I lift the cell phone and punch in the number of my Houston office, which occupies nine hundred square feet of our house. At least it did until I instructed my assistant to store my furniture and sell the place.

“Penn Cage’s office,” says Cilla Daniels.

Relief floods through me. “I’m glad to know I still have one.”

She laughs. “I let the movers take everything but the office furniture and equipment.”

“Good instinct. Leave it all set up for now.” I swing the Maxima into the left lane and goose it around a pulpwood truck.

“What about the Hanratty execution?” Cilla asks. “Mrs. Givens called this morning. She’s decided to witness the execution without her husband, and she wants you there.”

“Any last-minute filings? Likely stays?”

“The usual desperation tactics, but they won’t stop it this time. And George W. Bush isn’t about to grant a pardon. Midnight tomorrow night, Hanratty gets the needle.”

“Damn. Tell Mrs. Givens . . . tell her I don’t know yet whether I can make it.”

“Please try, Penn. That woman needs you. You walked her family through the whole trial.”

“Message received. Listen, do you remember Peter Lutjens?”

“Sure. The FBI analyst who helped on Presumption of Guilt.”

“I need his phone number at the Bureau.”

“Hang on. . . . I think the FBI switchboard is the best I can do on Lutjens.”

“That’ll do.” I scrawl the number on my wrist. “Thanks, Cil. I’ve got to go.”

“Not so fast. What are you up to? Have you resurrected the manuscript?”

“Just some research.”

“That’s what you always say when you’re on to something.”

“Bye, Cil.”

I hang up, dial the Hoover Building, and ask for Peter Lutjens, giving my name as Special Agent Jim Gates. During my time with the D.A.’s office, I became friends with several Houston-based field agents, one of whom was Jim Gates. Most of those friends are now stationed around the country and globe, and occasionally prove excellent sources for my books, despite a standing order from FBI Director Portman to give me no assistance. Peter Lutjens is better at research and analysis than chasing bank robbers, and because the FBI knows this as well as I do, they keep him buried in the massive archive of past Bureau case files.

“Gates?” asks a surprised voice. “What are you doing in Mississippi?”

Lutjens is obviously looking at some sort of caller-ID readout. “This isn’t Jim Gates, Peter. It’s Penn Cage.”

“Penn Cage? Jesus, you’ve got some nerve. What kind of trouble do you want to get me into now?”

“Did I get you into trouble before?”

“Well . . . the acknowledgment in your book made me semi-famous up here. And the new director is no fan of yours, as you well know.”

“The new director’s an asshole, Peter, as you well know.”

“No comment. What’s going on?”