress good-bye and let himself out of her apartment. He’d given her quite a workout tonight. Or, more truthfully, she’d given him one; as he made his way to his car, he realized how dog tired he was.

It had been one hell of a day. He’d spent all morning at the office, finishing up a contract Les had reminded him was already late. He’d barely had time to scarf down a sandwich lunch before leaving for the funeral. The ceremony would have been bad enough, but added to it was the encounter with Raley Gannon, who had appeared like some chain-rattling ghost.

Jay’s death had resurrected Raley Gannon. There was an irony in there somewhere, but George was too tired to think it through.

He turned his car toward home, hoping to God Miranda would be asleep when he got there. He might even forgo their comfortable bed for the sofa in the study, just to avoid her shit. Their cocktail hour at the country club had been too short, the dinner in the club dining room too long. All through it Les had badgered him about this and that, while Miranda sat there sighing with boredom when she wasn’t gazing at her reflection in the mirror behind their table.

When the meal finally concluded, George asked Les if he would drive Miranda home, saying he needed to return to the office to check his e-mails. He did make a quick stop at the office, but only to pick up condoms, which he kept in his desk drawer, then he spent the next hour with the cocktail waitress who wasn’t only good looking but also one hell of a contortionist.

Their acrobatics in bed had left him sated, almost too weary to drive home. But while his body was languishing, his brain was acting like an overloaded circuit board, sizzling and sparking with a fresh worry every few seconds.

Les and Miranda had dismissed his concern over Raley’s unexpected appearance at the funeral. “He taunted you. So what?” Les had said as he stirred cream into his after-dinner coffee. “If that guy had anything to back up his beef, he would have used it five years ago. He’s history. Forget him.”

But worry continued to gnaw at George, and apparently Pat Wickham was also feeling its bite. He wasn’t as good at hiding his uneasiness as George was. George could choke the little turd for letting Raley catch him staring at them. He’d looked bug-eyed and scared enough to wet himself, and Raley had picked up on it.

George’s cell phone rang. Probably Miranda, checking up on him, although she must have had a good idea where he’d been. He flipped open his phone. “I’m on my way.”

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Candy.”

“Oh, hell, Candy, I thought you were Miranda.”

“I get that a lot,” she said with drollness and good-natured self-deprecation. “Don’t I wish.” Then in a lower, sadder tone, she asked, “Is this a bad time?”

“No. I’m in my car on my way home.”

“Sorry it’s so late, but I wanted to call before the day was over. I hated like hell having to miss the funeral. George, you know that if it weren’t for this-”

“You don’t need to explain, Candy. We all know and understand why you couldn’t make it.”

“I appreciate your understanding. But that doesn’t make me regret it any less. How did it go?”

“I think Jay would have liked it. Except for the organ music. He would have preferred a jazz quartet.”

She laughed.

“The thing you wrote was a highlight. If Jay’s in heaven, he’s blushing.”

“I meant everything I said. He was a good friend. I’m going to miss him.”

“Yeah.” George waited a beat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Guess who showed up?”

“Half the city, I expect.”

“Nearly.”

“Cobb Fordyce, I’m sure.”

“He even brought the wife.”

“He’s a politician,” she said, but without rancor. “He’s got an image to uphold.”

“And Raley Gannon.”

“Seriously?”

“I shit you not. In the flesh.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“We had an…uh…exchange.”

“Exchange? That word sort of qualifies what would normally be referred to as a conversation.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what kind of qualification, George?”

He began by describing Raley’s appearance and general demeanor. “He looked basically the same, except he’s wearing his hair longer. Some gray in it now. Friendly enough, but he never was as outgoing as Jay. He didn’t say what he was doing or where he was living these days. But he, uh…” He hesitated, then said, “He did bring up the business with Suzi Monroe.”

“That surprises me,” Candy said thoughtfully. “You would think he’d want to keep that well buried in his past. What was the context?”

“He remarked on the similarity between the night Jay died and the night the Monroe girl overdosed.”

“Jay didn’t overdose.”

By now George had arrived at his house. He parked in front but kept the engine running so the air conditioner would stay on. “I was quick to point that out to him. He said the similarity was that Britt Shelley claimed she was drugged the night she was with Jay, same as he was the night he was with Suzi Monroe.”

“Suzi Monroe was a habitual drug user. Jay never used drugs. So did he venture to guess who’d slipped Britt Shelley a Mickey?”

“We didn’t get that far, but Raley is of the opinion-” He broke off when Miranda opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Light from the doorway outlined her body through the sheer nightgown she was wearing.

“Raley is of the opinion…?” Candy prompted.

Holding his wife’s gaze through the car window, George said, “He’s of the opinion that Jay made the date with Britt Shelley to give her a big news story. One with a deathbed confession built in.”

She groaned. “Poor Raley. He just won’t give up.”

“I called his bluff, told him he was full of shit, said he was still pissed at Jay over him snatching Hallie out from under his nose.”

Candy sighed. “I guess you can’t blame him. Even after all this time, even now that Jay’s dead, Hallie’s rejection is bound to hurt. But Raley refuses to accept responsibility for his misfortune, which came about because of his own stupidity.”

“And his dick.”

“Redundant.”

George snuffled a laugh. “You have a point, Judge.”

“Do you know how to get in touch with Raley?”

“No. Why?”

“It might help if I talked to him.”

George waited several beats, then said, “I wonder…”

“What?”

“Could Raley’s grudge against Jay have driven him to commit murder?” He let the question reverberate. The judge didn’t respond immediately, but he knew he had her attention. “I halfway accused him of it. He said if he’d wanted to kill Jay, it wouldn’t have taken him five years. But it smacks of poetic justice, doesn’t it? Using a date rape drug? It’s something to think about.” Another short pause, then, “What do you hear about Britt Shelley?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought maybe you’d picked up some scuttlebutt going around the courthouse.”

“Only what’s been in the news. Apparently Bill Alexander was the last person she talked to. He’s an idiot. That’s off the record and just between us, of course.”

George laughed. “Gotcha.”

“Listen, George, I need to get to bed. Again, I apologize for calling so late, but this is the first private moment I’ve had all day. Until the Senate vote, my time’s not my own.”

“Good luck with that. Not that you need it.”

“Thanks.” A short silence followed, then she said, “At least Jay is at peace now.”

“One hopes.”

After their good-byes, George closed the phone, then stared at it thoughtfully before turning off the car and getting out.

As he trudged up the steps, Miranda asked, “Who was that?”

“Judge Cassandra Mellors.”

Miranda’s eyebrow arched eloquently. “My, my. You’re awfully popular this week, George. First the state attorney general calls. Now a district court appointee. Doesn’t she have anything better to do than place late-night phone calls to old chums?”

“She wanted to hear about the funeral. I told her about Raley.”

“Oh? And what did she say?”

He recounted their conversation. “Candy ended by saying that at least Jay was at peace.”

Miranda stepped closer to him. “In between conversations with people in high places, you had time to screw your little cocktail waitress. I can smell her on you.”

“Can you?” He pushed his hand between Miranda’s thighs and squeezed her sex. “Jealous?”

“Why would I be?” she said, deliberately rubbing herself against his hand. “When I know that every time you’re with her, or any other woman, you’d much rather be having me.”

It was the truth, and George hated her for knowing it. “But I can’t really have you, Miranda, can I? No matter how many times I fuck you, I’ll never have you.”

She didn’t even pretend not to understand. Nor did she refute him. She merely stared back at him with that knowing smile that tormented him. Frustrated, he withdrew his hand and stepped around her, moving toward the door.

She caught his arm and stopped him. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Jay dies, and all your old cronies start showing up. They’re like buzzards drawn to a carcass.”

He chuckled a mirthless laugh. “You may not like it, but you can’t be surprised. Did you think Jay’s murder was going to go unnoticed? It was bound to have a ripple effect. Like Raley said today, we’re all connected.” Bending toward her, he said in a stage whisper, “To the fire.”

Miranda released her hold on him and backed away, separating them in more ways than just linear distance. “That may be, George, but I’m not part of that dysfunctional little family.” Her eyes shone with an even colder glint. “If you go down, sugar pie, don’t expect me to be dragged along with you.”