“You must protect your family.” That was said with a trace of amusement. “If you see Gannon or Britt Shelley again-”

“I’ll let you know immediately.”

“Do, Pat. Because this big story of Jay’s could ruin all of us. Including you.”

On that ominous note the call ended.

CHAPTER 22

RALEY 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.”