He had a long, angular face with a square, solid jaw. Beneath steel-gray hair, his eyes were steady but gave absolutely nothing away. He didn’t take off his dark jacket as he sat there, his long hands folded on top of his thighs.
“Ask your questions,” he said.
She cleared her throat nervously before asking, “What do I call you? Can I know your name?”
“You can call me Lee.”
“Lee what?” she challenged. “Mr. Lee?”
“Just Lee.” His firm tone told her not to push it.
His resistance to revealing his name after all this time made her angry. And anger gave her strength.
“Fine then. Lee,” she said, coolly, “do you know why the government is protecting Martin Dowell?”
His answer came without hesitation. “As you’ve no doubt suspected, he’s agreed to cooperate with them on their investigation of the group known as the Southern Mafia. He’s given them enough information to convince them he’s got more to share. And they are foolish enough to trust him.” His tone was contemptuous.
“Why would they believe him?” she asked, bewildered. “He just got out of prison for murder.”
“In my experience, everyone underestimates Martin Dowell. They want to believe he’s another redneck drug dealer. They all went to West Point or the University of Georgia, and got shiny criminal-justice degrees. No shitkicker’s going to play them. And then he plays them.” He flexed his hands against his knees. “I’ve seen it over and over again.”
He spoke easily, as if he’d anticipated every question she would ask, but the venom in his voice when he talked about Dowell made her tend to believe him. It’s hard to fake hate.
“You know where he is, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said. “And no, I will not tell you.” He looked at her, eyes steady. “My goal is to keep you alive.”
She searched his face. “How do you know all of this? Are you a cop?”
For the first time he hesitated, as if deciding how much to tell her. “My interest in Martin Dowell’s case goes back as far as yours.”
This was the opening she’d been waiting for. She leaned forward. “How did you know my parents? Will you tell me that much, at least?”
He paused. “I’ll tell you what I can. But could I trouble you first for a cup of coffee? It’s been a hell of a long day.”
She wondered if this was some sort of ploy and the minute her back was turned he’d kill her. But as he’d said earlier, if he wanted to hurt her, he’d had his chance. And there was a weariness in the set of his shoulders that suggested he wasn’t lying.
“No problem.” She stood and headed for the kitchen.
“I take it black,” he said.
She glanced over her shoulder. “So do I.”
In the tiny kitchen she quickly filled the machine, twisting around periodically to look at him through the open doorway and make sure he wasn’t following her. But he never moved.
She was just finishing when he began talking.
“I first met your father when I was a law officer in Atlanta,” he said, his deep voice carrying easily across the small house. “I was assigned to investigate organized crime.”
Harper turned the machine on and stepped back into the living room, where she stood leaning against the wall as he talked.
“For more than a year I worked to build a case against the Southern Mafia. My primary target was Martin Dowell. I was sure I could prove he’d murdered at least three men, ordered the murders of more, and violated the law in more ways than I could count.”
“What happened to your case?” she asked.
“Your father happened to my case.” His voice cooled. “Your father’s an arrogant man, Miss McClain, but I’d imagine you know that.”
“I know that better than most.”
“Well, back then, as an up-and-coming criminal defense lawyer, he was worse,” he assured her. “He’d won a high-profile case defending a business executive who’d got himself in deep water when a hooker turned up dead. After that, every criminal wanted him on their side. He was good, I’ll give him that.” He shook his head. “The state attorney hated to come up against him. Law enforcement hated him, too. You’d work half a year putting a case together, and then along would come Peter McClain to rip you to shreds in front of a judge. Make you look like a fool.”
“Then he went to work for Martin Dowell,” Harper said.
“Dowell sought him out,” Lee told her. “He knew how to win anyone over and he had a lot of money. He was smart enough to understand that your father was the one person who might keep him out of jail. We were getting close by then. I imagine he could feel our breath on his back every time he moved. And your dad? Well, he saved him from justice many times.”
The frustration of those old cases gave an edge to his voice. It still stung after all these years.
“I don’t like my father,” Harper told him. “I’m sorry he’s like that.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Before Harper could reply, the coffeemaker beeped. Tearing herself away, she poured two cups and brought the steaming mugs into the living room, handing one to him. He took it, his dark brown eyes watching her with a look she couldn’t fathom.
“Thank you,” he said.
He had an oddly formal politeness Harper had encountered before, usually from federal agents.
“You were with the FBI back then, weren’t you?”
After a brief pause, he gave a curt nod.
She settled back down across from him. “What happened with your case against Martin Dowell?”
“On that last case, we had a wire in his office. A member of his group was working for us—someone very close to him. But Dowell was too sharp. Too clever. He never talked to anybody except in code. And he constantly had his guys checking on each other. There was no trust in his organization, only suspicion. I don’t know why anyone would want to be part of that world, but those men were loyal. Except for our guy. He was the only one we could get to.” He took a long sip from his mug. “Dowell had good instincts—the best I’ve ever seen. He figured out we knew too much. And that meant someone close to him must be betraying him. Eventually, he tricked our guy: gave him false information. When we showed up ready to make the bust, Dowell was innocently watching TV. And now he knew what was going on.” His shoulders sagged at the memory. “They beat him to death, our guy,” he said softly. “Stuffed his body in a barrel, and threw it in a chemical-waste dump.” He gave a slow headshake before continuing, “He went too far that time. With the wire evidence, we had motive, and that was enough to charge him.”
“That was the murder where my dad defended him,” Harper guessed.
Lee nodded. “That trial was something else. Your father fought like a tiger. Dowell had invented an ironclad alibi with the help of someone who wasn’t even part of his organization but who was willing to perjure himself. We were done. We had no physical evidence. No DNA. No prints. All we had was one hell of a motive and Dowell and three of his lieutenants at the scene. Only with this false witness, suddenly we didn’t have Dowell there. Instead, he was in a house in the suburbs, having dinner with a friend. The case was over.”