“He shouldn’t, but a DA can do pretty much anything he likes in that room. It’s a one-man show. A Natchez grand jury would have been damned reluctant to indict a respected physician for murder. To sway them, Shad probably had to play at least one ace from his sleeve.”

Caitlin paces across the room, tapping the groove between her upper lip and nose. This habit, a stagy gesture she makes when thinking purposefully, is so distinctive that I actually looked up the anatomy one day. That groove is called the philtrum.

“Do you have any pictures of Luther Davis’s bones?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In a safe place. Patience, please.”

Her eyes flash with anticipation. “Where?”

I look down at my hands for a few seconds, then meet her gaze again.

“Not here.” I touch the page button on my desk phone. “Rose, please find Quentin Avery’s home number for me.”

“Washington, D.C., or Jefferson County?”

“I’ve been trying both his cell and his D.C. number without any luck. Try his Jefferson County place.”

“Tom doesn’t want to hire Quentin?” Caitlin asks, as I mute the intercom.

“Not yet. But we can’t wait for reality to sink in. You said it: this is war. Shad needs to be reminded that actions have consequences, and that we’re not without resources.” Opening my desk drawer, I lift out a Baggie that contains a small USB flash drive and press my intercom again. “Rose, get me Shad Johnson, too, please.”

“Will do. Just a sec.”

“Are you going to hit him with the photo now?” Caitlin asks.

I nod once, my jaw tightening.

“God, I wish I could go with you.” She sits on my desk and touches my wrist. “Tell me one thing. Are we going to treat this case like every other? In terms of the wall we keep between our jobs?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“With your father’s life at stake? No way. But I suppose we might need to keep some things compartmentalized. I guess we can negotiate each development as it comes up.”

I look hard into her eyes. “I made Henry a promise.”

She smiles. “You won’t have to keep it long. He’ll be working for me by tonight.” She looks pointedly at her watch, then slides off my desk. “I need to get back to the paper.”

“You’re going to wait until you hear from Henry before you publish anything, right?” I’m thinking of the Web edition. “Even online?”

While Caitlin glares, my intercom clicks. “Shad Johnson on One, Mayor.”

With a quick surge of adrenaline, I put Shad on the speakerphone.

“I’m accepting your earlier invitation,” I tell him. “I need a couple of minutes of your time.”

“You’ll have to wait forty-five minutes. I’ve got somebody coming in.”

“Not a campaign consultant, I hope?”