CHAPTER
22
R ALEY SWITCHED LICENSE PLATES WITH A JUNGLE-READY JEEP with an aggressive-looking brush guard.
“You’re getting good at this,” Britt remarked as he rejoined her in their gray sedan.
“Not that good. I should trade this in for another car, but I’m afraid they’ve laid groundwork for that.”
“Butch and his sidekick?”
“Hmm. All they’d have to do is work their way down the dealerships listed in the yellow pages. As soon as we drove a car off a lot, the bribed salesman would be on the phone with the news flash. We don’t have time to track down individuals with cars for sale. Not to mention the expense of buying another car.”
“I meant what I said about paying back half of everything you spend.”
He actually laughed. “You keep track of the accounting, and I’ll try to keep those hired guns off our asses.”
“You think they’re hired guns?”
“Neither Fordyce nor McGowan would do his own dirty work. The guys after us have got to be pros.”
“I thought that only happened in the movies.”
“So did I, until I saw you being forced off the road and into the river.”
He pulled out of the parking garage where he’d made the license-plate swap and turned onto the busy boulevard, where to everyone else in Charleston it was business as usual. They passed a group of tourists on an escorted walking tour of the historic district. For the most part the sightseers were in sensible shoes and sun visors, weighted down with cameras and guidebooks, but Raley eyed them suspiciously, looking for anyone who didn’t fit the stereotype.
“Butch and Sundance are the ones we’ve spotted. There may be more,” he said.
“Not a comforting thought.” Britt looked askance at the motorcyclist revving his Harley in the lane next to them.
“These guys aren’t going to give up and go home, Britt. Meanwhile, we’re spinning our wheels, making no headway. Lewis Jones was a bust. His hatred for cops, the government in general, was sincere. You agree?”
“I agree.”
“If he knew anything about Cleveland’s death that would expose criminal activity within the police department, he would gladly have shared it. So, while he’s one hundred percent in support of our goal, he’s useless.”
Britt winced. “I don’t want him on our team.”
“I’m not fond of the idea, either.”
“Were those real hand grenades?”
“I wouldn’t want to pull the pins and find out.”
They rode in silence for a moment, then Britt said, “Pat Wickham—”
“Yeah?”
“Is lying.”
“Through his crooked teeth.”
“You thought so, too?”
“I know so. But how do we persuade him to give up whatever it is he’s hiding? Accusing him of lying didn’t work. We can’t beat the truth out of him. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Besides being a liar,” she said, “he strikes me as sad.”
“Because of his face?”
“The disfigurement, yes, but I sense something beyond that, a deep-seated torment.”
“He’s a desk cop, and gutless to boot. His dad was a detective, a tough guy who would go alone into an alley in a bad neighborhood to break up a gang fight.”
“Maybe Pat Senior wasn’t so tough as he was reckless,” she said. “Why didn’t he wait for backup? Isn’t that standard operating procedure?”
“It was a misjudgment that cost him his life. In any case, Pat Senior’s hero status is a hard legacy for Junior to live up to. Especially—”
He broke off without finishing. Britt looked across at him. “What?”
He shook his head absently. “I had a thought, but it escaped me. Maybe it will come back.”
During their conversation, he’d been weaving in and out of traffic, shifting lanes and taking corners quickly, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror to try to spot anyone who might be following. He was traveling in the general direction of the motor court but taking a circuitous route.
“Raley, what if I called Detective Clark and told him everything? Laid it all out. About your kidnapping me, and why you did it. About the men forcing me off the road.”
“Can’t be proved, remember?”
“Well, the car would be something. They couldn’t prove I wasn’t forced off the road.”
“No, but here’s what Clark would think. One, you’re accused of murder. Two, your alibi is that you were given a date rape drug. Not only is it unlikely but it’s impossible to prove. Three, you flew the coop to avoid arrest.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m telling you how Clark would think.” He paused and glanced at her. She motioned for him to continue. “You’re claiming to have been run off the road into the river, perhaps by the men who actually killed Jay. But your car isn’t damaged, except for a busted windshield, which you could have shattered yourself. You drove your car into the river, jumping free just in time. That’s how Clark would see it.”
“Point made,” she said despondently.
“Besides, he and Javier probably anticipate that you’ll call sooner or later. They’ll have a trace set up for when you do.”
“You learned a lot when you trained at the police academy.”
“I learned the basics. Enough to guess that if you turned yourself in, or you were arrested now, the true story of the fire and Cleveland Jones—none of it would ever be made public.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but—” Suddenly she sat up straight. “But what if it was made public?”
“How? What do you mean?”
She bent her knee and turned toward him. “There’s a young man at the station. A video photographer. He’s good. We work together well. He likes me. Not like that,” she said when he gave her a look.
“Ten to one, it’s like that.”
“He’s married.”
“I stand by my bet.”
“Anyway, what if he met us at a remote location and we recorded a video? He could take it back to the station and put it on the news.”
“What kind of video?”
“You tell your story, and I tell mine.”
“Would they air it?”
“After my news conference, I was given a leave of absence with pay. My station manager was all gooey, promising help and support but backing away in spite of what he was saying. I figure my days of employment there are over. But if Channel Seven declined to air this video, competing stations damn sure would jump at the chance.”
“There would be consequences to the photographer.”
“Short-term maybe.”
“A jail term, Britt. The cops would be all over him to tell where we were, and if he didn’t, they’d toss him in jail.”
“Which would bring out every First Amendment advocate in a thousand-mile radius. With all that publicity, he’d probably advance his career.”
Raley examined the idea from several angles but eventually gave a negative shake of his head. “Say the photographer is willing to spend some time in jail if it makes him a star, and one or all of the TV stations broadcast the video. What about liability?”
“They’d air it with a disclaimer.”
“What about our liability? Fordyce, McGowan, maybe even Jay’s family and the Wickhams, could sue us for slander, and they’d win. We can tell all, but we can prove nothing.”
“Dammit,” she said, thumping her knee with her fist. “It always comes back to that.”
“It always comes back to that,” he echoed grimly. “In addition to trying to pay off the lawsuits, you’d be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. They killed Jay to keep the secret intact, and he was one of them.”
“They didn’t kill you.”
“They didn’t think they had to. Banishment was sufficient. Now that I’ve talked to George, they know I’m onto them. I practically waved a red cape at him.”
“Why did you tip your hand to him?”
“Are you asking as an ally or as a reporter?”
“Both.”
He thought about it, then said, “To bring it to a head, I guess. For five years, it’s festered inside me. I want it resolved, over, finished, one way or another.”
His last phrase was sobering enough to silence them for several minutes. Then Britt said, “You’re going to like this suggestion even less than the previous two.”
“Try me.”
“Call Judge Mellors.”
“No.”
“Listen, Raley, I know you’re reluctant to bring her into this, particularly at this time, but she’s a valuable contact. If you don’t want to call her, I will, although that would really compromise her. I’m a fugitive. To help me would be not only unethical but also illegal. But you’re an old friend, seeking answers to a—”
“I know it’s the commonsense thing to do,” he said, interrupting. “It’s just that I hate putting Candy in a no-win situation. If she agrees to help, she’s jeopardizing her appointment. If she doesn’t help, she’s letting down a friend. She’s damned either way.”
“Unless she could help you without anyone knowing.”
He thought on that for a moment. “And unless I asked her for only one small favor.”
“What one small favor do you have in mind?”
“A phone call.”
“To?”
“Cobb Fordyce.” Seeing Britt’s surprise, he said, “I’d like to resume that one face-to-face meeting I had with him, the one where he dismissed my claim that I had been drugged.”
“Why didn’t he investigate that further? At least make a show of investigating it?”
“Damn good questions,” he said. “Fordyce didn’t do squat beyond going through the motions. He kept himself at arm’s length from the whole nasty business of Suzi Monroe. A safe arm’s length.”
“Odd behavior for a man who prides himself on being an advocate for victims of crime. He also courts the media.”
“My thoughts exactly. He detached himself from the Suzi Monroe case the same way Jay avoided having anything to do with my arson investigation.”
“Fordyce must have been involved.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that point.”
Making a sudden decision, Raley turned sharply in to the parking lot of a convenience store and drove to the side of the building where a pay telephone was mounted on the exterior wall. It was out of sight of the busy storefront, where there were security cameras and a steady flow of customers going in and out.
“Since the advent of cell phones, are those things still in service?” Britt asked.
“Let’s hope BellSouth hasn’t got to this one yet.”
The lady with the mellifluous voice didn’t recognize his name and refused to put him through to Judge Mellors, not even when he identified himself as an old friend. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gannon. A crew from 60 Minutes is due here momentarily, and the judge is preparing—”
“Ask her if she’s found any unusual prizes in her Cracker Jacks lately.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ask her that. She’ll talk to me.”
She released a long-suffering sigh, put him on hold, and the next voice he heard was Candy’s. “Eat shit and die, asshole.”
He laughed. “I figured that would get you to the phone.”
“I hadn’t thought about that for years. I could still sue you for sexual harassment, I’ll bet. What’s the statute of limitations on that?”
“You’re asking me? You’re the legal whiz kid.”
He and Jay had been seniors in high school, Candy a freshman. She’d developed a crush on one of their friends. They’d told her the guy loved Cracker Jacks, ate them all the time. If she wanted to win his heart, she would share a box of Cracker Jacks with him. Which she did, only to discover, to her mortification, that Raley and Jay had replaced the prize inside with a gold foil–wrapped condom.
“How did you manage that?” she asked. “Did you go through the bottom of the box?”
“I don’t give away my trade secrets.”
When their laughter subsided, she said, “Gosh, it’s good to hear your voice. I called George McGowan last night to ask about the funeral. He told me you were there. I wish I could have been, if only to see you. How are you, Raley?”
“I’m good.”
“Really?” she said, doubt in her tone. “I know you and Hallie broke it off for good after you left Charleston. I’m sorry about…well, how that turned out.”
He was certain she’d heard about their breakup through Jay, probably in the form of a boast. “It turned out okay for Hallie. She’s married with children.” After a beat, he said, “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”
“Was that the pits, or what? I finally got a guy to marry me, and then he goes and drowns.” Despite her joking, Raley could tell the loss had caused her pain. Speaking more seriously, she said, “He was a great guy. You would have liked him. I was devastated when it happened, but…” She paused and took a deep breath. “Life goes on.”
“It does.”
“Thank God for my work.”
“Oh, congratulations.”
“Congratulations are premature until after Friday’s vote, but thanks.”
The conversation ran out. Pleasantries were over. He could imagine her consulting her wristwatch, reading hand signals from her assistant alerting her to the arrival of the television crew.
“Raley, did you call to talk about Jay?”
“Easy guess.”
“I’m glad you did. You’ve got to come to terms with what happened between him and Hallie. George said you were still holding a grudge, and it’s futile to hold a grudge against a dead man. You can never be reconciled.”
He could think of no appropriate response, because she was right. Jay’s betrayal of their friendship was a lost cause. So was the issue of Hallie. He was past seeking vengeance for what had been done to him. After this played out, if he was vindicated for the Suzi Monroe incident, that would be a bonus, but exoneration was no longer his main goal.
What he sought now was justice for the casualties of that day.
Seven lives. Seven homicides. Seven people who shouldn’t have died. That sounded rather high-minded, so he hadn’t given it as his reason when Britt asked why he’d waved that red cape at George. But that was the truth of it. He wanted justice for those who couldn’t get it for themselves. Even Cleveland Jones. Even Suzi with an i.
“I want to talk to you about all that,” Candy was saying. “But today, in a few minutes actually, I’m doing an on-camera interview. In fact, no matter how the Senate vote goes, until it’s over, my schedule is nuts.
“But next week I have a couple of evenings free,” she continued. “Let’s have dinner at my house. I still don’t cook, but we could order out. Something fattening. For you I wouldn’t have to wear a power suit and control-top panty hose. We’d have an entire evening, uninterrupted, to eat, drink too much, get maudlin, catch up. I’d love that.”
“I’d love that, too,” he said. “Let’s definitely do it. But in the meantime, I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything for you, you know that.”
“Get me an appointment with Cobb Fordyce.”
She gave an abrupt laugh. “What? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he said, using a phrase they’d used when they were teenagers.
“What for?”
“I told you five years ago that the business with Suzi Monroe was a setup. I haven’t changed my mind, Candy. In fact, I’m more convinced than ever. I want to look the attorney general in the eye and ask him what he knows about it.”
He could hear her inhaling deeply, and could envision the vertical frown line between the eyebrows that she’d often cursed as the bane of her existence. She had to pluck them weekly.
She said, “If you were set up, why do you think Cobb would know anything about it?”
“Because he was one of the fabulous four.”
“You mean one of the four heroes of the fire?”
Tired of skirting the issue, he was ready to lay it on the line. “Those four plotted to discredit me and stop my investigation. Suzi Monroe’s death was part of their cover-up.”
“Cover-up for what?”
“Cleveland Jones and how he died.”
“Cleveland Jones? The detainee who set the fire?”
“Allegedly. It’s too long a story to go into now, but basically my investigation was getting close to the truth, and the truth was that Jones was murdered in that quasi interrogation room, and the fire was a smoke screen, literally. Suzi Monroe was killed to sabotage me.”
She took several moments to absorb that. He could sense her shock. Finally she said softly, “Holy merde.”
“Not so holy. Definitely merde.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Working on it,” she repeated dismally. Several more seconds elapsed, then she said, “Raley, you’re the most levelheaded person I know. You wouldn’t accuse men of something this serious if you weren’t convinced they were guilty.”
“I am and they are.”
“But…This is…” He’d left her at a loss for words, possibly for the first time in her life. Trying again, she said, “This is preposterous. Cobb Fordyce is the top law officer in the state. You’re about to accuse him of conspiracy and murder. Think about the repercussions.”
“I have. For five years I’ve thought of little else. He’s an elected official, but if he committed a crime—”
“I wasn’t talking about the repercussions to him but to you.”
“I haven’t got anything to lose.”
That silenced her for half a minute. “You’re saying Jay, your friend, was part of it, too?”
“They all were.”
“When I talked to George McGowan last night, he sounded a little shaken,” she admitted. “I thought it was because of the funeral.”
“It was seeing me that shook him.”
“He told me you believed Jay was about to confess something to Britt Shelley.”
“I think Jay was going to come clean about what really happened in the police station that afternoon, about Suzi Monroe, all of it. He was silenced before he could, and I think he had an intuition that he was in danger. That’s why he took her to his town house.”
“He took her to his town house because Jay, being Jay, wanted nooky. Even cancer wouldn’t prevent him from getting it when he could. True, she said in her press conference that he told her he had a big story, but that could have been a smooth come-on.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How do you know? You’re speculating. You’re—” Then she stopped. “Oh, shit. You’ve been in contact with her, haven’t you? Jesus, Raley. If you have, you could be charged with aiding and abetting.”
He didn’t address that because he didn’t want Candy to be compromised. “Can you get me an appointment with Cobb Fordyce?”
“No.”
“Candy.”
“Okay, highly unlikely.”
“Persuade him.”
“With what?”
“He and his cronies stole my life,” he said with heat. “For that alone don’t I deserve fifteen minutes of his time?”
She pondered it for a full minute, during which Raley kept quiet and fed coins into the phone, which he’d steadily been doing during the entire conversation.
He’d just about given up all hope that she would grant his request when she said, “I’ll put in a call to his office. That’s all I’ll do, but I’ll do that. When would you like to see him?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. Are you insane?”
“Call him today, set up an appointment for tomorrow.”
“Raley, be realistic. He’s the attorney general.”
“He’s a public servant,” he said, raising his voice again. “I pay his fucking salary.”
“But you can’t just waltz in—”
“Which is why I’m calling you.”
“Hold…Dammit! Raley, hold on.” She covered the mouthpiece. He could hear her impatiently apologizing and requesting that she be given a few more minutes to conclude this phone call. When she came back on the line, she said, “They’re waiting on me. I’ve got to go.”
“I’m running out of coins anyway. Will you call him?”
“If he agrees to see you, which I seriously doubt, what are you going to say to him?”
“I’m more interested to hear what he has to say to me.” He could still sense her uncertainty. “I promise not to outright accuse him of murder.”
“Not in so many words, but if you say to him what you’ve told me, it’s a damn strong implication.”
He had one shot at closing the sale; he took it now. “Look, Candy, more than anyone I know, you’re the standard-bearer for truth and justice. Fordyce may be pure as the driven snow, the shining example of integrity he appears to be. If so, he’ll be receptive to my questions about Jones, the fire, and Suzi Monroe. He’ll order an immediate and thorough investigation.
“But if he was a conspirator in a criminal cover-up, he doesn’t deserve the office he holds and should be made to answer for his crime, or crimes.” He let that sink in, then added, “Either way, whether he’s true-blue or guilty as hell, justice will be served.”
He waited, practically holding his breath and fingering his last quarter, while she considered it. Then she said, “Christ, you’re tenacious. You’re also right, goddamn you.”
“You’ll get him to talk to me?”
“I don’t know if I can. He’ll ask why you want to see him. What should I tell him?”
Searching for an answer to that, he glanced over his shoulder and made eye contact with Britt, who was still in the passenger seat of the car, anxiously watching him through the windshield. “Tell him I want to nominate a poster child for victims of date rape drugs.”
She drew a deep breath and released it on a sigh. “The timing of this sucks for me.”
“I’m aware of that. And I’m sorry as hell about it.”
“What’s the urgency? You’ve lived with this for five years. It can’t keep until next week?”
He thought of the men in the maroon sedan, of Britt’s car sailing off the embankment into the river. “No. It can’t keep.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t promise a thing. I may not be able to reach him. Even if I do, he’ll probably refuse, and he’ll think I’ve lost my marbles for asking.”
“I understand that. But try and convince him.”
Once again sighing with reluctance, she said, “Okay. Where can I reach you?”
Miranda, George, and Les were sipping cocktails on the terrace when George excused himself to answer a call on his cell phone. The caller was Candy Mellors, sounding harried and unhappy over the necessity of calling him. She was brusque, and the conversation didn’t last very long. When it ended, George reluctantly returned to the terrace, dreading the news he must impart to his wife and father-in-law.
“Who was that?” Miranda asked.
He considered lying, but that would only prolong the inevitable. “Judge Mellors.”
“Two nights in a row? Are the two of you dating, or what?” Miranda asked snidely. She took a dainty sip of her Cosmopolitan. “No, that can’t be it. She’s a dyke.”
George retrieved his drink. “She’s not a dyke.”
“She looks like a dyke.”
“She was married.”
“Oh please, George. You are so na?ve.” She looked across at Les with an expression that said, Can you believe he’s such an idiot?
“Well, whether she is or isn’t,” he said, “she had some disturbing news.”
That got Miranda’s attention. A Botox-defying frown appeared on her forehead. Les didn’t have Botox to ameliorate his frown. “Well?” he barked. “Are you hoping this news will improve with age? Let’s hear it.”
“She heard from Raley Gannon this afternoon. He called her office. Since she wasn’t at the funeral and hasn’t seen him since he left town years ago, she wanted to know if I thought he was stable.”
“Stable?” Les said.
“What did he say to make her think he was unstable?” Miranda asked.
“He asked her to set up an appointment for him.” He paused deliberately, knowing it would irk them. “With Cobb Fordyce.” No one moved for several seconds, then George shook the small ice cubes from the bottom of his empty glass into his mouth and crunched them noisily. “Cat got your tongues?”
“This isn’t funny,” Miranda snapped.
“Did I say it was funny?”
“What does Gannon want to talk to the AG about?”
“Three guesses, Les, and the first two don’t count.”
His father-in-law looked past him and addressed Miranda as though he weren’t there. “Your husband does like to crack unfunny jokes, doesn’t he?”
George’s blood came to an instant boil. “No, Les, I don’t. I just don’t know how to handle this situation, so mocking the absurdity of it is the best I can do.”
“With that kind of chickenshit attitude, no wonder you’re a failure.”
“Boys,” Miranda said, tsking. “There’s no call to take potshots at each other. We’ll figure this out if everybody just stays calm. Although I must agree with Daddy, George.”
“Shocker.” He went to the portable bar and poured himself another scotch.
“This is serious,” she said.
“Right. It is. And urgent. She said Raley wants to set the appointment for tomorrow. He plans to confront Cobb about several issues. The judge said he was making noises about Cleveland Jones and Suzi Monroe. He’s also convinced that Jay was going to make a full confession to all his sins, but that someone bumped him off before he could.” He looked at them in turn and snuffled a mirthless laugh. “Got to hand it to ol’ Raley. He may be unstable, but he’s sure as hell not stupid.”
Miranda said irritably, “Surely the judge wouldn’t set up any such meeting between him and Cobb Fordyce.”
George would have sworn he saw a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. Although he was certain it was brought on by concern for her own sweet ass, not his. “She said she would prefer not to, especially not this week, when she doesn’t need any hassles. She tried stalling him. It didn’t work.”
“Already she’s playing politics,” Les grumbled. “Why didn’t she just hang up on him?”
“I asked her that,” George said. “She’s afraid that if she doesn’t get him his meeting with Cobb, he’ll do something crazy.”
“Like what?”
Again George shrugged. “Strap himself and a few sticks of dynamite to Cobb’s desk. Something. That’s why she asked my opinion on whether or not Raley is mentally and emotionally balanced.”
“What did you tell her?” Les asked.
“Personally? I think Raley Gannon is the sanest of us all. The most noble, too. Jay said he was always idealistic, taking up for the underdog. Called him Saint Raley behind his back.
“But Gannon’s also very pissed off. With all that righteous indignation bubbling inside him all these years, who’s to say he won’t blow at any moment?” Again, he gave a muffled laugh. “But then so could any of us.”
“What do you think she’ll do?” Miranda asked.
“Candy? Undecided.”
“She’s a fool even to consider it,” Les snapped. “It could be disastrous for her. Has she forgotten she’s the one who convinced Fordyce not to prosecute Gannon for that dead girl? Does she want that career blip exposed? This week, in particular.”
“No, I’m sure she doesn’t. But she’s more concerned about what Raley will do if he doesn’t get face time with Cobb than with what will happen if he does. If he were to raid the capitol building, it would draw a hell of a lot more attention than a closed-door meeting.”
Les was pacing the brick terrace, tugging his lower lip. “Have you talked to Fordyce since that night he called here?”
“No. He phoned the office the following day, but I never called him back. There was nothing more to say. But if he was bothered by what Bill Alexander told him, about Jay making a deathbed confession to Britt Shelley, imagine his reaction when Raley starts singing the same song. He could panic.”
It made George nauseated to think about the fallout this could cause. Up till now he’d thought that today’s bad news was hearing from Pat Jr. that Raley and Britt Shelley were sleuthing together. Miranda had gone ballistic when he’d told her and had demanded to know how that was possible. Les had also wanted to know. George had been helpless to provide them an explanation.
Tiredly, he massaged his forehead. “Fucking Jay. This is all his fault. Why’d he have to go and call Britt Shelley? Of all the dumb-ass things to do.”
“Stop your whining,” Miranda hissed, glaring at him. “We’ve got to do something, George. I’ve told you, and I meant it. I won’t get stuck holding a bag of your shit.”
“You’re in this as much as I am,” he shouted. “And so is daddy dear.”
Her face turned cold, and he could have chipped ice off her voice. “We don’t know what you’re talking about. Exactly what is the this we’re supposed to be in?”
“Good try, Miranda,” George said softly. “But you don’t really want me to call your bluff, do you? Do you, Les?”
In answer, she went to stand next to her father, the two of them facing him, as they had on the day he and Miranda got married. In St. Philip’s Church downtown. Everybody who was anybody in attendance. A dozen bridesmaids. Flowers by the truckload. Miranda wearing a designer gown that had cost more than most men earn in a year.
Standing together at the altar, Les had handed her over to him, her groom, her husband, her life partner. But it had been a symbolic gesture without substance. George had soon learned what his status was in the family structure. In this trio, he would always be the odd man out.
Les said, “Make this problem go away, George. Right now. For good this time.”
“How in hell am I supposed to do that?”
“F.I.O.,” Miranda said, tossing her hair. “Figure it out.”
It had been a slow day for the two men known as Smith and Johnson. They were having an early dinner at a steak house that featured an unlimited salad bar and free apple cobbler. Two clean-cut men sharing a meal and conversation, never drawing attention to themselves, men who’d be forgotten as soon as they left the restaurant.
Yesterday they had got their asses chewed for losing Raley Gannon after he left the funeral. It was pointed out to them that they’d missed a golden opportunity, especially since he was now partnered with Britt Shelley, who twice had survived them.
“No way she could’ve got out of that car,” Johnson had said when they learned she was alive and seemingly fine.
“Well, obviously she did,” their employer had said with rancor.
Had they been sharp enough, they were told, they could have followed Raley Gannon from the funeral, back to the newswoman, and taken care of both of them, then collected their pay and disappeared.
They took the reprimand stoically, knowing they deserved it. They had enjoyed the car play on that dark country road, but it hadn’t been an efficient form of assassination. In fairness to themselves, they cited that it had been their retainer’s idea to intercept the woman on the road and make her death look like a suicide.
At present, no one knew where Gannon and Britt Shelley were holed up. Charleston didn’t seem that large until you were trying to find someone in it, and most of the population seemed to be driving gray sedans. License plate numbers were pointless; Gannon was smart enough to switch them.
“We should have put a transponder on the car while he was inside the chapel,” Smith observed now as he cut off a piece of blood-rare sirloin.
“Too many people around. Late arrivals. Chauffeurs. Grave-diggers.”
The drop-in visit to Wickham’s house had been reported to them.
“Do you think Gannon is carrying, or was Wickham dramatizing?” Smith asked, chewing thoughtfully.
“From what we’ve been told about Wickham, I’d say he was probably dramatizing.”
“But is Gannon carrying?”
“I think we have to assume he is.”
“Do you think he knows how to shoot?”
“Doesn’t matter. We do.”
Johnson was grinning confidently at his partner when his cell phone vibrated. He answered with a brusque “Here,” then didn’t speak another word for sixty seconds. “Got it.” He slapped the phone closed and said to Smith, “Showtime.”