“We had an…uh…exchange.”

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

“Yeah.”

“So, what kind of qualification, George?”

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

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

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

“Jay didn’t overdose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And his dick.”

“Redundant.”

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

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

“No. Why?”

“It might help if I talked to him.”

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

“What?”

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

George laughed. “Gotcha.”

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

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

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

“One hopes.”

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

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

“Judge Cassandra Mellors.”

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

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

“Oh? And what did she say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

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

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

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

CHAPTER 20

I SEE MR. JONES HASN’T MADE ANY HOME IMPROVEMENTS SINCE I was last here,” Raley said as he brought the car to a stop.

The mobile home squatted on a barren lot and had an aura of general neglect. A short-haired, heavily muscled dog bared his teeth and strained against the chain securing him to a metal stake.

“How do you know he still lives here?” Britt had to speak loudly in order to make herself heard above the dog’s ferocious barking.

“I looked up his name in the phone book while you were showering.”

“Do you think he’s home?”

“Truck’s here.”

Parked only a few feet from the door of the mobile home was a pickup with a camouflage paint job and mud-caked tires almost as tall as Britt. The Stars and Bars flag of the Confederacy hung from the radio antenna. “He should live in the pickup and scrap the trailer,” she remarked. Of the two, the truck was in far better condition.

She had insisted on coming along, and Raley had put up only a token argument. For one thing, if the men looking for them tracked her to the motor court, she had no way to protect herself. Even if he left the pistol, he doubted she would use it. She flinched each time she looked at it.

And if the pistol had stayed behind with her, he would have had no way of protecting himself in case of attack, except with brute force, and he didn’t trust himself to be as ruthless as men who would smother a terminally ill man with a pillow and force a woman’s car into a river, leaving her to drown.

The only solution had been to bring both the weapon and Britt with him when he came to call on the late Cleveland Jones’s next of kin, his father.

He opened his car door and put his left foot on the ground. The dog went berserk. “I hope that stake holds.”

“Do you think a doughnut would appease him?” Britt picked up the Krispy Kreme bag containing the leftovers of the doughnuts they’d eaten for breakfast.

“I doubt it. He looks pure carnivore.”

Raley got out and gave the dog a wide berth as he approached the rusty mobile home. He’d left his shirttail out to cover the pistol in his waistband and checked now to make sure it was still concealed. Mr. Jones hadn’t been at all cordial five years ago. He would be even less so now if he saw Raley coming to his door armed with a.357.