CHAPTER
28
R ALEY HUNG UP ON THE TALKATIVE RECEPTIONIST.
With shaking hands, he fed coins into the slots and punched in another number. He looked over his shoulder, feeling like the phone booth was a shooting gallery and there was a bull’s-eye on his back.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.” He’d called Candy’s cell phone in order to circumvent her secretary, and he intentionally didn’t say his name.
“Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
“I sent you to him. That implicates me.”
“Is he dead?”
“There hasn’t been an official announcement. It’s touch and go. Media are camped out at the hospital awaiting word.” Then, angrily, “That is, every reporter in the state except your new girlfriend. She was with you this morning, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“Christ. First Jay, now—”
“She didn’t smother Jay. You know I didn’t shoot Fordyce in the head.”
“Then how is it that he has a bullet in his brain? Why did you go to his house in the first place? Why didn’t you keep the appointment I set up for you—which will mean my career and my ass if anyone finds out. Why a surprise visit to his house?”
“I wanted to catch him off guard.”
She groaned. “Not a good answer, you idiot. Until you get a defense attorney, I advise you not to say that to anyone else.”
“When we left him, Cobb Fordyce was alive and well. We thought he had double-crossed us.”
“Another motive for shooting him.”
“I didn’t shoot him!”
“The police have the weapon. A Taurus .357. Will your prints be on it? Will hers?”
Raley rubbed his forehead, muttering, “Fuck me.”
“In other words, yes.”
“He must have used my pistol.”
“He? Who?”
“She’ll tell you. She’s on her way to you.”
“To me? Wha—”
“Listen! Listen to me. She doesn’t even know about Fordyce unless she’s heard it on the radio since we separated. I was to call and tell you to meet her where she interviewed you a few months ago. Do you know where she’s talking about? She said you would.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“She’ll be at the door where you let her in before. She’s got a video.”
“Of what?”
“She’ll explain everything. Will you meet her?”
“Do you realize what you’re asking? I have people—”
“I know this is a bad time.”
“Bad? No, it’s the worst time. Today of all days. Inconvenience and bad timing aside, you’re asking me to break the law.”
“She’s coming to turn herself in.”
“Great. I’ll call the police, tell them—”
“No. No police.”
“If I don’t, it smacks of aiding and abetting, obstruction of justice, and—”
“I know all that, Candy. But you gotta do this, and you gotta do it this way.”
“Why?”
“To save our lives.” He let that settle, then said, “The man who killed Jay showed up at Fordyce’s house this morning. Britt recognized him instantly.” He was past worrying about using their names. “After we bolted, Fordyce was shot in the head. Now, do the math. We would have been killed, too, if we hadn’t managed to escape. But we did, we can identify him, and this guy ain’t gonna quit.”
Subdued a bit, she said, “Who is this man? Why’d he kill Jay and shoot Fordyce? Does he have a name?”
“Not that I know.”
“A description?”
“Britt will fill you in. Hopefully she won’t be apprehended before she can get to you.”
“She’ll be half a block away from the courthouse. It’s a circus down here. Reporters are camped out along Broad, waiting—”
“I know. She’s taking a huge risk to get that video to you. Which should give you some idea of how vital it is.”
“Why is it so important?”
“When you watch it, you’ll know.” A customer at one of the service station pumps was eyeing him. Probably he was just an average Joe whose Dodge Ram was running low on fuel, but Raley didn’t know what the fourth hit man looked like. Until he did, he would regard every stranger as a potential assassin. “I can’t talk any longer. I’ve got to move.”
“Wait! Where are you? Why aren’t you with Britt?”
If he told Candy that, he would be creating for her another impossible choice, because she would be duty-bound to dispatch police to the McGowans’ estate. Sidestepping her question, he said, “Britt’s on her way. For godsake, Candy, be there.” He hung up before she could say anything more.
A silver Navigator was parked in the circular drive in front of George McGowan’s mansion, indicating that he was at home, but Raley saw no one around. Several sleek horses grazed in a paddock about fifty yards from the house. Otherwise the place looked deserted.
Taking the camcorder with him, Raley alighted from the car and walked up to the front door. He didn’t ring the bell, didn’t knock, just turned the knob and, finding the door unlocked, walked in.
He closed the door soundlessly, then paused to listen. The house was as still and silent as a tomb.
He started down the central hallway, his footsteps muffled by a long, narrow Oriental carpet. He looked into the room on his left, a dining room. On his right was a formal living room with a marble fireplace and a crystal chandelier, both as tall as he was. Oil paintings in gilt frames. Heavy drapes made of shiny material. Collectibles. Rich people stuff.
Murder had been profitable for George McGowan.
Raley continued down the wide foyer on tiptoe, halting when he heard the clink of glass against glass coming from a room on his right, behind the staircase. He approached stealthily, hesitating when he reached the open doorway, then cautiously peering around the doorjamb.
George was seated behind a large desk, a bottle of bourbon in front of him. A full highball glass was in one hand, a nine-millimeter pistol in the other. He saw Raley immediately and smiled.
Waving him in with his gun hand, he said, “Come in, Raley. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I have every confidence that my appointment will be approved by the Senate.”
Despite the upsetting call from Raley, Judge Cassandra Mellors didn’t postpone her scheduled press conference. The room was crowded with reporters jockeying for the best positions, but it wasn’t as well attended as it might have been.
The attempt on Cobb Fordyce’s life had divided the press corps. Many reporters who would have been here covering her all-important day were instead keeping vigil outside the hospital in Columbia, awaiting word on Fordyce’s condition.
“I spoke with the president just a few minutes ago,” she told her audience. “He assured me that the vote taking place later today is a formality. I hope he’s right.” She staved off the chorus of questions. “Naturally, my excitement has been overshadowed by the tragedy that took place this morning at the home of our attorney general, a former colleague and a man I consider still to be a friend. My thoughts and prayers are with Mrs. Fordyce and the boys, as well as with the medical personnel who are valiantly trying to save Cobb Fordyce’s life.”
A reporter asked, “If he survives, will there be permanent brain damage?”
“The extent of the injury and its residual effects haven’t been determined. At this point the doctors are trying to keep him alive.”
“Have you spoken to the detectives who are investigating the crime scene at the AG’s home?”
“No. Regarding that, I have no more details than you.”
“Have you spoken to Mrs. Fordyce?”
“No. Her brother is acting as spokesperson for the family. He’s said that Mrs. Fordyce is at her husband’s side and has requested all our prayers.”
“Is it true that Britt Shelley and Raley Gannon are being sought for questioning in the shooting?”
“I have no comment on that.”
“Mrs. Fordyce identified—”
She raised her hand. “That’s all I have time for now.”
She turned quickly and left them hurling questions at her. When she reached her office, she asked her secretary if there had been any messages. “Nothing, Judge,” she said.
“No word from the hospital?”
She shook her head. “Or from Washington.” Sheepishly, she added, “In spite of what happened today to Mr. Fordyce, I can’t help but be excited for you.”
Candy smiled. “I’ve got butterflies myself. Which is why I need some downtime. I’m going to the other office to rehearse my acceptance speech.” That was a plausible excuse to leave, and her assistant didn’t question her.
Because of all the interruptions and constant demands on Candy’s time when she was in her courthouse office, she often retreated to a sanctuary where she could concentrate, focus, and sometimes rest between sessions on the bench. Only her assistant knew about it, and that was the point. No one could find her there unless she wanted to be found.
“I have my cell. Call me the moment you hear anything.”
“Certainly, Judge.”
She slipped out a back door, taking a familiar path through connecting alleyways that allowed her to cover half a block of Broad Street without ever having to be on the street itself, except to cross it. She emerged from an alley between two buildings and checked to see that the coast was clear. A delivery truck rumbled past, but otherwise there was a break in the traffic. A horse-drawn carriage full of tourists was turning the corner away from her. The media were still assembled in front of the courthouse, but no one was looking in her direction.
She walked swiftly across the street and ducked into an alley that bordered an abandoned office building. It was wedged between its neighbors, but unlike those buildings, it hadn’t been renovated and was in a state of disrepair. It had six floors, but like many other structures in Charleston, it was only one room wide, so unless one were looking for it, the narrow building could easily go unnoticed.
It was so old and neglected that ferns sprouted from cracks in the mortar holding the ancient bricks onto the exterior walls. The judge was the single tenant and was allowed to occupy one small office only because of a favor she’d done the real estate agent who had been trying for years to unload this listing.
At the back of the building was a scratched and dented metal door. Waiting for her there was Britt Shelley, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap. She looked like a coed on her way to the ballpark to cheer on the home team, not like a woman accused of murder, fleeing both the law and a purported bad guy.
When Candy appeared, the reporter’s relief was plain in her wide smile. “Thank God Raley reached you.” Sounding breathless, she flattened her hand on her chest. “I was so afraid he wouldn’t get through. I’ve come to surrender to you.”
“Let’s get inside first.” Candy used a key to unlock the dead bolt, then hustled Britt into the musty, dim, damp interior. Reaching around her, she flipped on a light switch so they could see their way across a littered floor to the metal staircase.
Britt handled the climb better than Candy, who was panting by the time they reached the sixth-floor landing. The same key opened the office she had furnished with a desk, a couch for power naps, and a massage chair.
As soon as the door was closed behind them, she said, “Britt, have you heard the news from Columbia?”
Her dire tone didn’t escape the newswoman. Apprehensively, she said, “If you talked to Raley, you know we didn’t wait for our eleven o’clock appointment. We went to Fordyce’s house.”
“Yes, well, there’s more, I’m afraid.” Candy nodded toward a chair facing her desk. “You’d better sit down.”
George was obviously drunk. Raley hoped he was too drunk to shoot straight. Surreptitiously he flipped the record button on the camcorder as Britt had instructed. Even if he didn’t get a good picture, the audio would be there.
He stepped into the study. The first thing that captured his attention was the framed photograph of the four heroes of the fire hanging in a prominent place on the wall. If Fordyce didn’t pull through, then George would be the only surviving one. The last keeper of the secret.
“Nice picture,” Raley remarked.
George didn’t lower the pistol aimed at Raley, but he gave the photo a glance. “Yeah. Made me a fucking hero.” He gestured at the room. “Look at what all my heroism got me.”
Raley walked to the chair across the desk from George and sat down. When he did, he saw the object on the desk near the bottle of whiskey. A vintage cigarette lighter with a lurid picture of a naked woman on it, a hologram. Formerly owned by Cleveland Jones, a gift from his grandfather, souvenir of a carnival.
George’s eyes were bloodshot, his face florid, indicating recent and ample consumption of the bourbon. Unfortunately, however, his gun hand was rock steady. He’d been a cop. He couldn’t miss at this range.
Raley said, “You’re no hero, George.”
The man gave a bitter laugh and quaffed the glass of bourbon, then poured himself another. “She thought so.”
“She?”
“Miranda.”
“Is she here?”
“She’s out.”
“Out where?”
“Just…out. Who knows? Who gives a shit?”
“I think you do, George.”
Another laugh, as bitter as the first. “Yeah, well. My lovely wife. Wouldn’t you agree she’s lovely?”
“And then some.”
George grinned as he took another sip of his fresh whiskey. “You know what it’s like to have the hottest, richest girl around come on to you full throttle?”
“Must be nice.” Raley was glad George was rambling drunkenly. It gave him time to think. He was wondering if he could wrest the pistol away without getting shot in the process. Had the liquor slowed George’s reflexes enough for him to grab the gun before the former cop could react?
Had Britt made it safely to Candy? Was she, even now, pouring out the bizarre story of the crime George had helped orchestrate?
“Our first date,” George said, “Miranda went down on me. In my car, no less. I was driving. Nearly killed us both when I came, but it was one hell of a rush.”
“I can imagine.”
“First time we fucked, guess what I discovered.”
“She wasn’t a virgin.”
George laughed for real then. “That’s a good one, Gannon. You have a sense of humor after all. Yeah, that was a good one. But seriously…” He took another slurp from his glass. “No, what I found was this itsy-bitsy gold stud in her clit. Man, you talk about a turn-on. Thought I’d died and gone to * heaven.”
He paused to offer Raley a drink.
“No thank you.”
“You sure? Kentucky’s finest.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself. Where was I?”
“Heaven.”
George belched. “Right. We hadn’t dated a month before Miranda started talking marriage. Course I was all over that idea. She’s hot and her old man’s loaded. What’s not to like, right?”
“Right.”
“So down the aisle we went. Honeymooned in Tahiti. Swam naked in the surf. In fact, Miranda stayed naked most of the time. Practically wore blisters on my dick. I thought, George, you lucky bastard, you have hit the jackpot for sure. She had beauty, money, and a button that stayed excited twenty-four/seven on account of that little gold stud.”
His eyes went vacant for several moments, then he squinted Raley back into focus. “She killed my kid, you know.” Seeing Raley’s shock, he said, “Yeah, you heard right. She came back from the honeymoon pregnant. I was thrilled, and for weeks strutted around here like a goddamn peacock. But I noticed she wasn’t getting a tummy on her, and when I remarked on it, she started laughing and said, ‘And I never will, darlin’.’ She’d got rid of the baby and hadn’t even bothered to tell me.”
Raley felt a twinge of pity for the man, and had to remind himself of the lives George was responsible for taking.
“But my consolation prize was all the sex,” George continued. “She’s all about fun and games. Knows every trick in the book. Guess how she knows.”
“I don’t want to guess, George.”
“She’s been doing them for a long time, that’s how. Technically, she was a virgin until she was twelve, but long before that, she and Les—”
Involuntarily Raley recoiled.
“Surprise!” George exclaimed. Then it seemed his entire face collapsed and was held on to his skull only by the loose skin. “I was sorta surprised myself, finding out that Miranda was daddy’s girl in every sense of the word. That little gold charm I liked so well? He’s the one who suggested it.”
Raley swallowed his revulsion. “She was a child, a victim. Why didn’t she tell someone?”
“Victim?” George said, scoffing. “No, Gannon, no. She liked it. She loved it.”
“What about Mrs. Conway?”
“Probably suspected,” George said with a negligent shrug. “How could she not? But one day when Miranda was about fourteen, her mother caught them in flagrante delicto. And not the missionary position. That night Mrs. Conway washed down a bottle of pills with a bottle of vodka and half of another. It was ruled an accidental overdose.”
He finished the whiskey in his glass and poured more. “I’ll bet you’re wondering why I haven’t left Miranda.” Raley had been wondering that. He’d also been wondering if Britt had played the video for Candy yet and if police officers were being dispatched to arrest George. As disgusting as the conversation was, if he could keep him talking long enough…
“I’ve threatened to pack up and leave dozens of times, but she knew I never would. For one thing, I liked the money and the sex and the whole package that came with marrying Miranda Conway. But the big, major, number one reason I couldn’t leave her was that she knew I was no hero. She knew about Cleveland Jones and how he died and how the fire started.”
Raley’s heart gave a little bump. “How did she know?”
“This…” George started laughing again. “You’re going to like this, Gannon. I told her. I admitted it in what you might call a moment of weakness. Well, my brain was weak. My dick was a Louisville Slugger. See, we were playing a sex game. Leather restraints. Massage oil. Blindfold. It became kind of a truth-or-dare thing. We’d swap our deepest, darkest secrets, she said.”
He leaned forward and whispered. “You ever had a candle pushed up your ass while your dick is being sucked?” He sat back and grinned drunkenly. “She wouldn’t let me come until she had the whole story. Kept teasing and teasing, and, well, the truth spilled out along with my seed. To borrow an Old Testament phrase.
“Anyway, after, when she removed my blindfold, I reminded her that it was her turn, truth or dare. Then she smiled this gloating smile I’ll never forget and told me who’d taught her this naughty little trick with the candle. She said, ‘It’s one of Daddy’s favorite things we do.’”
Suddenly tears filled his eyes and ran down his bloated cheeks. “I wish she would have just castrated me then and there. Because she and Les have been sawing away at my balls every day since, stripping me of my manhood a little bit at a time. They know their secret is safe with me so long as mine is safe with them.”
He considered the bourbon in his glass but pushed it away without drinking any more. Instead, he hefted the pistol in his hand as though trying to guess its weight. “I’ve been waiting on you, but you’re earlier than I expected. I figured I would beat you to the punch, save you the trouble.”
“Save me the trouble?” Raley asked.
“You know about Pat Junior, right? Being a homo?”
Raley nodded.
“Now you talk about a sorry excuse for a man,” George said. “Cruel irony that all this started with that sniveling little faggot. And Cleveland Jones?” He made a sound of disgust. “He needed killing if anybody ever did. Lawless, cocky son of a bitch. Thought he was above the law. Had a real contempt for authority. Smart guy. Tough customer. You know the type.
“Pat was mortified about his son being gay and all, but this Jones character had almost killed him. Pat insisted on getting a confession out of Jones and putting him away for years, someplace he’d do hard time, where he’d be raped a coupla times a day. Punishment fitting the crime, see?
“In hindsight, we should’ve just popped him where we found him, let it be blamed on gangbangers. But no, we stayed within the law. To that point anyway. We hauled him to the station, then took him to a room where nobody could see in and started working him over. The four of us told him he wasn’t getting out of there until he’d signed a confession, and we didn’t care how long it took. In fact, we hoped it would take a nice, long time.”
Raley said, “He didn’t have skull fractures when you arrested him, did he?”
George wiped his wet cheeks and gave Raley a look that said the question wasn’t even worth answering, but Raley had asked it mostly for the benefit of the camera.
“Who actually dealt the deathblow, George?”
More tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes. “Hard to say. Pat maybe. Jay got in a few good belts, but he wasn’t that strong. Might have been me. We were taking turns. Jones was on the floor, and I think it was Jay who first noticed that he was no longer moving. Jay called the rest of us off. He felt for a pulse.” George ran his arm under his nose, mopping up the mucus dripping from it with his sleeve. “Jones was dead.”
He lapsed into silence, so Raley prompted him. “Then what happened?”
“What the fuck you think? We freaked, especially Pat, because we’d just killed a man, all on account of his queer son.”
Raley nodded down at the lighter on the desk. “You started the fire with his lighter.”
“I was the one who’d emptied his pockets when we checked him in. I kept the lighter. Don’t know why. Maybe to bring home and show Miranda, thinking she’d get a kick out of it. I don’t remember. Anyway I had it, and it came in handy.”
“You wanted it to look like Jones had just enough life in him to start the fire before he died.”
“That was the basic plan. We were all panicking, yelling at each other, cussing, trying to sort it out. As I said, freaking out. Jay, of course, kept the coolest head. He said we’d tell everybody that we’d noticed his head wounds but thought they were superficial. That it wasn’t until later, after we were pressuring him with questions, that he started acting weird and we realized he was out of his head.
“The rest of us agreed it sounded like a plan. Jay said to light the stuff in the trash can, so it would look like Jones had gone crazy. I set fire to some paper. We left the room, thinking the fire would soon burn itself out. A minute maybe. We counted on the smoke alarm going off, then rushing in and pretending to be shocked to find Jones dead. But the fire…” He dropped his chin on his chest, mumbling, “You know the rest.”
Raley could barely contain himself. The camcorder had just recorded George’s confession, although George seemed unaware of it, or indifferent to it. Keeping his voice low, Raley asked, “Why did you keep the lighter?”
The man shook his large head mournfully. “Like when priests flog themselves? The lighter is like a whip. I take it out every now and then to remind myself of what I did.”
He was quiet for a moment, and Raley counted the seconds. How long before the police would arrive? Britt would have told Candy about the night at Jay’s house, the attempt on her life, the man this morning who obviously had shot Fordyce after they fled.
Fordyce.
Something niggled Raley’s brain, but he didn’t have time to address it before George continued.
“We were trying to act normal, waiting for the smoke alarm. But all of a sudden the fucking wall of that room was on fire, burning from the inside out. Then we really panicked. We didn’t bother with Jones. We knew he was already dead. We started trying to get all the other people into the stairwell and out of the building. In all the confusion, with the smoke, nobody could see anything. No one could locate the keys to the holding cell.” His chin began to tremble, and a sob shook his large body. “I can still hear those men trapped in the cell screaming.”
He wiped his nose again. “It came as a shock to us that we were made out heroes,” he said with a laugh that was negated by the tears rolling down his face. “We thought that, as soon as the fire was out, we’d be arrested. So you can imagine how we felt when…Well, you know how it was. That photo,” he said, looking at the picture on the wall.
“We told ourselves there must be a reason for it turning out the way it had. A higher purpose, Jay called it. Some such bullshit,” he said scornfully. “Anyhow, we made a pact. No one would have to know. No one could tell. Ever.
“We thought we’d be okay. We thought we’d get away with it. Brunner seemed satisfied with our explanation about Jones.” He sighed and looked across at Raley. “But you were stubborn as hell and too fucking good. Jay tried stalling you, but on the issue of Cleveland Jones, you just wouldn’t give up and let it go. You had us scared shitless.”
Slowly Raley nodded. “So you devised a way to discredit me.”
Britt wanted to know what the latest news from Columbia was, but the judge insisted on hearing what she had to say first.
So for the past ten minutes, Candy Mellors had listened as Britt gave her a rushed, almost breathless account of the last few days, beginning with her meeting with Jay and ending with her and Raley fleeing the attorney general’s house. Knowing the constraints on the judge’s time today, she had economized on words, divulging as many details as she could as concisely as possible.
She finished by saying, “Raley and I got the hell out of there.”
Candy sat back and took a deep breath, as though she’d been the one doing all the talking. “Sweet Jesus. I understand now why you’d be hesitant to surrender to the police.”
Britt nodded.
“Where is Raley?”
“He hopes to bluff George McGowan into thinking that Fordyce ratted him out. He took the camcorder, thinking he may get McGowan on tape admitting his role in all this, and incriminating Fordyce at the same time.”
“Any such recording wouldn’t be admissible in court.”
“I realize that, and so does Raley. But having it is better than not.”
“You have the tape of your interview with Fordyce?”
Britt pulled the small cartridge from the pocket of her jeans and handed it over. “Fordyce doesn’t actually own up to his participation. But if Raley can get George McGowan’s admission, then the AG’s role will be exposed, and we’ll have him on video lying about it, which would at least strengthen any prosecutor’s case against him.”
“It’s a high body count,” the judge said, shaking her head. “I’m dumbfounded by the extent of their perfidy.”
“Even more astonishing is that they’ve got away with it for these five years.”
“The man who responded to Cobb Fordyce’s summons this morning, the fake security guard, you’re certain he was in Jay’s town house that night?”
“Positive. My memory came back the instant Fordyce opened his front door and I saw him there on the threshold. Some of my recollections are still hazy. Segments of time are missing, but I remember him with perfect clarity because he laughed while his partner was molesting me.”
“Molesting you? You didn’t mention that before.”
“It’s not easy to talk about.” Speaking woman to woman, Britt described the experience.
The judge frowned with distaste. “That must have been awful for you. You’re certain that if you saw this man again you could identify him?”
“Without question.”
“Would he look anything like that?”
Britt, puzzled by the question that was seemingly nonsensical, turned her head, following the direction of the judge’s nod.
He had entered the room unheard and was standing with his back to the closed door, leering at her, just as he had when he violated her.
“Britt,” the judge said, “I believe you’re intimately acquainted with Mr. Smith.”