Twenty years ago, that ruthless bastard wronged my father, hurt my mother, and stole my future. He did not suffer one moment for doing that. He lived as men of his kind always have: exempt from justice, untouchable. But now, far in the distance, he has come into sight, like a buck on a high ridge line. And this time I have a weapon in my hands. That weapon is a dead man.

Del Payton.

CHAPTER 15

The district attorney’s office is in a three-story building near the courthouse, and there are open parking spaces out front. I take one, then trot up the stairs beside the brass plaque with Mackey’s name on it. There is no receptionist, only a long hall with offices on both sides and a black custodian working in a broom closet at the far end. I walk past partly open doors until I see Mackey sitting behind a desk, wearing one of those striped oxford shirts with a white collar that I always found a little too precious.

Pushing open the door, I see a heavyset woman sitting across from Mackey’s desk. “I’m sorry. I’ll wait.”

As I close the door, I hear Mackey say, “Excuse me just a moment, ma’am.” He steps into the hall, looking put upon by the unannounced visit. “What do you want, Cage?”

“I came to see if you have any files on the Del Payton murder.”

His fair-skinned face goes red, making him look like a pissed-off fraternity boy. “Do you have wax in your ears? I told you last night there was no file. I also said I’d give you no assistance unless you’re the attorney of record for a member of the Payton family.”

“Let’s say I am.”

He swallows, brought up short. “Are you or aren’t you? I checked with the bar association this morning. They told me you’re licensed to practice in Mississippi.”

“Put it this way, Austin. If you insist on being a pain in the ass, I’m a lot more likely to be.”

His lips disappear into a tight seam.

“What about the file?”

“There is no file. After the party last night I stopped by here and checked, just to be sure. All the records from 1966 through 1968 were destroyed in a fire when you and I were still in grade school.”

This throws me. My first instinct is to ask whether Leo Marston was still district attorney during that fire, but I don’t. Mackey isn’t Clarence Darrow, but if I appear too interested in Marston, he’ll zero in on my real motive quickly enough. And Marston will instantly hear about it.

“What about the police department?”

“The chief won’t show you files on an unsolved murder case.”

“Is he actually investigating the case?”

“What do you think?”