CHAPTER 1

PRESENT TIME

Boston, Massachusetts

Moakley Federal Courthouse

She needed air.

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

"Lisa, wait," someone called behind her as the glass rotunda entrancecame into view.

She didn't slow until she'd pushed out the glass doors into thecurved courtyard of Moakley Federal Courthouse. The scent of the seafilled her lungs and cooled her face, a welcome relief from the recycledair of the courtroom. But in her hurry to escape, Lisa had forgottenthat the press would be waiting. They recognized her as the lead federalprosecutor 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 pushedthrough the net that circled and squeezed in. Someone grabbed her arm,but as she protested, Lisa recognized a familiar face pushing around andleading her through the mob.

"That's all for now. Sorry, folks, more in a few hours," DrewHarman said with a commanding tone that brought a smile to the edgeof Lisa's lips.

"Hey, Drew, you got an exclusive with her or what?" The reportergave 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 newsmanhimself.

"I'd say thank you, but that wasn't necessary. I have plenty of experienceshoving 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 thescent from a Sicilian restaurant, teasing her grumbling stomach withvisions of homemade linguini and fresh seafood.

"Today was good news," Drew said, and Lisa realized he'd beenstudying her expression.

He was right. A bad guy was going to prison, and that should makeher feel good. But for the past three years, Lisa had spent countlesshours with the victims of the multistate extortion case. A hundredand forty-three victims had been taken by a swindler—that's whatit came down to. They were humiliated and disillusioned, but evenworse, most had lost nearly everything they had. Lisa could see thefaces and hear their stories: the Huffs had to move in with theirmarried children after losing the home they'd had for forty years;elderly Maryann Brown was scouring the job market after losing herentire life savings; Blaze Hampton survived being a POW in Vietnambut 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 thevictims.

"Yes, good news. At least it's over." Lisa tried to muster up someacceptable enthusiasm.

They walked toward the blue waters of Boston Harbor that gleamedbeneath the noonday sun. A large catamaran cut through the choppywaves, reminding Lisa of days when her husband was alive and he'dcoax her and their young son out for a day at sea. The memory no longerstung but served to soften her mood and remind her of how time passedand healed. And tonight was one of her two regular weekly video chatswith her now college-aged son from his dorm in London.

"It is actually over. That is a relief." Lisa glanced at Drew as theweight finally began to lift.

"You need to take that vacation now. Celebrate this and don't justhop on the next case. It's a huge victory. I know one thing—Radcliffethought he was getting away with this, but he didn't expect FederalProsecutor Lisa Waldren. You did good, so be proud of yourself." Drew'swhite smile beamed against the darkness of his skin.

Lisa nearly brushed away his words by saying that she'd been part ofa great team and all the usual things people were supposed to say. ButDrew knew the hours she'd put in and how determined she was to getthe last nail hammered into Radcliffe's coffin. She'd followed a papertrail after it virtually disappeared, found family members that Radcliffehad thought he'd left behind and a partner in exile he wanted dead.Without her determination fueled by the victims' stories, Radcliffewould 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. Thename on the screen stopped her.

"My father?" She held up the phone as if to confirm that her eyesweren'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 struckher as so familiar that the time since she had last seen her father disappearedin a moment. They spoke in short greetings on holidays andbirthdays, 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? Iseverything 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 aboutto receive.

"There's too much to go over right now. But do you remember whenyou 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 aman 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 fromone leg to the next as Drew took the heavy satchel from her shoulderand motioned toward a bench near the water's edge. Lisa followed himand 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 morethan four decades in prison for the Gray killing."

"And?" A headache was growing in her temples, and she wanted toask what this had to do with her, with them, with his abrupt phone callout 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 Waldrenhad retired with accolades from the FBI over a decade earlier. He fit theG-man role naturally. He didn't share his feelings with anyone, he'd nevergo to therapy, and he wouldn't see the point of losing sleep questioninglife decisions. Yet now Lisa detected the tone of someone impassionedby 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. AndI need your help."

"Me? What can I do?"

"I don't know what you remember from that day, but the real killercouldn't have been in the spot where they arrested Leonard Dubois—theman convicted of the shooting.

"There were many inconsistencies and reports that never sat wellwith me. I have several files for you to look through, and much morehere in Dallas. I know I'm dumping a lot on you at once, but we're runningout of time. In seven weeks, the wrong man is going to be executed.We have to work quickly."

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

She hadn't spoken to him since she'd called him at Christmas. Therewere no inquiries about her son, his grandson. No sharing of picturesor telling stories of John going off to England, or how she'd slept in hisroom the first week or how empty the house felt without him. Nothingabout her, nothing about them, nothing a father and daughter mightusually share. No opportunity to mention that she'd just won one of thebiggest cases in recent Boston history.

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

"Dad, I have to hold a press conference in an hour. Can I call youwhen I'm home?" She couldn't give a flat-out no to her father, even ifhe'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 itat all.

"Will you have some time off now? I wondered if you might comedown here."

"Go to Texas? You're still in Dallas, right?" It was a question for acasual acquaintance, not a father.

"Of course. If you could see all this evidence and these pictures, andthe 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 thesnapshots I took at the parade. Maybe you'll remember something. Butit'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'sa 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 catamaranhad sailed beyond view.

"He wants me to go to Dallas."

"You should consider it." Drew motioned for them to walk. He kepther satchel on his shoulder as he led the way toward the quaint cafésand shops across the bridge. A historic fishing vessel knocked againstthe dock and strained its mooring lines.

Lisa couldn't enjoy the walk as she normally would. She might haveknown Drew would side with any chance of her reconnecting with herfather. In their eight years as friends, Drew had never met him. He'dmet her mother and stepfather on numerous occasions, and Lisa knewDrew'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 toTexas. When her son was young, she'd tried developing a relationshipbetween her father and her fatherless son. But Dad had never particularlyenjoyed children, and she eventually gave up.

Now Dad called, acting as if he regularly phoned for a friendlyfather-daughter chat and that it wasn't outside of normal to request herhelp 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 2

Jefferson City, Missouri

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

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

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

HOPE IN ACTION!HUBERT FOR SENATE

A podium and microphone awaited the keynote guest, GwendolynHubert, though Stanley hadn't seen her arrive yet. She was probablyin some private office or closed-off area inside the mall. He needed toleave before she appeared. Gwen had made it clear that the distancebetween 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 aroundto confront the offender. A thirtysomething man turned in unison, ababy attached to his chest.

"Excuse me," the man said lightheartedly until he saw Stanley's sizeand fierce expression. Stanley knew his glare and burly stature were animposing combination. He'd learned to use them to his advantage.

"Sorry, man," the guy muttered and quickly herded his wife andchildren 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 herstepfather's before she even entered high school. He deserved that, hesupposed. But it didn't mean he had to like it.

Stanley saw a bearded man in a black trench coat move in close tothe stage with his hands in his pockets. He seemed to be staring at theempty podium. Before Stanley could move forward, he saw Lancaster,his hired bodyguard, thread his way through the crowd toward the manwithout appearing at all suspicious—unlike Stanley, who had scared offa man carrying a baby.

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

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

Lancaster intercepted the bearded man as the announcer welcomedthe crowd and explained who he was—some local city councilman orsomething. Stanley mostly tuned him out as he watched Lancasterescort the bearded man away from the stage and through the crowd.The man protested until Lancaster leaned in closer. Whatever he saidor 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. Hehad faced many imposing foes in his day. He'd killed men with his barehands. But only this five-foot-seven, 115-pound woman could make hispalms sweat like this.

She walked from the closest building near the stage and toward theback of the podium with several people beside her, probably her campaignmanager and assistant. He didn't know the others, but Lancasterwould report back to him.

A last glance at the bodyguard assured him that everything was finehere. 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 plantationthat had been in the Blackstone family for generations. Her mother andstepfather may have raised Gwen in Missouri, but her roots were DeepSouth.

"Gwendolyn attended the University of Missouri where she joinedKappa Alpha Theta sorority. She placed second at nationals for divingduring college, was the president of ..."

Stanley knew all of this, though he hadn't attended many of Gwen'simportant events, like graduations or birthdays. For years he'd been toobusy; then, when he wanted to be there, his ex-wife asked him to stayaway. 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 welcomethe next senator from Missouri ... Gwendolyn Hubert!"

Stanley couldn't keep his eyes off his daughter as she made herway up the stage to the hearty applause on the ground around him.She walked with confidence and welcomed the crowd with an air thatexuded capability, power, and warmth. Stanley hadn't come up withthis description; he'd read it in one of the many publications that hadbeen tracking Gwendolyn's political rise for the past few years. But nowshe was running for US Senate. Someday his only child might just sit inthe Oval Office. She may have changed her name from Blackstone toHubert, but she was his daughter and he was proud of her. Even afterall these years, he remembered what it felt like to hold her against hisshoulder when she slept and how she used to cry when he left. Even ifshe was conflicted about his role in her life and the danger he posed toher political career, they were father and daughter. Time didn't changethat. Nothing could.

Leave now, he told himself.

But something kept him planted there.

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

For less than a millisecond her voice caught, then she recovered andmoved through her points on how to make that happen. But even fromthe distance between them, Stanley could see the red flush rising fromher 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. Stanleyunderstood how detrimental he could be to his daughter's politicalcareer. Her campaign manager might spin it that they were estranged,but he was still her father, and his past had become a liability.