Jordan’s understanding smile both noted and forgave the lie. “I came by to talk to you,” she said. “Have you got a minute?”

Caitlin didn’t, but she backed up and motioned for Glass to enter her office.

Jordan shook her head, then pulled her close. “Not in there,” she whispered. “Let’s go to the ladies’ room.”

It took Caitlin only seconds to realize what was worrying Jordan. Nodding once, she followed the photographer down the hall and into the female employees’ restroom. It held two stalls, two sinks, a tampon machine, and nothing else.

“Is my office bugged?” Caitlin asked.

“I don’t know. It could be.”

“FBI?”

“I really don’t know.”

“But you’re obviously worried.”

Jordan anxiously ran her hands through her hair. She was clearly conflicted about something, and Caitlin guessed it had to do with her husband.

“Last night I asked if you ever hold things back from John. You said you did.”

Glass nodded. “Of course. And he does the same. More than I suspected, I’m afraid.”

Caitlin saw pain in the older woman’s face. “Can you be more specific?”

“Not without damaging things I still care about.” Jordan turned on the cold water tap and let it run. “But I’ll say this . . . one of the downers in life is finding out that people you thought you knew well can always surprise you, and not in a positive way.”

A worm of anxiety was turning in Caitlin’s stomach. Jordan Glass wasn’t the type to worry about trivialities. “You’re positive you can’t talk about it?”

“There are things I can’t say. I don’t want you to think John isn’t on your side, because he is. But he takes this case—or cases, plural—very seriously, and he’s not about to give up any advantage he might be able to get over the Knoxes.”

“I wouldn’t either. Is that what you came to tell me?”

Jordan swallowed and looked at the floor. “No. Do you know where Penn is now?”

Caitlin looked at her watch. “Probably meeting your husband and Dwight Stone.”

Jordan looked up sharply. “So he told you about that?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“What did he say they were meeting about?”

“He said Dwight has some conspiracy theory about the Kennedy assassination. Penn didn’t know if John is humoring Dwight because he’s ill, or if John believes the same theory.”

Jordan nodded slowly. “That’s not exactly the truth.”

Caitlin thought about Henry Sexton’s letter to her, and Kaiser’s theory about Carlos Marcello and JFK. “What is?”

“Dwight Stone is part of a group of retired agents who work cold cases. Major cases. Jimmy Hoffa, JFK, like that. Something they learned in the last two days has convinced them that the Double Eagles here were involved in the Kennedy assassination. I don’t know many specifics, but they seem to think the whole plot was run out of New Orleans.”

“By Carlos Marcello.”

Jordan’s eyes widened. “Did Penn tell you that?”

“Not exactly. He made it sound like a fringe theory.”

Jordan smiled with what looked like bitter resentment. “Look, you were obviously headed somewhere. Were you taking advantage of Penn and John being busy to follow whatever lead you hinted at last night at the hospital?”

Caitlin was tempted to tell the truth, but she didn’t dare—not with Tom’s life at risk. “Why have you told me this, Jordan? Are you and John having problems or something?”

The photographer shrugged. “Not exactly. Maybe I want you to have a level playing field. We’re both journalists, and I’ve been exactly where you are, only without help. I wanted you to know you need to be careful about more than your enemies. You might be an intelligence target.”

“I appreciate it. So . . . is John going to simply abandon the civil rights cases that remain unsolved?”

“No way. He’s trying to get approval for a massive search for the Bone Tree, and he’s doing overflights of the Valhalla hunting camp in the hopes of finding it empty.”

Caitlin almost gulped at the mention of the Bone Tree, but she quickly moved away from the subject. “Why would Valhalla need to be empty for him to search it?”

“It wouldn’t, for a normal search. But he wants to do what they call a sneak-and-peek search under the Patriot Act. That way Forrest Knox won’t know how much scrutiny he’s under.”

“Man. The gloves are off, aren’t they?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, what’s your plan?” Caitlin asked, glancing at her watch again and thinking of Melba and Tom.

“I haven’t got one. I spent way too long today photographing geriatrics at Glenn Morehouse’s funeral. No Double Eagles showed up, by the way. Not known ones, at least. Now I’m pretty much at loose ends. Tomorrow evening I fly to Havana to shoot Fidel Castro and his brother, but till then . . . nothing.”

Glass obviously wanted to be asked along on Caitlin’s trip, but Caitlin wasn’t ready to trust her completely. “Listen,” she said awkwardly, “what I’m about to do, I have to do on my own. But if you can get away later tonight . . . come back and see me. I do have a plan for tomorrow, and you might be able to help.”

The smile that lit Jordan’s face warmed Caitlin inside. Yesterday the photographer had talked like a burnout case, but there was no denying the excitement in her eyes.

“I’ll be here,” Jordan said, turning off the tap. “You make sure you get back safe. These are serious people you’re trying to dismember in your newspaper. Have you still got your gun?”

Caitlin nodded. “And I won’t hesitate to use it.”

“Good girl. And good luck.”

Caitlin hugged her old idol, then left the restroom and ran for the back door.

CHAPTER 32

ANNIE DUTIFULLY AWAKENS me at six o’clock, and Mom sends me on my way with a mug of coffee made in the Abramses’ 1970s-vintage percolator. Annie begs me to take her along, but I explain that I’ll be working in a place that, while not physically dangerous, is no place for an eleven-year-old girl. She isn’t happy about this, but she doesn’t try to guilt-trip me over leaving.

Night has fallen as I approach the Mississippi River. An hour ago, the sun’s last rays bled red and orange into the clouds over the westward-flowing bend south of town. It’s too late now to show Caitlin Edelweiss at sunset, as I’d planned, but before I feel too guilty, she sends me a text saying she’s tied up and won’t be able to meet me for several hours.

Dwight Stone has checked into one of the new hotels situated in the flood zone between the levee and the river on the Vidalia side. I park near the front entrance, my mind filling with memories of the two weeks in 1998 that Dwight Stone and I teamed up to break the most important case of my career. Without his selfless help, I not only wouldn’t have solved the case—I wouldn’t have lived to hear the verdict. As I walk to the door, I notice two black SUVs with FBI stenciled on the doors. One has two high-tech satellite dishes deployed on its roof. One points skyward, but the smaller one is pointed at the hotel. This reminds me of the microcassette recorder in my coat pocket. Since I have no idea how long our conversation will last, I decide to switch it on just before entering Stone’s room.

Kaiser gave me the floor and room number, so I’m surprised to find him in the lobby. He’s talking on his cell phone, but he waves and motions me over to him. “Thanks for coming,” he says, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his sport coat. “I know you didn’t want to, but it means a lot to Dwight.”

“I owe it to him.”

“That was an assistant director of the FBI on the phone. I want you to know that I’m pushing hard to get a protective custody deal for your father. That’s what that call was about.”

“And?”