“This case is going to be all over the news, Cross,” Falco offered. “The chief will be breathing down our necks.”

  “I’ll make you a deal.” Sadie looked from Falco to Devlin. “You make sure no one knows about the calls between Walsh and me, and I’ll cooperate fully. But I don’t want my name anywhere on the official reports.”

  Devlin and Falco exchanged a look. Devlin took the initiative. “You have my word.”

  If there was one thing Sadie understood with complete certainty, it was that Devlin would not lie to her. As far as she’d fallen last summer, Devlin still had this idea of what a good cop was supposed to look like, and she tried her best to live up to that image.

  Sadie wished she could make her see that the ideal was not realistic. A good cop did what had to be done, and sometimes it wasn’t good at all, only necessary.

  “We’re square then,” Sadie agreed. “I’ll reach out to my sources and see what I can find for you.”

  This was something Sadie did have, if nothing else. She had invaluable sources. All from the most unlikely of places. Not only were they reliable; they were damned good. Not a single one of her sources had ever let her down, which was far more than she could say for most of the friends she’d ever claimed.

  “That would be very helpful,” Falco said.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Sadie got up and moved toward the door. “You’ll owe me, I know.”

  At the door she reached for the top dead bolt, and Falco said the rest, “I already owe you, Cross. I haven’t forgotten.”

  She turned to him. “I’m sure you haven’t.” Her attention drifted to Devlin. “You should remember the people who do you favors.”

  Devlin gave a nod. “I haven’t forgotten either.”

  Sadie reached for the door again. “Just one thing.” When both Falco and Devlin met her gaze, she continued, “Anyone associated with the Osorio cartel is utterly ruthless. I mean, the kind of evil you don’t even know. Those people will do anything to protect themselves. You should watch your backs.”

  “Got it,” Falco confirmed.

  As they filed out the door, Devlin paused. “You should watch your back as well. We may not be the only ones who know Walsh came to you.”

  Sadie was well aware. This was yet another reason she had to find a way to put all those pieces together.

  Whatever was happening, it was no doubt prompted by her past.

  5

  3:00 p.m.

  Office of the Jefferson County District Attorney

  Richard Arrington Jr. Boulevard North

  Birmingham

  Kerri sat behind Deputy District Attorney Asher Walsh’s desk and surveyed his office. The usual government-issued furniture. No upgrades for the wealthy Bostonian. The only concession to his prestigious background was the framed diploma from Harvard Law School. Nothing else.

  The bulletin board was plastered with newspaper articles about drugs and human trafficking that had captured Walsh’s attention since he’d landed in Birmingham. So far, the contents of his files and his desk drawers were immaculately organized if lacking in any useful revelations.

  One by one Falco moved through the books—mostly law books—filling the shelves along the opposite wall. He opened each one, looking for anything that might be hidden. Then checked the shelf before sliding the volume back into place.

  Walsh’s assistant, Louisa Allen, eyes red from a recent bout of tears, had unlocked the desk and left Kerri and Falco to do the necessary search. The press conference had happened at one thirty. The district attorney, with the sheriff and the chief of police as well as the mayor, had announced the somber news. Because of Walsh’s strong and well-known antidrug agenda, the mayor, Emma Warren, was calling for a joint task force that included the DEA. Though she was well aware of how capable the BPD’s Major Investigations Division was and the wider jurisdiction, she felt the death of DDA Walsh was a message, and the city needed to respond to that message with a show of force and unity in a much broader fashion.

  Until this proposed task force was set in motion, Kerri and Falco were to carry on.

  Warren didn’t seem to be satisfied with the knowledge that the MID was made up of good cops from Birmingham as well as the surrounding communities—including the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. She understood their jurisdiction was all-inclusive. The former mayor, the chief of police, and the sheriff had spent years developing this division. It was a fairly new concept, yes, but it had worked well so far. Being new to the office of mayor, Warren obviously wanted to prove she was not only paying attention but engaged and more than happy to ensure her predecessor’s legacy still met the needs of the community.

  However much she disagreed with the decision, Kerri had to admit it was refreshing to have a woman—especially a minority woman—in the city’s most powerful office. With a law degree as well as one in psychology, Warren had spent her entire career working hard and supporting the community. Rarely a day passed without one effort or the other putting her face front and center in the news. Even at sixty, her sophisticated beauty had captured the media’s attention. Her rhythmic and appealing ability to articulate her message made any audience want to join her cause. The candidates who’d run against her hadn’t stood a chance.

  Emma Warren was an inspiration to all women despite being on Kerri’s shit list at the moment.

  Shifting her focus back to the matter at hand, Kerri considered that she had executed a thorough search of the desk drawers. No hidden alcohol or drug stash. No porn. Just the usual pencils, pens, notepads, erasers, paper clips. The guy was over-the-top well organized—almost as if he didn’t actually work at this desk. One drawer contained files. These, Allen had explained, were his current working files. Oddly, none were related to the Osorio cartel or any other for that matter. In fact, none were related to illegal drug activity at all.

  This didn’t surprise Kerri any more than it suggested Cross had lied about Walsh’s interest in the Osorio cartel. Frankly, there was no readily identifiable, logical motive for Cross to try to mislead them. But what it did illustrate was that Walsh’s research into the cartel was off the record. Not exactly what Kerri would expect from someone with a burning desire to prove himself in a professional capacity. Why the secretiveness—even with his colleagues?

  On the other hand, nothing they had discovered suggested the loss of a friend or loved one to drugs or human trafficking, which might imply a personal mission. And yet, based on what they knew so far, this—whatever it was he’d gotten himself into—was in all likelihood personal.

  Maybe there was no particular event that had lit a fuse under his personal mission. But that wasn’t the norm. When someone went about an undertaking like this in such a secretive and aggressive manner, there was typically a very personal motive.

  She and Falco had only to find it.

  They hadn’t interviewed the DA yet. Lockett was in a meeting. Allen would see to it that they got a moment of his time as soon as he was available.

  She scanned the notes written on Walsh’s blotting pad once more. The few scattered words didn’t provide anything useful. There was a phone number jotted in one corner, but it was his dry cleaner’s. The in- and out-boxes stationed at the front of his desk were empty. Allen said he stayed on top of the paperwork.

  The one framed photo on the desk was of him and some of his law school buddies—this, too, was according to Allen. There was no photo of his parents. He had no siblings. Allen was developing a list of friends and colleagues with whom he associated frequently and any particularly troubling cases he had worked since his arrival in Birmingham. Kerri wasn’t expecting anything useful since the woman had already stated that she couldn’t think of any such cases off the top of her head.

  The door swung open, and DA Luther Lockett entered. Kerri straightened and rose to her feet. Lockett was a large man, tall and broad shouldered. Back in the day, he had been a quarterback for the University of Auburn’s Tigers. In Alabama, besides politics the one thing folks got extra hot and bothered about was the rivalry between the Auburn Tigers and the University of Alabama’s Crimson Tide. Football was practically a religion around here.

  Lockett swung the door shut and glanced at Falco before resting his full attention on Kerri. “Detectives.” He thrust his hand across the desk and gave hers a shake. Then he did the same with Falco. “I’d like an update on what you have so far.”

  He settled into a seat in front of the desk and waited expectantly.

  “At this time, sir, we don’t have much. We’ve asked Mrs. Allen to prepare a list of DDA Walsh’s cases as well as his friends and colleagues. We’ve also requested his phone records, and we’re currently looking for any notes he may have left related to anyone he intended or expected to see last night. There was nothing about the meeting with Mr. Kurtz on his calendar. No phone calls or texts between him and the other victim. Our first goal is to establish a connection between the two victims.”

  Lockett gave her a nod as if he approved. “You may or may not be aware that Asher made his thoughts regarding gun control public in a recent interview. His feelings on the matter are not popular here in the South. You will certainly want to add that possibility to your list of potential motives.”

  “In another recent interview,” Falco said as he approached the desk, a book in his hand, “Walsh mentioned that he wanted to do all in his power to stop the flow of drugs into the country. He seemed very determined on the subject.”

  “And human trafficking,” Kerri added. “Putting an end to the sale of humans was another of his goals.”

  They’d watched all five of the interviews Walsh had done with local news channels since settling into the DA’s office.

  Lockett nodded. “We all come into this world of law enforcement and prosecution with big ideas about change. But we can’t always attain the first goal we set. Sometimes not even the second or the tenth. But we can do our very best. I had high hopes for Asher. He was a brilliant young man.” He seemed to reflect for a moment. “As you can imagine, when my DDAs are working on cases, I’m not always aware of blow-by-blow events. I trust my people to do their jobs and to keep me informed. I have no doubt you will discover whatever Asher was working on with Mr. Kurtz relates to his duties here. He was not the sort to go off half-cocked.”

  “I’m certain you’re correct,” Kerri agreed.

  When the silence grew awkward, she went on to assure him, “We’ll do everything we can to find the shooter as quickly as possible.”

  “Well, then”—Lockett pushed to his feet—“I’ll leave you to it.” He hesitated at the door. “I’m confident you’re aware of Mayor Warren’s desire to take this investigation to the next level. Whatever comes of her suggestion, I want the two of you to push onward until you’re told differently. Do not allow what you hear in the news to slow you down. Every member of the media wants to be the first to find the answer. Ratings, you know.”

  “Understood, sir,” Kerri said. If Walsh had been going after one or more drug cartels, the mayor would no doubt insist on being involved with the investigation. After all, one of her campaign platforms had been her determination to stamp out illegal drugs. Like Walsh, the mayor took a strong and very public stance on human trafficking. And why wouldn’t she? The number of female victims was nearly triple that of male vics.

  When the door had closed behind Lockett, Falco opened the book in his hand, To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, and removed a photograph. “Take a look at this.”

  Kerri stood as her partner moved closer and passed the photo to her. She studied the image, which showed Walsh with an older woman of sixty or so. The woman wore jeans and a sweater. Her long gray hair was a wild mane of loose curls, and the expression on her face warned she didn’t care. On the back, the photo was dated four years ago.

  “There are some similarities between the woman and Walsh,” Kerri pointed out, “but this isn’t his mother.” She’d done some research on the vic’s parents. The mother was very attractive and dressed with expert style. Elegant would be the best way to describe her. The father, too, was very polished, sophisticated looking.

  “It’s his aunt.” Falco flipped open the book’s cover. “This is who gave our vic the book. Read the note.”

  Asher,

  You are too good for this profession you’ve chosen. But if you’re going to do it, do it with all your heart.

  Love,

  Aunt Naomi

  Kerri looked from the note to Falco. “Maybe this is his mother’s sister? Based on the photos of the mother I found on the internet, there is definitely a resemblance.”

  “Check this out.” Falco turned to the next page in the book and offered it to Kerri.

  She exchanged the photo for the book, then scanned the copyright page. “First edition.”

  “Signed by the author,” Falco pointed out.

  Sure enough, there was the icon’s signature. Be the best you can be. The words were addressed to a Norman Taylor.

  Before Kerri could ask, Falco explained, “I googled Norman Taylor. Like the author, he died a few years ago. He was in his nineties. A retired Birmingham attorney. A big deal attorney. Big supporter of the civil rights movement in the sixties.” He held up the photo of the woman, Naomi. “This Aunt Naomi is Norman Taylor’s daughter.”

  “So, it’s possible Norman Taylor is Walsh’s maternal grandfather.” The memory of documentaries Kerri had watched about the civil rights movement era in Birmingham gave her chills.

  “The mother’s maiden name wasn’t Taylor, but the photo and the note seem to suggest the two were related somehow,” Falco agreed. “The question is, Why does no one here—where our vic worked—realize he had a connection to Birmingham? Think about all the hype when he first arrived, Devlin. And those interviews we watched. No one—not even Walsh himself—mentioned a personal connection to Birmingham.”

  Falco made an interesting point. Kerri pushed the chair she’d vacated into the desk. “Could be this Naomi is just a friend who calls herself his aunt.” Her sister Diana’s kids had always called her longtime best friend Jennifer Aunt Jen. “Either way, we should find out about this Naomi Taylor.”

  “We could ask his assistant,” Falco suggested.

  “Good idea. Ask her.” Kerri flashed him a smile. “Use that formidable Falco charm. She’ll never be able to resist.”

  He chuckled and headed for the door. “Funny, it never works on you.”

  “I’m immune.” Kerri shook her head, then studied the photo from the book. She’d learned not so long ago the one thing she could count on was that everyone had secrets.

  Good or bad, rich or poor, there was always more to the story.

  Asher Walsh and family would have plenty.

  Taylor Residence

  Eighteenth Avenue South

  Birmingham, 4:00 p.m.

  “This is it?” Kerri looked beyond her partner to the house on the right of the curb where she’d eased to a stop.

  “It is,” Falco confirmed. “The residence of Naomi June Taylor. Sixty-two years old. Never married. No kids.”

  Walsh’s assistant had no idea who Naomi Taylor was. They’d had to look her up through the DMV and old newspaper articles about her father. She was a retired law professor from Samford, her and her father’s alma mater. She drove a vintage Mercedes and had three tickets for speeding in the last two years. About a dozen outstanding parking tickets.

  Kerri surveyed the place. “Looks a little run down.”

  “Not exactly a premier neighborhood, but it had its heyday in the fifties and sixties.” Falco reached for the door.

  Kerri climbed out and met him at the front of her Wagoneer. “Even now, there’s certainly something to be said for that view of the city.”

  Beyond the houses lining this side of the street was an incredible view of the Magic City sprawled across the landscape. At night the lights were likely something to see.

  “It ain’t shabby,” Falco agreed as he adjusted his jacket.

  One of the things about him that had driven Kerri crazy when he was first assigned as her new partner was his manner of dress. The cocky attitude and laid-back, I’m-down-with-it lingo weren’t so in your face unless he opened his mouth—which he did quite frequently. But there was no way to ignore his wardrobe. The beat-up leather jacket and the worn-out jeans, wrinkled tee. He hadn’t looked at all like the typical detective representing MID. Still didn’t. She’d felt certain they would never make it as a team. She’d said as much to Lieutenant Brooks at the onset. Luke Falco just wasn’t what she had expected in a partner.

  Kerri had been wrong. She’d learned very quickly not to judge this particular book by his cover. Falco was loyal, caring, and relentless. He was a damned good detective.

  She would without condition or hesitation dive into any situation with him.

  He was the one good thing that had happened last year.

  He knocked on the door of the Taylor home.

  The house appeared to be circa 1950s, possibly older. Redbrick. Some peeling white paint on the trim. A few torn screens on the windows but nicely landscaped. Colorful spring blooms filled the flower beds and window boxes. Kerri wasn’t that good with the names of flowers, but the ones with the blue blooms were very pretty and the most prevalent in the landscaping. Obviously, those were the homeowner’s favorite. Kerri thought Diana had those same flowers blooming in her yard.

  The lawn was neatly manicured. The trees were peppered with spring’s fresh green leaves. The whole picture reminded her of all the things she needed to do around her own house.

  Maybe one day.

  The door opened a crack, revealing a single blue eye beneath the brass chain stretched tight across the narrow space. “If you’re selling something, I’m not interested. If you want to acquaint me with God, don’t waste your time. He and I don’t get along.”