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  Rosalyn was silent for a moment. “Yes, I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

  “And be careful driving home. There was an accident pretty close to the house,” James said.

  “So you believe me now … that the roads are dangerous out there?” she said. James knew she understood perfectly.

  “I should never doubt you.”

  “You know, most women wouldn’t find it at all romantic to have work suddenly ruining the moment.”

  “Did I ruin the moment?”

  “Of course not. It makes it even more romantic to me.”

  James laughed loudly. “Of course. I am a lucky man.”

  “You’re trying to get lucky,” she said, laughing with him. “And it’s working. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”

  James hung up the phone and shook his head at himself. Special Agent James Waldren searching for candles, chilling champagne, and shamelessly flirting with a younger woman? His buddies would fall off their chairs laughing. And yet the thought of that car parked across the street brought an old fear creeping over him. He was getting too close to Rosalyn. And his daughter was back in his life, even if only for four days or so. No one was in danger when he kept those he loved at arm’s length.

  He reached into a high cabinet over the stove and pulled down a pistol and box of bullets. After loading the gun, he opened a drawer in a more strategic location close to the kitchen entrance. Two long candles rolled toward him.

  James pulled out the candles and placed the gun inside. This could all be a chance to finally get things right—or an enormous mistake.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I have an appointment with Detective Newcomb. I’m Lisa Waldren,” Lisa said to the woman at the intake desk. From her wallet, she pulled out her “Fed Creds” and slid the ID badge through an opening at the bottom of the wall of bulletproof glass that separated them.

  The receptionist looked at the federal badge, then up to Lisa and raised a penciled eyebrow.

  “I’ll let him know. You can wait there,” she said as she slid the badge back through the slot with a red fingernail.

  Lisa sat two seats down from a woman holding an ice pack against her forehead and talking in rapid Spanish into her cell phone. Lisa opened her satchel and pulled out her iPad to check her e-mail while she waited.

  A moment later an older man in a white shirt and black tie opened a door to the side of the room.

  “You must be Miss Waldren,” the detective said with a wide grin. “Come on back to my desk. This is quite a pleasure.”

  “Thank you,” Lisa said, following him inside and choosing to ignore the “Miss Waldren.” She’d worn a skirt and jacket for this meeting, and her heels joined in the cacophony of voices and sounds along the tile hallway that appeared to be the main vein into the station. The detective turned at the elevator and motioned her inside.

  “I did a little search on you after we talked this morning. Congratulations on that Radcliffe trial. They’ve got your picture and name all over the Internet.” Newcomb pushed the button for the third floor.

  “It was a relief to win. He hurt a lot of people. And my search on you showed an impressive record of arrests,” Lisa said with a touch of her old Texas accent leaking through.

  “I do what I can. Surprised me, though—such a pretty thing like you being a federal prosecutor?”

  Lisa shrugged and smiled as if this too were a compliment. “I am, and enjoy my job.”

  “Cold up there in Boston, but great seafood. My brother lived there for a time, but it was too wet and dreary for me. Not enough open spaces.”

  “It’s different from Texas, that’s for sure.”

  The elevator doors opened, and Lisa followed his lead down the hall.

  “I bet you miss living here with those awful Boston accents and bad manners. No hospitality to be found in cold New England.”

  They walked past a row of small rooms with windows exposing interiors that held only a table and chairs. Inside one, an interrogation appeared to be in progress.

  “I miss some things out here,” she said and hoped he didn’t ask her what those things were. She’d made a home in Boston, and Dallas seemed so long ago and with enough bad memories to make it hard to remember the best parts.

  Newcomb entered a large room packed with desks and people.

  “Right over here,” he said, motioning to a desk by a large window. Lisa caught him looking her up and down as she pulled up the chair by his desk. He then grinned at another detective a desk over.

  “Now what’s this all about again? You’re helping your father out on a book he’s writing? He’s former FBI, you say?”

  “My father is retired now. He was assigned the Dallas/Fort Worth region in the sixties. In his retirement he’s going over old cases, putting together his memories. It’s kind of a pet project. With the Radcliffe case over, I came out for a visit and got recruited to help with some research. It might make a memoir, I’m not sure.” Lisa didn’t want to use Rosalyn’s idea, but it was a good excuse to poke around for answers. The truth was, her father could write a great memoir, and maybe he would when this was over.

  “Everybody seems to be self-publishing these days. But the sixties were tough times, especially ’round here.”

  “I’m sure. But my father has a pretty interesting past, with his investigations after the JFK assassination.”

  “Ah, yes, that. Was he on duty that day?” Newcomb drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “No, he was moved here immediately after and did a lot of interviewing around Oswald, his wife and friends. Things like that.”

  “So what are you looking for specifically? I think the JFK thing has been done and overdone. And of course that was Dallas, and this is Fort Worth.”

  “My father is missing information on an event that happened a little over a year later. But he needs to fill in some holes. He gave me these old photos.” Lisa pulled the parade snapshots from her satchel and pointed to herself in the photograph. “That’s me.”

  “Cute, and I wouldn’t have mistaken you for the other,” Newcomb said with a loud chuckle.

  “This was a civil rights march here in Fort Worth. These pictures were taken right before a man was gunned down about ten yards away. Dad has a lot of information about other events and investigations in the sixties, but not this one. You guys had jurisdiction, so I hoped you might help me dig up a little more for him.” Lisa smiled graciously, hoping a little Southern charm and asking for assistance might stir his sense of chivalry.

  “The shooting was here in Fort Worth?” Detective Newcomb pulled the photographs closer.

  “Yes, in April of 1965. I know that’s way before your time,” Lisa said. “But if there are any old case files?”

  “Yeah, I joined in the late seventies. But there are a lot of local retired PDs still around. Not sure if any would remember this case, though.”

  “Where are old crime reports stored?”

  “We keep our archives right here. And you’re sure it was this station that responded and did the investigating?”

  “Yes. I believe it was under Sergeant Ross’s command. Would it be possible for me to get a copy of the report? And if you have names of anyone who might talk to me … I’m not in town long, but I’d really like to do what I can for Daddy.” Lisa never used the word Daddy in reference to her father, but the subtle damsel-in-need act seemed to be working.

  “I can’t see why not. Even though this is personal, not criminal, I’m always happy to help out a fellow servant of the law. Especially a female one.” He winked.

  “I would really appreciate it,” Lisa said, grinding her back teeth together. Newcomb would never get away with treating her this way if they were on a real investigation, or not in the South.

  “With that smile, how could I refuse?” he said.

  Lisa heard a low chuckle from the detective a desk over.

  Newcomb escorted Lisa back to the elevator and down to the basement while
telling her about a recent murder investigation he’d solved.

  “Hey, Gertz, I’ve brought you some company,” Newcomb called out. He punched in a code to unlock the security gate and strode up to a young man who appeared attached to the computer on his desk.

  When Gertz saw Lisa, his face turned bright red and he fumbled with his round Harry Potter–style glasses.

  “She’s a federal prosecutor up in Boston,” Newcomb said as if she were the first female president.

  “Hello, nice to meet you,” Gertz said, stammering. “I don’t get many visitors down this way.” He hopped up and smoothed his tie, smearing a yellow streak down the front. A hot dog sat half eaten beside the computer on the desk.

  “We keep Gertz locked down here to make sure the computer network keeps running and to protect and catalog our archives.” Newcomb spoke about the other man with all the respect of a high school athlete’s admiration of the class nerd.

  He gave Gertz an abbreviated version of Lisa’s mission, ending with the request for old case files.

  “That should be easy,” Gertz said. He rubbed the top of his computer screen as if it possessed a genie. “About two years ago we went through and cataloged everything. We created key words to make searches easy. We’ve had several cold cases solved because of it. For example, if I put the details of a murder into the database, then if we have a killing with similar clues, the computer will pick that up and might lead us to the killer. We solved a serial rapist and a string of B and Es that way.”

  Detective Newcomb’s phone at his waistband buzzed. After a quick look at the screen, he said, “Unfortunately I must leave you in the hands of Gertz here. I’m needed upstairs.”

  “I appreciate all the help,” Lisa said.

  “And if I can assist you further, Miss Waldren, we can meet for a drink after my shift.” Newcomb smiled and set a business card on the desk. He grabbed a pen and wrote an additional number on the back.

  “My cell number,” he said, and raised his eyebrows.

  “Thank you, I appreciate it,” she said as if innocent of his motives. It wouldn’t hurt to keep the detective as a future reference, but Lisa saw much more potential in Gertz.

  Newcomb disappeared down the hall, and Lisa took a chair by Gertz’s desk. “Your database system sounds extensive. Is it linked with other agencies?”

  “It certainly is. We’ve cataloged back into the early 1900s, and we’re linked into a national database. Just give me some words or names, and I’ll show you.”

  “How about Benjamin Gray? And my father, James Waldren?”

  “Do you have a year to narrow the search?” Gertz said with his fingers on the keyboard.

  “Nineteen sixty-five, and the surrounding years.” Lisa wanted to peer around and see the screen, but she kept herself seated in the chair to the side of the desk.

  “Got some hits,” Gertz said, leaning forward to peer closer.

  “What did you find?” Lisa said, trying not to leap up and see for herself.

  “We have one report that includes all three of those words—the two names and the year. Then several other reports with one of those names.”

  “Can I see the reports? Or do I need some kind of clearance?”

  “Federal prosecutor, I think we can stretch the rules for you.”

  Lisa could feel her heart rate increase as it did whenever she was on the cusp of a breakthrough.

  “We have other files that include Benjamin Gray. From 1964, not 1965.”

  Lisa wondered why the Fort Worth police would have something on Gray before the civil rights march.

  “I’ll take any info you have. What about Leonard Dubois?”

  Gertz typed again. “Yep. Here’s a closed case, solved April 1965.”

  “That’s when Gray was killed. Dubois was convicted. Can you print me out the police report on that?”

  “Sure can.” Gertz leaned close to the screen again. “There’s another closed case as well.”

  “For Leonard Dubois?”

  “Yes, but the file itself is missing from what I can tell. There are no pages included.”

  Lisa wondered if her father knew Leonard Dubois had been attached to another criminal case.

  “Does it say anything about the crime?”

  “Nope. When we entered the files into the database, we had numerous old cases where the cover sheets were around but the rest of the file was missing. We entered the information we had to keep a record, but there wasn’t much data to attach to them. I debated including the cover sheets at all but figured it was better than nothing.”

  Lisa had encountered the disappearance of police files before due to negligence, and it often smelled of deception.

  “Where are the originals? The actual cover sheets and all the other case files.”

  “Buried around here, but I can get them. I’ll need more time. A few days maybe. We scanned everything paper in each case file and photographed nonpaper evidence.”

  “Copies of what you found would be perfect for now. If it’s not enough, I’ll come back and check out the originals.”

  Gertz tapped at the keys until the hum of a large printer started. He crossed his small hands on his stomach as the printing began.

  “You know, Newcomb might not be the best detective to work with if you need some help. He’s okay, but a tad shady, if you ask me. I can tell you the good men and women who might help you more … like Ole Sweeney. He knows everything about this place—the good and the bad.”

  “He’s a detective?” Lisa asked, jotting down the name into her iPad.

  “Oh no, not Sweeney. He worked archives for more decades than I’ve been alive. We worked together awhile down here, but the new computer system was his final straw in going into retirement.”

  “How could he help me?” Lisa asked.

  “He was a walking encyclopedia … but he’s one of those conspiracy theory–type guys. He’d tell me stories about several of the cops who’d left before I came, and boy, those were some stories. Lots of sixties and seventies stuff. Weren’t for his pension, he would’ve left years earlier. If upstairs had known what he really thought of them, he’d have been canned long ago.” Gertz chuckled.

  “He sounds interesting.”

  “I’ll have to call him. He doesn’t have e-mail or a phone for text messages. But I’m sure he’d talk to you. He loves to talk, that Sweeney.”

  “I really appreciate all of this,” Lisa said with a grateful smile. Sometimes her investigations were like this, a line of bread crumbs she followed till something or someone valuable came along.

  Gertz’s eyes jumped to her. “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He pushed back from his chair and hurried to the large printer spitting out papers.

  “Guess somebody upstairs doesn’t like these searches, or else the news of you being here made it to the wrong person. They’re asking me to send you back up and to suspend any archive digging.” He grabbed a large pile of papers from the printer and dropped it onto the desk. “I’ll say you already left.”

  “Thank you, and please have Sweeney call me.” She set her card on the desk beside Newcomb’s.

  “Take the stairs. You’ll come out at the parking lot. Send a thank you note to Newcomb to make it look like you didn’t get anything. It’ll all quiet down.”

  “I’ll do it. I really appreciate this.” Lisa picked up the warm pile of papers and her satchel.

  “It gets boring down here. I haven’t had this much excitement in months.” Gertz glanced at his computer again. “But you better hurry.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Stanley leaned back in his office chair, swiveling to catch the view of the wide Atlantic blue before returning his attention to the other man in the room.

  Miami’s finest, Detective Martin, perused the shelves on his office wall, then studied the spear gun and the mounted sawfish hanging overhead. The detective wore a sports coat a size too large and baggy slacks.
Perhaps he’d recently lost weight, Stanley mused.

  “Did you and Augustus Arroyo ever go out in your boat? Or should I call it a yacht?” the detective said, leaning close to inspect photographs of Stanley’s favorite fishing trips. He remained at the newest one, placed there just that morning—a photograph of Stanley holding a five-foot barracuda.

  “Arroyo and I weren’t friends. And I haven’t seen him in several months, as I already stated.” Stanley stretched his arms behind his head.

  “Yes, at a charity event for the Miami Art Museum. Witnesses say that you reached out to shake hands, but he refused. His wife threw her drink in your face, isn’t that correct?” Detective Martin turned from the wall and moved around the room with an occasional glance in Stanley’s direction.

  “It wasn’t the first drink I’ve had thrown in my face. She also slapped me—also not the first,” Stanley said. He chuckled, recalling the look on Candace Arroyo’s face. “I called her by the name of Arroyo’s mistress. That bought the drink. Then I asked why he hadn’t brought Natasha. She is much more fun than Mrs. Arroyo. That landed the slap.”

  “You knew Arroyo’s mistress, Natasha Marquez?” The detective sounded as if this were new information to him. The guy was crafty.

  “I make it my business to know as many people as possible.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “I don’t know her well, and why are you referring to her in the past tense?” Stanley leaned forward as if suddenly engaged. He knew Natasha was dead, of course. He’d watched the ice cooler with her body disappear beneath the sea beside Arroyo’s own plastic coffin.

  “We believe Natasha may be deceased.”

  Stanley frowned and stared at his hands. “This is disturbing news. What happened?”

  “Your company will profit greatly if Arroyo is out of the picture. The bid for the Hacienda Highland development and shopping center was down to the choice between you two, among other projects.”