“Don’t bullshit me, Shad! Lincoln’s assumed paternity is what took you from assisted suicide to murder. Nothing else. Are you seriously fucking with me? Because I know exactly how to handle that.”

“No—Penn, wait.”

Gripping the wheel fiercely, I try to rein in my anger. “A man named Glenn Morehouse was murdered near Vidalia tonight. You need to look into that. He was spilling his guts to Henry Sexton, and the Double Eagle group killed him for it. The same reason they killed Viola fourteen hours earlier.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Talk to Henry Sexton.”

“I will. But meanwhile, I don’t have control over what Billy Byrd does.”

“You’re the DA. He’s the sheriff. Muzzle that son of a bitch.”

“I’ll try, but it’s not going to be easy. If anything goes down in the morning, you call me before you do anything crazy.”

“I might not have time, Shad. The Examiner has that Web edition now, and Caitlin’s always hungry for a good story.”

“Penn … please, man. I’m not doing anything that any other DA wouldn’t do.”

I slam my hand against the wheel, outraged at having to resort to blackmail. “If Sheriff Byrd goes forward with an arrest, you make damn sure he does it late enough that I can post bail immediately. Because if Dad sees the inside of a cell, you’re going to be packing your bags before lunch.”

“I hear you. But you’re assuming that the judge will grant bail.”

Fury blazes along every nerve in my body. “The only way Dad won’t get bail is if you argue that the judge should deny it! And if you do that, you know what to expect. Some pictures are worth more than a thousand words, bud. Some are worth a career and a law license.”

“I’ve told you about the political pressure. I can’t believe you’re threatening me like this.”

“Karma’s a bitch, Shad.”

This time he says nothing, and I cut the connection.

Without noticing, I’ve crossed the apex of the eastbound bridge and started descending toward the cut in the Natchez bluff. A hundred feet below the span, two floating casinos disguised as nineteenth-century steamboats glitter on the black water. A third was put out of commission eight weeks ago, in what would have been the greatest river catastrophe since the Sultana exploded in 1865, had not luck intervened. The refitted casino boat is scheduled to go back into operation eleven weeks from now, and many of our local citizens are waiting anxiously for their paychecks to resume.

As I pass through the cut, my heart pounds from my exchange with Shad. But rather than dwell on what he said, my mind turns to my session with Henry Sexton, and to action. Glancing down from the highway, I search my phone’s contacts list for Kirk Boisseau.