Deadline

“No you don’t.”

“The DNA says he was.”

“It isn’t foolproof.”

“As good as.”

“All right, even if he was their kid—”

“Aren’t you curious to know what happened to him after Golden Branch, where he’s been?”

“Not in the least.”

“I don’t believe that.?

??

“Believe it. What good would digging into it—”

“I thought you’d want to.”

“I don’t.”

“Then do it for me.”

“Why? He’s dead. End of story.”

“It could be the biggest story of your career.”

“It’s certainly the biggest of yours!”

Simultaneously, they realized they’d been shouting. Headly glanced toward the door as though expecting to see his wife there, coming to check on the commotion. Dawson brought his voice down to a more reasonable level. “If you want to know the rest of the story, why don’t you go to the trial in Savannah?”

“Because Eva would divorce me,” he grumbled. “Besides, like I told you, I’m as good as out of the Bureau. If I went meddling down there, I’d look pathetic. Like a hanger-on who doesn’t know when his time is up.”

Dawson ran his fingers through his hair and released a sigh of agitation. He loved Headly. He knew how badly his godfather wanted closure on the defining incident of his career. But he was asking too much. Dawson was exhausted and disheartened by his experiences overseas. Even on his good days, his nerves felt raw and exposed. The last thing he needed was additional aggravation, like dredging up this unfinished saga. What possible good could come of it? Whether or not Jeremy Wesson was Carl and Flora’s child, it didn’t make one iota of difference.

Quietly he said, “I’m sorry. Even if there was no Harriet in my life sending me someplace else on another assignment, I wouldn’t go to Savannah. Your pal Knutz is right. Some things should be left alone.”

Headly gave him a searching look, then his shoulders slumped with acceptance of Dawson’s mind being firmly made up. He tossed back the remainder of his drink and said no more about it. Shortly after that, Eva extended Dawson an invitation to stay for dinner. He declined, using as his excuse the need to pack for his trip to Idaho. Keeping eye contact with them to a minimum, he beat a hasty retreat.

He was leaking anxious sweat by the time he got into his car. At the first traffic light, he took another pill, washing it down with the lukewarm water left in the bottle. Rush-hour traffic out of DC into Virginia didn’t improve his mood, making him really on edge by the time he let himself into his Alexandria apartment.

He was tugging off his boots when his cell phone chirped, alerting him to a text message. It was from Headly: There’s a clincher.

He knew he was being baited, but curiosity won out over his better judgment. He texted back. What’s the clincher?

The reply was quick in coming. J Wesson only presumed dead. Body never found.

Chapter 2

Mr. Jackson, are you ready to call your next witness?”

The assistant DA stood. “I am, Your Honor. I call Amelia Nolan.”

Like the other spectators, Dawson turned as a bailiff opened the double doors at the back of the courtroom and motioned in the former Mrs. Jeremy Wesson.

Today was the third day of the trial. The first witness this morning had been a veterinarian, a Dr. Somebody—Dawson had his name in his notes for referral if needed—who had droned on forever about the digestive processes of dogs, specifically pit bulls.