CHAPTER
26
B RITT?”
“Hmm?”
Raley, already up and dressed, leaned down and rubbed the curve of her hip. “Get up. Time to go.”
Squinting against the cruel glare of the overhead light, she rolled onto her back and came up on her elbows. Shaking her tousled hair off her face, she yawned. “What time is it?”
The bedcovers dropped to her waist. Her breasts were within reach and looked oh-so-touchable. But he resisted. “Just after six.”
“Six? It’s only a two-hour drive to the capitol.”
“That’s right.” He grinned at her bafflement. “I’ll explain in the car. Come on. Haul ass.”
Fifteen minutes later, as he drove away from the motor court, he noticed her yawning again. “Did I get you up too early?”
“You kept me up too late.” Then, smiling shyly, she looked across at him. Their gazes held for several seconds, but neither remarked on what had transpired between them last night. None of it. Not their fight. Not their first heated embraces. But especially not…
No, don’t even think about that. Like her sleep-flushed breasts, it was a distraction he couldn’t allow himself this morning.
She said, “I’m surprised.”
“At what?”
“Your bringing me along. I intended to come, but not without an argument.”
“After what you did to Butch and Sundance’s car last night, they’ll be breathing fire this morning. I was afraid to leave you alone.”
“They couldn’t have followed us.”
“I wasn’t willing to take even the outside chance.”
“You would worry about me?”
He gave her a look, and the smile she sent back was as good as a caress.
Well, almost. Not quite. Her caresses were mind-blowing.
He turned his attention back to the road and concentrated on his driving.
“How do you plan to sneak me into the capitol?” she asked. “I’ll be arrested on the spot.”
“I have a plan.”
“Good to know. But I have one, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Pull in there.”
“Wal-Mart?”
It was one of the chain’s superstores, open twenty-four hours. Since the sun was barely up, there were only a few other cars in the vast parking lot. He wondered what this was about but did as she asked.
She opened the glove box and rifled through the contents: the paperwork he’d got when he bought the car, the owner’s manual, a folded state map, a card about air bag safety. She ripped a blank page from the back of the manual. “Do you have something to write with?”
He didn’t, but a former owner had left behind a ballpoint pen. It was almost dry, and the tip had lint on it, but it was usable enough for her to scratch several words onto the paper. Passing it to him, she said, “Your shopping list. If they don’t have that particular brand in stock, it’s okay to buy another so long as it has the same features. I’ll reimburse you, of course.”
He read what she’d written, then nodded his understanding. “Keep your head down. I won’t be long.”
In less than ten minutes he returned with a package tucked under his arm and carryout cups of coffee in both hands. Once they were under way again, she placed her coffee in the cup holder and began unpacking the shopping bag. Raley watched out of the corner of his eye as she tore into the box containing the camcorder.
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Do I know how to use it,” she muttered with scorn. Then she told him about the smaller stations where she’d got on-the-job training in every aspect of broadcast news. Some of the work had been menial.
When she finished, he said teasingly, “If this TV thing doesn’t work out for you, you can always go back to sweeping floors.”
“Ha-ha.” She plugged an adapter cord into the car’s cigarette lighter so the camcorder battery could charge. She adjusted the small video screen that served as a viewfinder, fiddled with the zoom, and tested the built-in microphone. “I’ve operated cameras more sophisticated. This one is a no-brainer. I’m no Spielberg, you understand, but I’ll get an image and audio. Besides, I’ve got hours to practice.”
“You’ve got less than two,” he said.
“But the appointment isn’t until eleven.”
“That’s when the appointment is, but that’s not when we’re meeting with the attorney general.”
“How did you know where he lives?” Britt asked when Raley pointed out the stately, red-brick Colonial. They cruised past it slowly, then continued down the street and turned at the next corner.
“After he was elected, I followed him home from the capitol one day.”
“To confront him?”
“No, just to seethe. I had a lot of time on my hands, nothing else to do but stoke my bitterness. His career had soared at my expense. At Suzi Monroe’s expense. I resolved to set things right one day.”
“And today is that day.”
“Not a day too soon, either.” He parked at the curb on the next street and cut the engine, then reached across the console and caught Britt’s arm before she could open the door.
He understood and respected her need to be personally involved in the solution to her problem. Her stake in this was as high as his, maybe ever higher because she stood to lose the most. She deserved a chance to remedy the wrong that had been done to her. In theory, he empathized.
But from a personal standpoint, he was afraid of something going terribly wrong and her getting hurt. “This could be ugly, Britt. You don’t have to go along.”
“I expect it to be ugly, and I most certainly do have to go along.”
He nodded, acknowledging that she was capable of making her own decisions and had the right to do so. But knowing that didn’t mitigate his fear for her safety. “This is a last resort kind of plan. We’re taking a huge risk.”
“Some risks are worth taking.” Her quiet tone, and the way she looked at him when she said that, let him know she was referring to more than their ambushing Fordyce at home.
“Damn right.” He hooked his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him, giving her a hard, quick kiss before setting her away. He ran his thumb across her damp lower lip, then said hoarsely, “Let’s go.”
They followed the sidewalk around the block. It was an upscale neighborhood with its own police force and a crime watch co-op among homeowners. So as not to attract attention, they kept to a leisurely pace. A dog barked at them from behind an estate wall, and a jogger with iPod earplugs gave them an absentminded nod as he huffed past on the opposite side of the street. Other than that, they didn’t draw anyone’s attention.
When they reached the attorney general’s house, they turned and started up the central walkway as though that was their morning routine. Britt had expressed some misgivings when Raley outlined his plan to her.
“He may have security guards,” she’d said.
“He may. If so, we’ll create a ruckus. Media would get on it. Even if we’re dragged away in shackles, he’ll eventually have to address why we came knocking.”
“He could refuse to give us an audience.”
“I doubt it. Not after what Candy told him. She hinted that I was at my wit’s end and likely to do something crazy. I’m betting he doesn’t want a public spectacle and would much rather meet me in private.”
“But not quite this private.”
“No. We’ll definitely be an unwelcome surprise,” he’d said.
Now, Britt remarked, “One less worry. I don’t see any guards.”
In fact, the house and property had an aspect of serenity. Automatic sprinklers had left the lawn looking dewy and fresh. The front porch, running the width of the house, had four fluted columns supporting the second-floor balcony. Large urns containing Boston ferns framed the double front door, which was painted high-gloss black.
Reaching it without being challenged, Raley looked at Britt. “Ready?”
“Get to the good stuff soon. This battery isn’t fully charged.”
She aimed the camera’s lens at the door. Raley rapped the polished brass knocker three times. While waiting for it to be answered, he braced himself. For what, he didn’t know. He tried mentally and physically to prepare himself for anything. An attacking Doberman? A formidable housekeeper? A child in Lightning McQueen jammies?
Surprisingly, the door was opened by Cobb Fordyce himself. He was dressed in suit trousers, shirt, and tie but wasn’t wearing his jacket. He was holding a linen napkin. Apparently they’d caught him having breakfast.
Britt started recording.
He reacted as though the camcorder was an Uzi, staggering backward several steps. “What’s this?”
“Good morning, Mr. Fordyce,” Britt said. “It’s been a while.”
Identifying her as the newswoman cum fugitive, his eyes went wide. Then his gaze swung to Raley, and again he asked, “What is this?”
“This is the day you’ve been dreading for five years. We’ve come to talk to you about Cleveland Jones. Remember him?” Raley held up his files, which he’d brought with him. “If your memory needs refreshing, it’s all in here.”
The AG’s eyes skittered beyond them, and he looked relieved to see that they were unaccompanied. Coming back to Raley, he said, “Cleveland Jones. Of course I remember. He was the man who started the fire at the police station.”
“You’re sticking to that story, then?” Britt asked.
Irritably, Fordyce raised his hand as though about to cover the lens of the camera with the napkin, then thought better of it and lowered his hand back to his side. “He set it just before he died of head wounds.”
“Ms. Shelley and I think otherwise,” Raley said. “And you know otherwise. So did Pat Wickham, Senior. So did Jay Burgess. That’s why they’re dead.”
Fordyce’s eyes shifted over to Britt. “She’s charged with Burgess’s murder.”
“So arrest her,” Raley said. “We’ll wait while you read her her rights, and then when the police get here to take her into custody, they may be interested to hear what you were doing at the police station the very day it became a tinderbox and seven people died.
“Oh, and we’ll gladly surrender this video recording so they can see for themselves the nervous perspiration that broke out on your lying face at the mention of that incident. Good morning, Mrs. Fordyce. Forgive the intrusion.”
The attorney general spun around to find that his wife had come to see who had interrupted their breakfast. Raley recognized her from Jay’s funeral. She was a pretty, ladylike woman. Even at this early morning hour, she was in full makeup, dressed casually but well. She had a small purse hanging from her shoulder and a set of car keys in her hand.
Apprehensively she regarded the trio at her front door. “Cobb? Is everything okay?”
“Sure. Fine.”
“The boys are due at baseball practice. Should I—”
“Yes. Go. Take them. Everything’s fine.”
Apparently she never questioned her husband, even when there was a fugitive from justice on her threshold. There was only the slightest hesitation before she turned and went back to the part of the house from which she’d come.
Fordyce faced Raley and Britt again. During that brief exchange with his wife, he’d regained his composure. Being a natural politician, he was ready to compromise. “I’ll talk to you, but not here. Not now. You were supposed to be at my office at eleven. I agreed to that. As far as I’m concerned, you’re trespassing.”
“Good try, but no dice,” Raley said. “We talk here.”
“My family—”
“They’re on their way to baseball practice. Even if they weren’t, we don’t mean any harm to your family. Where would you like to talk?”
“I won’t talk to a man with a weapon.” He said it without fear, levelly, firmly.
Figuring this probably wasn’t a point the AG was willing to concede, Raley said, “If you agree to talk, I’ll surrender the pistol.”
“And no camera.”
“The camera stays on,” Britt said. “This recording may be the only possible means I have of exonerating myself.”
Fordyce mulled that over for several seconds, then said tersely, “Fine.” He turned and motioned for them to follow.
The room to which he led them off the central foyer was a well-furnished and tastefully decorated home study, more for show than for actual work, Raley guessed. Fordyce moved behind his desk and sat down. “The pistol, Mr. Gannon.”
Raley pulled it from his waistband and laid it on a square end table in the corner, within his reach but out of that of the attorney general. Then he sat down in a chair facing the desk. Britt took the matching chair. He noticed her fingers adjusting the focus on the camera.
Fordyce motioned toward the files Raley held. “What is all that?”
“The findings of my and Teddy Brunner’s arson investigation. They’re incomplete insofar as the seven casualties are concerned. I wasn’t allowed to finish my investigation into the cause of Cleveland Jones’s death. Brunner settled for the PD’s explanation.”
Fordyce stared at the file folders still crudely held together by a thick rubber band, then looked at Raley. “Do you refute that Cleveland Jones started the fire?”
“He was dead before the fire started.”
Fordyce leaned back in his desk chair and folded his hands together beneath his chin. He may have been about to pray; he may have felt the need to. “What do you base that assertion on, Mr. Gannon?”
Raley talked for the next fifteen minutes uninterrupted. He showed Fordyce the copy of Cleveland Jones’s autopsy report. “It was never ascertained how he got those skull fractures, but is it reasonable that head wounds severe enough to kill him would go unnoticed by the officers who arrested him? I don’t think so. I was assigned to investigate, but I got nowhere.”
He explained the police department’s evasiveness. “I was stonewalled at every turn. At first I thought, Okay, they’ve had a fire that destroyed their headquarters and everything in it. They can’t help but be a little scatterbrained and unorganized. Cut them some slack. On the other hand, there was a dead man who had died while in police custody, and not from smoke or burns. So I persisted.” He paused to take a breath. “Before I could get any satisfactory answers, I was invited to a party at my friend Jay’s house.”
Not even his politician’s poker face could completely conceal Fordyce’s slight grimace at the mention of that. Raley guessed that the AG needed nothing to jog his memory of the incident, but he iterated the facts anyway for the benefit of the video camera.
He ended by saying, “No one—no one but you and the investigating detectives—ever heard my claim that I’d suffered a complete memory loss due to my unwitting ingestion of a drug. I was advised by my good friend Jay to keep that aspect of the story quiet. He said it would only make things look worse for me if I breathed a word about being drugged. People would think I’d been snorting coke along with Suzi Monroe.
“But when I heard Ms. Shelley say she suspected she’d been given a date rape drug that had wiped clean her memory of the night Jay was murdered, I knew we were victims of the same cover-up. And the motive—criminal lawyers like you are sticklers for motivation, right?—the motive of the perpetrators was to keep secret the facts of what happened to Cleveland Jones and who the actual arsonist was.”
“Jay was going to tell me the night he died,” Britt interjected. “If he did, I can’t remember it. But I’m certain it was his need to unburden his conscience that got him killed.”
Looking squarely at the attorney general, Raley said, “When Suzi Monroe died, you wanted me to take the fall for it. No doubt I would have, if not for Cassandra Mellors’s intervention.”
Fordyce frowned sourly. “Seems she’s still your champion. Does she know any of this about Cleveland Jones?”
“I shared my suspicion, yes.”
Fordyce dragged his hands down his face. After a moment, he lowered his hands and, looking like a man making a last-ditch effort to save himself, said, “If this is about payback, Mr. Gannon, please keep in mind that I didn’t indict you. I spared you prosecution.”
“Correct. But you might just as well have branded me guilty. I lost my job. I lost five fucking years of my life because you and the others set me up with Suzi Monroe and then saw to it that she snorted enough cocaine to kill her.”
Britt nudged his knee with hers, reminding him of the camera, and his promise to keep his temper under control. Nothing would be served if this came out looking like a personal vendetta. They were seeking justice, not revenge.
Fordyce glanced at the camera, then addressed Raley. “I’ll admit that it never felt right to me, that girl’s death. It bothered me that she died in Jay Burgess’s apartment, a policeman’s apartment. When Candy brought you to my office, and you told me that your defense was a short-term memory loss, my suspicion was further aroused.”
“Suspicion?”
“Suspicion that something was out of whack. You were as clean-cut as they come. You were engaged to be married. Not that a diamond ring prevents people from cheating, but you didn’t share your friend Jay’s reputation for promiscuity. You had no history of drug use, your record was spotless, you were the fire department’s rising star.”
He held up his index finger. “But the real snag in my mind was that you were investigating the fire, and the detectives assigned to the Suzi Monroe case were the heroes of that fire.”
“So were you.”
“Yes.”
Raley hoped the camera was capturing the remorse evident in Fordyce’s face and voice. His shoulders no longer seemed so wide, his posture not so proud. He was staring at his hands as they rested on his desk. Was he having a Pontius Pilate moment, staring at the guilty stains on his hands, which only he could see?
Raley didn’t let himself be moved by the man’s penitent demeanor. “It felt out of whack, it had a snag, but you didn’t look too hard to find out why, did you?”
“No.” Slowly, Fordyce raised his head and looked directly into the camera. “I didn’t look too hard because the case involved policemen, decorated heroes of the police force, and I was about to announce my candidacy for the office of attorney general. An AG depends on the solid support of law enforcement agencies. I didn’t want to alienate peace officers statewide by suggesting that a few were involved in a cover-up and very possibly murder.”
Raley realized he was holding his breath. He glanced at Britt. She still held the camcorder steady on Fordyce, but she looked over at Raley to see if he realized the significance of the startling, self-indicting statement they’d just recorded.
She seized on it, asking, “What happened in the interrogation room with Cleveland Jones?”
Her voice, her demeanor, were gentle, nonthreatening, nonjudgmental, suggesting that she and the AG were the only ones present and that she had an earnest and unselfish interest in his cathartic admission.
So it came as a mild surprise to Raley when Fordyce said, “I don’t know, Britt.” He addressed her through the camera lens. “I shirked my duty on the Suzi Monroe matter because it was expedient. It was a self-serving evasion of responsibility that cost Mr. Gannon here dearly. I’m sorry for that. If I could, I would give him back those years of disgrace he’s unjustly suffered, but I can’t.
“But I don’t know what happened in that interrogation room. Or how Cleveland Jones died, or who started the fire.” When he saw that Raley was about to speak, he held up his hand, forestalling him. “You don’t have to take my word for it. It’s fact. You can check it out.”
“Tell us,” Britt said.
“I left my office in the courthouse a little before six o’clock, bound for the police station.”
“Why were you going to the police station that late in the day?”
“To pick up some new evidence on a case that was coming up for trial. I was to meet the investigating officer at the reception desk. I was just about to enter the building when the fire alarm sounded. I rushed inside. There are survivors, people who were in the lobby at the time, who can support this.
“At first, we thought it was a false alarm. In that old building, something was always malfunctioning. Several people cracked jokes about it. Someone asked if it was a fire drill.”
He paused, staring into space, as though re-creating that scene in his mind. “But almost immediately we smelled smoke and realized it was the real thing. I hustled people out through the main entrance and then ran along the corridors on the ground floor, shouting at people in the various offices to exit as quickly as possible.” He paused again, shrugged. “You know the rest.”
Britt said, “You’re being modest. You went up the stairwell and began escorting people out from upper floors.”
He nodded.
“So you truly were a hero,” she said.
“That day, I did the right thing.” Looking at Raley, he added, “It was later that I didn’t.”
Raley thought he must be the best liar in the history of the art, or he was telling the truth. “You’ve got witnesses who can testify that, when you walked into the police station, the alarm was already sounding?”
“Yes. Even police personnel who were at the reception desk that day.”
“Had you been there earlier?”
“Earlier that day, you mean? No. That, too, can be substantiated. Even the district attorney has to sign in at the reception desk.”
“The register was destroyed in the fire.”
“I wasn’t there earlier, Mr. Gannon. I didn’t even leave my office for lunch, and my secretary can attest to that. It became a memorable day, so even minor details took on relevance.”
“You never questioned Cleveland Jones?”
“No. I swear it. I didn’t even know what he looked like until his picture, his mug shot, was published in the newspaper days following the fire.”
Britt said, “We’ve heard from a reliable source that Pat Wickham, Senior, called you, asking that you go over there and threaten to throw the book at Jones if he didn’t confess to assault.”
Pat Jr. wasn’t exactly what Raley would call a “reliable source,” but Fordyce seemed to believe her.
He said, “Pat Wickham did call me. Earlier that afternoon. He said he had a skinhead in custody. A career criminal and general lowlife that they’d wanted to put away for a long time. But Cleveland Jones knew how to work the system, he said. He was dicking them around, and I quote. He said there was to be no plea bargain this time, that they had a chance to nail Cleveland Jones, but good.
“He asked me to provide some additional pressure that might result in a confession, which would save the state the cost of a trial. He wanted me to go over there, talk to Jones, lay it on thick how bleak his future looked. But I was busy and I couldn’t get away right then. I told him I’d look in when I came over later in the day on the other errand.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as though searching his memory. “I remember wondering why he was obsessed with this assault charge. That’s bad, but it wasn’t like Jones was accused of battery rape, multiple murder, or child molestation.” He leaned across his desk toward Raley. “What am I missing? Tell me.”
“I don’t have any proof.”
“I haven’t asked for any. What do you speculate happened?”
“I don’t know who actually made the arrest,” Raley told him. “That’s one of the details nobody was willing to share. What our source has told us is that Pat Senior, George McGowan, and Jay Burgess were looking for Jones and were determined to see that he got hard time. Given that, I assume one or any combination of the three picked him up. Either during the arrest or, more likely, in the course of questioning him, they got rough, and it resulted in the skull fractures that proved fatal.”
“You’re saying they beat him to death?”
“Probably his death was an accident. But he died, and they panicked. They had to do something to cover the crime.”
Fordyce frowned. “Fires are unreliable covers for murders. Those three would know that. Forensics would show that Jones didn’t die of fire-related causes.”
“True. What I suspect is that they set the contents of the wastebasket on fire in order to convince everyone that Jones went crazy in that room. They thought it would back up their lie of how irrationally he’d started behaving. They planned to put the fire out quickly. Create a little smoke, but nothing more. It would have served its purpose without too much harm being done.
“What they didn’t count on was their small fire getting sucked into the antiquated ventilation system and spreading rapidly through the infrastructure. Before they knew it, the blaze was burning out of control, engulfing the stories above them, causing the building to collapse on itself.”
“Realizing what they’d done, they saved those they could,” Britt said softly.
“But there were still seven bodies to dig out of the rubble,” Raley added.
“Jesus.” Fordyce rubbed his forehead as though it had begun to ache. When at last he lowered his hand and looked at them, he said, “Three senior detectives questioning one skinhead punk? Why was that?”
“Turn off the camera.” Raley knew they had to tell Fordyce about Pat Jr., but he wanted to protect his confidence, too. Britt, knowing why he didn’t want this part of their interview recorded, did as he asked.
“Pat Wickham’s son is gay,” he told Fordyce. “Jones had assaulted him in Hampton Park, broke his leg, busted his face. He sustained bad, disfiguring, permanent damage. Pat Senior wanted to give Jones some of his own medicine, and he got his buddies to help him.”
Fordyce divided a look between them, then stood up and moved to the window that afforded him a view of his swimming pool. He gazed out onto the pool for several moments, then turned back to face them. “That’s the piece that was missing. Now that I have it, it makes sense. They had two secrets to protect.”
“There’s more,” Britt said, switching the camera back on. “We don’t believe Pat Senior died in the line of duty.” She related what Pat Jr. had told them about his father’s steep decline after the fire. “He went downhill even further after Suzi Monroe’s death and his part in that cover-up.”
Fordyce said, “He cracked under the burden of his guilt.”
“A breakdown seemed imminent to those close to him,” Britt said. “Apparently Jay and George McGowan were afraid that he would confess and then they would all topple. Raley and I suspect his slaying wasn’t a random crime. Jay was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He wanted to clear his conscience before he died.”
“So McGowan had to dispose of him, too,” Fordyce said thoughtfully.
She raised her shoulder and gave him a significant look, letting him draw the logical conclusion. Then he looked at Raley, who said, “McGowan is the only one left breathing.”
“No wonder he’s been dodging my calls.” The AG sighed heavily, then asked, “Do you have any proof whatsoever of what you’re alleging?”
Britt answered. “No. But McGowan must be afraid that I do. My car is at the bottom of the Combahee River.” She told him about that horrifying experience. “I would be down there with it if Raley hadn’t been behind me. He saw my car disappear.”
Fordyce turned to him. “You rescued her?”
“I got lucky. Another minute, she would have drowned.”
“Well, that explains your ‘disappearance,’” the AG said to Britt. “You were safe so long as you were believed dead.”
“I was afraid I wouldn’t live long if I came forward.”
Raley assessed Fordyce. He appeared to believe them, but he was a careful man, whose courtroom win-loss record was impressive, partly because he never took anything at face value but filtered everything through the innate skepticism of a good trial lawyer.
“I hope you realize the seriousness of these allegations,” Fordyce said. “By process of elimination, you’re suggesting that George McGowan is an arsonist and murderer. And that he also made this attempt on Britt’s life.”
“We’re alleging that he conspired in all those crimes,” Raley said. “Until just a few minutes ago, we thought you two were probably in cahoots.”
Fordyce glanced at the pistol still lying on the table amid framed family photos and smiled grimly. “That explains why you came here armed.”
“I think McGowan hired two men to take care of Jay and Britt,” Raley said. “Not musclemen, not thuggish, but blend-in types. They searched my home and truck two days ago. Britt recognized one of them from The Wheelhouse, where she met Jay. The same two were at his funeral. They followed me from there, but I eluded them. We ran into them again last night but managed to get away.” He didn’t give the details of that encounter and was glad Fordyce didn’t ask. “We’re guessing they’re the two who forced Britt’s car off the road, although she can’t swear to it.” He paused, then said, “That more or less brings you up to date. That’s where we are.”
Neither said anything more, giving Fordyce time to assimilate everything they’d told him, which was a lot. During the silence, Britt switched off the camera, which was signaling her that the battery was failing anyway. It was fortunate that it had lasted this long.
Finally, Fordyce gave a slight nod of his head, as though having reached a decision. “At the very least, what you allege about Cleveland Jones and the fire demands reinvestigation. A full reinvestigation, and I want you to lead it, Mr. Gannon.”
Taken aback, Raley said, “Thank you.” But he wasn’t going to let Fordyce off the hook just because he’d thrown him this bone. “And the Suzi Monroe matter?”
“Will also be reinvestigated. You have my word.” He pointed toward the camcorder. “You have my admission that I was negligent the first time around. I intend to own up to that.”
Raley gave him a curt nod.
Fordyce looked at Britt. “You’re still charged with Jay Burgess’s murder. I’m afraid I can’t spare you the ordeal of answering to that charge, although, honestly, I thought it was preposterous. After I’ve had a chance to talk to the detectives investigating the case, I’m sure the accusation will be dropped. Without delay, I’ll have George McGowan brought in for questioning. And I want these men who’ve been following you found and identified. I don’t suppose you have names.”
“Only a license plate number,” Britt said.
Fordyce passed her a Post-it pad and pen. She wrote down the make of the maroon sedan and its license number, along with the location of the Holiday Inn. After having been seen there last night, it was unlikely the pair would remain at that location, but it would be a good place to begin the manhunt.
“Once they’re brought in, separated, and questioned, I’ll bet we can get one or both of them to give up McGowan,” Fordyce said.
Raley doubted those two would be that easy to crack. But he kept that opinion to himself.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Britt asked.
Fordyce regarded her for several seconds, then smiled wryly. “I never dreaded seeing you in the press corps. You’ve always been tough but fair, and usually favorable in your reporting of me and the job I’m doing for the state. I’ve never doubted your integrity, Britt. So, I’m going to place you in protective custody rather than under arrest.”
“I appreciate that.”
Fordyce looked at Raley. “Both of you are extremely vulnerable. I’m sure you’re aware of that,” he said, again glancing at the pistol on the table. “You’re key to making these felony cases against McGowan. If he would kill his own friends to keep them quiet, he won’t hesitate to dispense with you. You’ll need protection.”
“For how long?” Raley didn’t like the idea of being under guard, but he saw the necessity of protecting Britt.
“At least until George McGowan and the two men following you are in custody.”
“We only know of two,” Britt said. “Who’s to say there aren’t more? McGowan has a lot of money.”
“I’ll do everything within my power to protect you,” Fordyce told her. To Raley he said, “Actually, Mr. Gannon, you were wrong when you said that this was the day I’d been dreading for five years. I’ve often wondered—daily in fact—if I would have been elected if not for the notoriety I gained from that fire. It’s an uncertainty that’s haunted me since I took office. I actually welcome this opportunity to prove, if only to myself, that I won on merit, not because of instant fame.”
Then, shaking off the reflective thought, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make some calls and get things rolling.”
Britt and Raley stepped into the foyer, where she wrapped her arms around Raley’s waist, hugging him quickly but tightly. “This is the best we could have hoped for!” she exclaimed with a soft gasp. “We have a powerful ally in our corner now.”
“Yeah, but I hate being placed under lock and key.”
“He doesn’t want anything happening to you. Surely you can see the rationale. Believe me, I’d rather be out there covering the story as it unfolds. But more than that, I want to live. I want you to live.”
“I feel the same. But I’d like to be there when McGowan realizes the jig is up. I know this isn’t about getting revenge, but that would be a sweet moment for me.”
“You’ll have your moment.”
Shortly after, Fordyce rejoined them. “A capitol security guard will be here momentarily and drive you…Wait. How’d you get here? I don’t remember seeing a car.”
“We left it on the next block.”
“The men following you have marked it?”
“Yes, but I’ve switched the license plate a couple of times.”
The AG smiled. “Even so, it’s probably best to leave it there for the time being. The guard will drive you to the Marriott. It’s nothing fancy, but you’ll be comfortable.”
Britt laughed. “Compared to the places where we’ve been hiding out, the Marriott will seem like a palace.”
Fordyce tilted his head and divided a curious look between them. “One thing you didn’t explain. How was it the two of you got together on this?”
“Uh, Raley…contacted me.”
“I saw her press conference and was struck by the similarities of our experiences.”
In stops and starts, omitting personal references, they told him that they’d joined forces and compared notes. The more they shared, the more convinced they became that Raley’s hunches had been correct.
The brass knocker sounded smartly. Fordyce excused himself to answer the door. “Thank you for coming so soon,” he said and moved aside to let the guard step into the foyer.
“You’re welcome, sir.” He proffered his badge. “I was intercepted on my way to the capitol. That’s why I’m not in uniform.” He glanced at Raley and Britt, giving them a nod. “Sir. Ma’am.” Then back to the AG, “Is everything arranged at the hotel?”
“Yes,” Fordyce replied. “They have adjoining rooms on the top floor. Stand post outside. Don’t let anyone go in, not even a room service waiter that you haven’t cleared first.”
“I understand, sir. One of our men will also be in the lobby by the time we arrive. Another at the service entrance. More will be available if you request them.”
“Excellent.” Turning to Raley and Britt, Fordyce asked, “Can you provide descriptions of the two men who’ve been following you?”
“Yes,” Raley said. “Fairly accurate ones, I think.”
“Good. I’ll send a police sketch artist over to the hotel right away.” He shook hands with them in turn. “If you need anything, anything, call my office. If I’m not available, my secretary will accommodate you.”
“We’d like to be kept informed of what’s going on,” Raley said.
“I’ll give you periodic reports.” He reached for Raley’s hand and shook it a second time. “I wish that saying ‘I’m sorry’ was sufficient. I realize it’s not.”
“Make it up to me by getting George McGowan.”
“You can count on it.”
He motioned them toward the door where the guard was waiting. As they drew even with the foyer table, on which stood a large Chinese vase of fresh flowers, Britt grabbed the neck of the vase and swung it with all her strength at the guard’s head.
With a sharp exclamation of pain, he reeled backward.
There was an explosion of china, flowers, and water when the vase shattered on the marble floor.
She yelled, “Run!”
Raley was stunned by what she’d done, but he trusted her. Without hesitation, he bolted after her through the open front door. She leaped off the porch, hurdling a flower bed, and struck out running full tilt across the grass, her sneakers slipping on the dew. She almost went down, but he grabbed her elbow and propelled her along the sidewalk.
He risked glancing back as they rounded the corner. Neither Fordyce nor the guard was coming after them. Possibly the guard was lying unconscious on Cobb Fordyce’s floor. “The guard—”
“Was in Jay’s town house that night,” Britt panted, never breaking stride. “I recognized him instantly. I remember, Raley! I remember!”