“I will,” I mutter, trying not to give rein to the anger I feel at Dad’s silence earlier today. “You said the FBI found Viola in Chicago?”

“One agent questioned her. I’ve got his 302 in my files. According to him, Viola believed Jimmy and Luther had been murdered, but she offered no proof. The agent noted that she behaved like someone in shock, or perhaps even sedated by drugs. He also noted that she was pregnant.”

I lean back and consider this. “Given all you’ve told me, it’s pretty hard to believe that Viola had the nerve to come back here, even to die.”

“I think she knew she could trust your father to give her a painless death. To her, that was worth the risk of retaliation by the Eagles. It’s about as sad as anything I ever heard.”

“But she didn’t get a painless death,” I point out. “And that’s how I know my father didn’t kill her. We’ve got to explain all this to Shad, Henry.”

Henry’s skepticism is plain. “Without proof?”

“We have to get him proof. A statement from your Double Eagle source. Did you tape any of the stuff he said today?”

The reporter shakes his head. “I took good notes.”

“Christ, man. You should have taped the bastard on the sly. That may have been a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

“No. He wants to talk to me again.”

“When?”

“As soon as he can get his sister to leave the house again.”

I stand and pace around the table, trying to control my anxiety. What I would give to be a prosecutor again, with subpoena power. A suffocating sense of foreboding has taken hold of me. “How careful were you today, Henry? Where did you interview this guy?”

“At his sister’s home. He sent her out of town on an errand. It’s a pretty isolated place. He doesn’t think the Eagles are onto him, but they’ve clearly cut him out of the loop on sensitive stuff. I think it’s going to be fine, Penn. He—”

A loud, old-fashioned ringing stops Henry in midsentence. He digs for an office phone buried under some loose papers. “That’s probably Sherry, my girlfriend. I’m way late getting home.” He lifts the black receiver to his ear. “Concordia Beacon … Oh, hey, Lou Ann.” Henry covers the mouthpiece with his hand and looks up at me. “It’s Mrs. Whittington, the lady you met when you came in.”

My mind is ranging through all Henry told me, searching for moral pressure points that might induce my father to open up to me before tomorrow.

“When?” Henry asks in a shocked voice. “Just now? … Who told you that?” He fishes a cell phone from his front pocket and checks its LCD. “I had my ringer off. Damn it!”