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Boston, Massachusetts

  Moakley Federal Courthouse

  She needed air.

  Lisa Waldren’s quick footsteps were lost in the noise filling the marble corridor as she slung her satchel over her shoulder and wove through huddled groups of jurors, family members, and legal teams. She didn’t turn toward the elevators that led to her office, but instead focused her steps toward the fresh ocean air waiting outside the building.

  “Lisa, wait,” someone called behind her as the glass rotunda entrance came into view.

  She didn’t slow until she’d pushed out the glass doors into the curved courtyard of Moakley Federal Courthouse. The scent of the sea filled her lungs and cooled her face, a welcome relief from the recycled air of the courtroom. But in her hurry to escape, Lisa had forgotten that the press would be waiting. They recognized her as the lead federal prosecutor and hurried toward her.

  “Ms. Waldren, are you pleased with the sentencing?”

  “What did Radcliffe say to you? Did he show any remorse?”

  The faces, cameras, and microphones pressed around her.

  “We have an official press conference at two o’clock.” Lisa pushed through the net that circled and squeezed in. Someone grabbed her arm, but as she protested, Lisa recognized a familiar face pushing around and leading her through the mob.

  “That’s all for now. Sorry, folks, more in a few hours,” Drew Harman said with a commanding tone that brought a smile to the edge of Lisa’s lips.

  “Hey, Drew, you got an exclusive with her or what?” The reporter gave him a sly expression as a few others broke into laughter.

  “You’d like to know,” Drew said. As they moved beyond the gathering, he shook his head as if disgusted. “Sharks.”

  Lisa couldn’t help but laugh, given that Drew was a former newsman himself.

  “I’d say thank you, but that wasn’t necessary. I have plenty of experience shoving past the press.”

  “Don’t I know,” Drew said with a wicked grin.

  Lisa ignored the remark. “Do you have time for lunch? I’m starving.”

  “Sentencing bad guys to thirty years in prison works up an appetite, I’m sure.”

  The breeze wafting through the landscaped courtyard carried the scent from a Sicilian restaurant, teasing her grumbling stomach with visions of homemade linguini and fresh seafood.

  “Today was good news,” Drew said, and Lisa realized he’d been studying her expression.

  He was right. A bad guy was going to prison, and that should make her feel good. But for the past three years, Lisa had spent countless hours with the victims of the multistate extortion case. A hundred and forty-three victims had been taken by a swindler—that’s what it came down to. They were humiliated and disillusioned, but even worse, most had lost nearly everything they had. Lisa could see the faces and hear their stories: the Huffs had to move in with their married children after losing the home they’d had for forty years; elderly Maryann Brown was scouring the job market after losing her entire life savings; Blaze Hampton survived being a POW in Vietnam but had lost his finances to a man claiming to be another veteran … the stories went on and on.

  Sending Gerald Radcliffe to prison for thirty years didn’t help the victims.

  “Yes, good news. At least it’s over.” Lisa tried to muster up some acceptable enthusiasm.

  They walked toward the blue waters of Boston Harbor that gleamed beneath the noonday sun. A large catamaran cut through the choppy waves, reminding Lisa of days when her husband was alive and he’d coax her and their young son out for a day at sea. The memory no longer stung but served to soften her mood and remind her of how time passed and healed. And tonight was one of her two regular weekly video chats with her now college-aged son from his dorm in London.

  “It is actually over. That is a relief.” Lisa glanced at Drew as the weight finally began to lift.

  “You need to take that vacation now. Celebrate this and don’t just hop on the next case. It’s a huge victory. I know one thing—Radcliffe thought he was getting away with this, but he didn’t expect Federal Prosecutor Lisa Waldren. You did good, so be proud of yourself.” Drew’s white smile beamed against the darkness of his skin.

  Lisa nearly brushed away his words by saying that she’d been part of a great team and all the usual things people were supposed to say. But Drew knew the hours she’d put in and how determined she was to get the last nail hammered into Radcliffe’s coffin. She’d followed a paper trail after it virtually disappeared, found family members that Radcliffe had thought he’d left behind and a partner in exile he wanted dead. Without her determination fueled by the victims’ stories, Radcliffe would have never gone to trial, let alone been found guilty.

  “I guess I did do all right,” she said, breaking into a smile of her own.

  As they stepped onto the harbor walkway, Lisa’s phone rang. The name on the screen stopped her.

  “My father?” She held up the phone as if to confirm that her eyes weren’t tricking her.

  “You should answer it.”

  Lisa hesitated a moment longer.

  “Dad?”

  “There you are. I didn’t know if you’d be in court.” The voice struck her as so familiar that the time since she had last seen her father disappeared in a moment. They spoke in short greetings on holidays and birthdays, though Dad had forgotten most of Lisa’s. They were family, yet neither of them knew the details of the other’s life.

  “I just left a sentencing and am going to lunch. How are you? Is everything okay?”

  “I want to talk to you about something. Time is critical with this.”

  “What’s it about?” Lisa braced herself for the news she was about to receive.

  “There’s too much to go over right now. But do you remember when you were little, really little, I took you to a civil rights rally?”

  Lisa frowned, trying to gauge where this was going.

  “It was in Fort Worth. There was a shooting?”

  “Do you mean the rally where that civil rights leader was killed?” Years ago, after her mother had brought up how upset she’d been that a man was killed so close to her daughter, Lisa had researched the event.

  “Yes, exactly. His name was Benjamin Gray.”

  Lisa caught the rise of excitement in Dad’s tone. She shifted from one leg to the next as Drew took the heavy satchel from her shoulder and motioned toward a bench near the water’s edge. Lisa followed him and leaned on the thick chain railing.

  “Didn’t the shooter get the death penalty?” she asked.

  “Yes, but he didn’t do the crime. The wrong man has spent more than four decades in prison for the Gray killing.”

  “And?” A headache was growing in her temples, and she wanted to ask what this had to do with her, with them, with his abrupt phone call out of the blue.

  “I want to right that wrong.”

  “That’s admirable of you.”

  This was not like her father at all. Special Agent James Waldren had retired with accolades from the FBI over a decade earlier. He fit the G-man role naturally. He didn’t share his feelings with anyone, he’d never go to therapy, and he wouldn’t see the point of losing sleep questioning life decisions. Yet now Lisa detected the tone of someone impassioned by a cause.

  Had he become obsessed with this case? Was he losing his mind? Words like dementia and Alzheimer’s made her pulse race.

  “It’s not admirable; it’s what should have been done long ago. And I need your help.”

  “Me? What can I do?”

  “I don’t know what you remember from that day, but the real killer couldn’t have been in the spot where they arrested Leonard Dubois—the man convicted of the shooting.

  “There were many inconsistencies and reports that never sat well with me. I have several files for you to look through, and much more here in Dallas. I know I’m dumping a lot on you at once, but we’re running out of time. In seven weeks, the wrong man is going to be executed. We ha
ve to work quickly.”

  We? Lisa didn’t know what to say. Her father obviously believed she should care. After all this time he popped into her life, not to know her better, but because of some old case from the sixties.

  She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d called him at Christmas. There were no inquiries about her son, his grandson. No sharing of pictures or telling stories of John going off to England, or how she’d slept in his room the first week or how empty the house felt without him. Nothing about her, nothing about them, nothing a father and daughter might usually share. No opportunity to mention that she’d just won one of the biggest cases in recent Boston history.

  She closed her eyes against the throbbing headache, then she remembered the time.

  “Dad, I have to hold a press conference in an hour. Can I call you when I’m home?” She couldn’t give a flat-out no to her father, even if he’d turned his back on her more times than she could count.

  “Oh yes, I heard something about your big case. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” Lisa was surprised that he knew anything about it at all.

  “Will you have some time off now? I wondered if you might come down here.”

  “Go to Texas? You’re still in Dallas, right?” It was a question for a casual acquaintance, not a father.

  “Of course. If you could see all this evidence and these pictures, and the letter Leonard Dubois wrote me from prison.”

  “I have a vacation sort of in the process.”

  Drew raised his eyebrows at her semi-lie.

  “Well, I’m sure you deserve it. I can try mailing you copies of the snapshots I took at the parade. Maybe you’ll remember something. But it’d be best if you came here.”

  “Why don’t you e-mail or text them to me.”

  “I can’t do all that stuff. Just call me back as soon as you can. There’s a lot at stake here.”

  “Okay, Dad.” Lisa would hear him out; she’d give him that at least.

  She hung up the phone and stared across the water. The catamaran had sailed beyond view.

  “He wants me to go to Dallas.”

  “You should consider it.” Drew motioned for them to walk. He kept her satchel on his shoulder as he led the way toward the quaint cafés and shops across the bridge. A historic fishing vessel knocked against the dock and strained its mooring lines.

  Lisa couldn’t enjoy the walk as she normally would. She might have known Drew would side with any chance of her reconnecting with her father. In their eight years as friends, Drew had never met him. He’d met her mother and stepfather on numerous occasions, and Lisa knew Drew’s family well. But Dad had never visited her in Boston, not once, while Lisa’s career and single parenting had kept her from returning to Texas. When her son was young, she’d tried developing a relationship between her father and her fatherless son. But Dad had never particularly enjoyed children, and she eventually gave up.

  Now Dad called, acting as if he regularly phoned for a friendly father-daughter chat and that it wasn’t outside of normal to request her help on an old case.

  Why was this case so important to him?

  “There is absolutely no way I’m going to Dallas.”

  Drew didn’t look toward her as they walked.

  “I think that you will.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jefferson City, Missouri

  Stanley Blackstone had the sudden urge for a cigar and a stiff drink, a desire that surprised him considering it was 10:00 a.m. and he rarely imbibed anymore.

  A crowd of a hundred had gathered before a small stage at the outside entrance of the Jefferson City Mall. Stanley stood on the fringe with his arms crossed at his chest, carefully studying each person and scanning the surroundings, including the roof and the bushes along the entrance to the mall.

  Above the platform a banner flapped in the morning breeze, surrounded by red, white, and blue balloons that bobbed and twisted against the clear May sky. The banner read:

  HOPE IN ACTION!

  HUBERT FOR SENATE

  A podium and microphone awaited the keynote guest, Gwendolyn Hubert, though Stanley hadn’t seen her arrive yet. She was probably in some private office or closed-off area inside the mall. He needed to leave before she appeared. Gwen had made it clear that the distance between them should remain, but Stanley needed to know she was safe. The world was darker than Gwen understood, with her idealistic views. She believed she could make a difference by running for political office, that the world was still worth fighting for.

  Someone bumped into him from behind, and he whipped around to confront the offender. A thirtysomething man turned in unison, a baby attached to his chest.

  “Excuse me,” the man said lightheartedly until he saw Stanley’s size and fierce expression. Stanley knew his glare and burly stature were an imposing combination. He’d learned to use them to his advantage.

  “Sorry, man,” the guy muttered and quickly herded his wife and children away. Not the best way to win supporters for Gwen’s campaign, Stanley mused with only slight remorse.

  He read the banner again. Gwen had changed her name to her stepfather’s before she even entered high school. He deserved that, he supposed. But it didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Stanley saw a bearded man in a black trench coat move in close to the stage with his hands in his pockets. He seemed to be staring at the empty podium. Before Stanley could move forward, he saw Lancaster, his hired bodyguard, thread his way through the crowd toward the man without appearing at all suspicious—unlike Stanley, who had scared off a man carrying a baby.

  At that moment a businessman-type guy raced up the stairs to the podium and tapped the microphone. Stanley knew he should be leaving now, but he moved through the crowd to watch Lancaster and the man by the podium.

  “Is this on? Oh, it is, great,” the guy said into the microphone.

  Lancaster intercepted the bearded man as the announcer welcomed the crowd and explained who he was—some local city councilman or something. Stanley mostly tuned him out as he watched Lancaster escort the bearded man away from the stage and through the crowd. The man protested until Lancaster leaned in closer. Whatever he said or did was enough for a sudden exit without further objection.

  Stanley smiled. He’d hired the right man.

  “Today I’m pleased to introduce you to a woman I greatly admire. Gwendolyn Hubert is the quintessential …”

  At the sound of her name, Stanley felt his hands begin to sweat. He had faced many imposing foes in his day. He’d killed men with his bare hands. But only this five-foot-seven, 115-pound woman could make his palms sweat like this.

  She walked from the closest building near the stage and toward the back of the podium with several people beside her, probably her campaign manager and assistant. He didn’t know the others, but Lancaster would report back to him.

  A last glance at the bodyguard assured him that everything was fine here. His daughter was safe even if she didn’t want his help.

  “Gwendolyn’s Missouri roots run deep,” the announcer said.

  Blackstone scoffed. She’d been born in Louisiana on the plantation that had been in the Blackstone family for generations. Her mother and stepfather may have raised Gwen in Missouri, but her roots were Deep South.

  “Gwendolyn attended the University of Missouri where she joined Kappa Alpha Theta sorority. She placed second at nationals for diving during college, was the president of …”

  Stanley knew all of this, though he hadn’t attended many of Gwen’s important events, like graduations or birthdays. For years he’d been too busy; then, when he wanted to be there, his ex-wife asked him to stay away. Now it was Gwen who did the asking.

  “When Gwendolyn Hubert sets her mind to do something great, she accomplishes it. She’s ready to take on Washington next. Let’s welcome the next senator from Missouri … Gwendolyn Hubert!”

  Stanley couldn’t keep his eyes off his daughter as she made her way up the stage to the hear
ty applause on the ground around him. She walked with confidence and welcomed the crowd with an air that exuded capability, power, and warmth. Stanley hadn’t come up with this description; he’d read it in one of the many publications that had been tracking Gwendolyn’s political rise for the past few years. But now she was running for US Senate. Someday his only child might just sit in the Oval Office. She may have changed her name from Blackstone to Hubert, but she was his daughter and he was proud of her. Even after all these years, he remembered what it felt like to hold her against his shoulder when she slept and how she used to cry when he left. Even if she was conflicted about his role in her life and the danger he posed to her political career, they were father and daughter. Time didn’t change that. Nothing could.

  Leave now, he told himself.

  But something kept him planted there.

  A couple beside him talked loudly as Gwen spoke about opening avenues for small businesses. Before he decided between leaving, staying, or slamming his fist into the man’s stomach, Gwen’s and Stanley’s eyes connected.

  For less than a millisecond her voice caught, then she recovered and moved through her points on how to make that happen. But even from the distance between them, Stanley could see the red flush rising from her chest up her neck, just as it had whenever she was upset as a child.

  The one skeleton in her closet was standing in the audience. Stanley understood how detrimental he could be to his daughter’s political career. Her campaign manager might spin it that they were estranged, but he was still her father, and his past had become a liability.

  While most viewed him as an heir to success who had built an even bigger empire through real estate and imports, Stanley was plagued with rumors of corruption, illegal activities, and shadowy actions against civil rights groups. It hadn’t hurt him, but it could harm his daughter’s run for office. She had a proud Southern heritage that went back to Confederate officers and slave owners. She’d never been proud of it herself, at least not yet.

  Stanley saw a TV news cameraman move closer toward the stage with a reporter beside him. That moved his feet away.

  He’d come to Missouri to talk to her. She’d been out of the state until early this morning and had let him know through some assistant that she had a full schedule.