Brandon tended to focus on positive reviews, and those were the ones he bothered remembering. Diana had taught him to mentally deep-­six those that weren’t so kind.

He realized that part of what had made Geronimo “come to life” on the pages of Diana’s book had to do with the fact that she had spent most of her adult life living among the original settlers of the American Southwest, most particularly among the Tohono O’odham, whose traditional homeland had, since time immemorial, been the vast valley surrounding what was now metropolitan Tucson.

Brandon understood that Diana’s deft treatment of Geronimo had grown out of the presence of their son-­in-­law, Dan Pardee, in their lives. Dan’s Apache heritage and the able assistance of Dan’s grandfather, Micah Duarte, had given Diana, an Anglo, entrée into the world of Apache oral history and tradition that was accessible to only a select few. Without that, details of Geronimo’s life both before and after his surrender might have been treated as little more than footnotes by a less talented writer.

Trail’s End, along with Diana’s several other books, accounted for why she was being feted tonight at the Authors’ Dinner and for the remainder of the weekend. Brandon’s role in the festivities was that of escort and backup. Even though he was halfway across the room, he sipped his wine and kept her in view through the crush of ­people milling around her.

Brandon knew what to watch for—­the fans who stayed too long or who monopolized her time and attention, the ­people who took it upon themselves to lay a hand on her in a more personal way than a simple handshake or greeting. And if someone became too pushy and Brandon happened to miss the warning signs, Diana could always summon him from across the room by using their secret hand signal. A simple touch to her right earlobe would alert him to the fact that one of her fans was being troublesome and needed to be encouraged to go elsewhere.

“Hey, there,” someone said from the far side of one of the movable book shelves behind which Brandon had taken shelter. “How’s Mr. Diana Ladd this fine evening?”

Looking around, Brandon was dismayed to see Oliver Glassman making a beeline in his direction. Ollie Glassman was exactly the kind of person Brandon had hoped to avoid. He was a smarmy jerk who had started out as a lowly public defender before becoming the heir apparent in his father’s legal defense firm. Managing to manipulate a somewhat thin résumé as a springboard into politics, Glassman had served several terms on the Pima County Board of Supervisors, was currently a member of the state senate, and was rumored to be thinking about running for Congress.

“Matty told me you and Diana would be here tonight. I believe you two are seated at our table. Matty’s part of the committee that organizes the dinner, you know,” Ollie added.

That last bit of info was entirely unnecessary. Brandon Walker was well aware that Ollie’s wife, Matilda Glassman, was one of the movers and shakers behind Tucson’s burgeoning book festival. Diana had told him as much, and although Diana tolerated Matilda, she liked the woman almost as much as Brandon liked Ollie. If Diana had known the seating arrangements in advance, she hadn’t mentioned them to Brandon. Perhaps she had neglected to do so out of concern that he’d be a no-­show. On the other hand, it was possible that she would be as surprised and dismayed as he was.

Ollie took a long pull on his wine, draining half the glass in a single gulp. “What are you doing hanging around in the kiddy-­lit section?” he asked. “Thinking about doing some writing yourself?”

In the years Diana Ladd and Brandon Walker had been married, Brandon had done plenty of duty as Diana’s escort at book festivals and writers’ conferences all over the country. He knew the drill. He also understood some of the pitfalls of being “Mr. Diana Ladd.” He had long ago lost count of the ­people who would look at him agog and ask, “What’s it like being married to a famous person?” Another of his least favorite inquiries was a clueless “Oh, are you a writer, too?”

Ollie’s inept question was a variation on the latter. Brandon’s standard reply was usually: “Diana writes the books; I write the checks.” This time, however, an imp took control of his response mechanism.

“Yes,” Brandon answered. “I’ve even got a working title: So You Want to Be a Sheriff When You Grow Up? It’s a how-­to book for kids who are seven or eight, and it’s due to be published by a company that specializes in career guidance for grade schoolers.”

Ollie frowned and examined the small amount of wine remaining in his glass. “Sounds like a great idea. Do you think they’d want me to do one, too—­about wanting to be a defense attorney?”

It took some effort for Brandon to keep from cracking a smile. “I’m having an editorial meeting with my publisher next week,” he replied. “I’ll ask her what she thinks.”

The lights blinked overhead, signaling that it was time to head for the ballroom. Catching Matty’s eye, Ollie raised his empty glass. With a reproving look, his wife turned her back and returned to the bar.

“I don’t know why they have to be so stingy with the wine at these affairs,” Ollie muttered. “You pay a fortune to attend, and all they give you is a single drink ticket. What’s up with that? But I did want to have a word in private,” he continued. “I guess you heard about Big Bad John.”

“Big Bad John Lassiter?” Brandon asked. “I haven’t heard a word from or about him since the last judge locked him up and threw away the key. That’s a long time ago now. What’s going on?”

Matilda delivered Ollie’s wine. “We’re going in soon,” she said with a scowl. “Don’t be late.”

Ollie sighed and shook his head as she stalked away. “The old girl’s got her panties in a twist tonight,” he observed, downing another gulp of wine. It was evident that sipping the stuff wasn’t part of the man’s repertoire. “I don’t know why she insists on being involved in crap like this when it obviously drives her nuts.”

Brandon suspected that wrangling the complexities of the book festival wasn’t nearly as much of a problem for Matilda Glassman as wrangling Oliver.

“What about Lassiter?” Brandon reminded him.

“Oh, yes, that’s what I need to talk to you about,” Ollie answered, “the part about throwing away the key. Have you ever heard of a group of do-­gooders called Justice for All?”

Brandon knew a little about the organization. It was composed of ­people steadfastly devoted to freeing ­people they felt had been unjustly locked up by the criminal justice system. They utilized modern forensics, including DNA profiling, to win releases for those they believed had been wrongly accused and convicted. Brandon understood there were instances in which innocent folks had been locked up for decades. The problem was, there were also times when the JFA folks’ definition of “all” often didn’t seem to take the victims of the crimes—­either the homicide victims themselves or their grieving loved ones—­into account.

After decades of police work, Brandon’s feet remained firmly planted on the victims’ side of the fence. In retirement, he had signed on with The Last Chance. TLC consisted of a group of retired cops, criminalists, medical examiners, and district attorneys who devoted their time and energy to solving stone-­cold homicides—­the ones law enforcement had long since abandoned as hopeless. Like JFA, TLC also used modern forensics and technology to bring to account any number of bad guys who thought they’d gotten away with murder.

“Since I work for what some regard as the opposing team, I don’t pay much attention to JFA,” Brandon said, edging toward the door. “I’m a lot more concerned with closing prison doors than I am with opening them. But speaking of opposing teams, weren’t you Lassiter’s defense attorney that first time around?”