Ollie nodded. “I was. Public defender the first time around and private for the second one when he appealed that first conviction. The case against him was all circumstantial. I never thought they’d lock him up for ‘life without’ either time. I’m sure it was all my fault. I was relatively inexperienced the first time and probably didn’t do quite as good a job as I should have. Five years later, I was back at the defense table again hoping we’d get him out on a technicality. Unfortunately, that didn’t work, either.”

“I take it these JFA folks have now parachuted in and done what you couldn’t?”

“More or less,” Glassman agreed glumly. “They seem to have negotiated a deal with the county attorney. Lassiter could either go for a third trial or he could cop to second degree and get out with time served. I sent my son, Ollie—­that’s Oliver Junior, who’s in the process of taking over my practice—­to look in on the situation. Pro bono, of course, just as a courtesy.

“The thing is, Lassiter is saying no-­go. He told them he doesn’t want a third trial, and he’s turned down the plea deal, too. Flat. Said he’d already served more than thirty years for a crime he didn’t commit, and he’d be damned if he’d plead guilty to something he didn’t do just to have a get-­out-­of-­jail-­free card. The JFA folks had made a big deal about working his case, and they’re still hoping to save face. At this point, they’ve avoided making any public announcement that he won’t go along with any of it. As for Lassiter? According to Junior, what he really wants right now is a chance to talk to you.”

“To me?” Brandon said in surprise. “How come?”

“He evidently remembers you from back then.”

“Since I was the cop who put the cuffs on him originally, I suppose he does remember me. But why on earth would he want to talk to me?”

“He said he’d heard you were retired and were busy solving cold cases these days. He wants to talk to you about finding Amos Warren’s real killer.”

“Sort of like O.J., you mean?”

“More or less. Lassiter told Junior that just because the cops are calling the case closed doesn’t mean it’s solved!”

Across the room, Diana turned and beckoned to Brandon. “Oops,” he said. “Duty calls. We’d best get a move on.”

Ollie delayed him for a moment by reaching into the pocket of his suit coat and pulling out a business card. “It’s Junior’s,” he explained. “If you do decide to look into this, I’d appreciate your keeping him in the loop.”

Reluctantly, Brandon took the card, slipped it into his own pocket, and then made his way toward the bookstore entrance and up the stairway to the ballroom. Using the table number on his name badge, he found where he was supposed to be. Matilda Glassman was already on hand directing traffic and motioning ­people into preselected seats. The arrangement left Brandon on the far side of the table from his wife, who was seated next to Ollie, while Brandon was sandwiched between a philosophy professor and the wife of a banker who happened to be a major donor.

The philosophy professor offered Brandon a tepid handshake and turned her attention to the person seated on her left. The banker’s wife, clearly out of her element, attacked her salad with a total focus that told Brandon she was beyond shy. He suspected that she, too, would have been far more comfortable seated next to her spouse rather than across the table from him. After a few abortive attempts to engage the woman in conversation, Brandon gave up. Instead, he settled into his own food, all the while keeping track of what was going on across the table.

By then, Ollie, clearly into his cups and despite the daggers being sent his way by his wife, was talking a blue streak. At one point, Diana looked away from him and sent a questioning raised-­eyebrow look in her husband’s direction. No doubt Glassman had just spilled the beans about Brandon Walker’s faux writing career. A moment later, when Diana smiled at him and gave him a slight nod, Brandon knew that she got the joke.

There was something about that shared smile—­a moment of silent connection in that crowded, noisy room—­that made Brandon’s heart sing. The look didn’t just cross the table; it bridged the years as well. He remembered the moment in 1975 when he’d first been smitten. He had met Diana years earlier in the course of a homicide case in which her first husband, Garrison Ladd, and Garrison’s mentor and former creative writing professor, Andrew Carlisle, had both been suspects. Ladd had supposedly committed suicide, while his co-­conspirator had gone to prison.

Years later, Carlisle’s early release from prison had put Diana in jeopardy as Carlisle came after her, intent on wreaking vengeance on the woman who had helped send him away. At about the same time, Brandon and Diana had once more been thrown together when Diana’s six-­year-­old son, Davy, was injured in a car accident on the reservation. Brandon had been sent to notify Diana of the incident. Since the boy was an Anglo and couldn’t be treated by the Indian Health Ser­vice, Brandon had offered to drive Diana to Sells so she’d be able to look after the boy.

In the ER, when it came time for the doctor to put twelve stitches in her son’s head, Diana had been forced to bail. Brandon was the one who had stayed at the boy’s side. And that night, Brandon had stayed on at Diana’s house to help keep the boy awake overnight. That was how he had spent that first night in the house that he and Diana had now shared for years—­sleeping on her living room couch.

Yes, Andrew Carlisle had been beyond evil, but without him and his murderous ways, Brandon knew that he and Diana would never have met. In the years since, the two of them had married and raised two amazing kids together—­Diana’s son, Davy, and an adopted Indian child named Lani. The less said about Brandon’s own kids the better, but Davy was now a successful Tucson-­based attorney, and Lani was the first ever Tohono O’odham M.D. to practice on the reservation.

As for Diana? In his eyes, although her blond hair had long since turned silver—­she preferred the word “platinum”—­she was still as beautiful as ever. And even if he had to spend a thousand nights like this, making small talk and enduring the rigors of being “Mr. Diana Ladd,” Brandon still counted himself as incredibly lucky to be there with her.

When the after-­dinner speeches ended and they headed home toward Gates Pass, Diana nailed Brandon for suckering Ollie Glassman.

“You told the poor man you’re writing a book?” Diana asked. “Really?”

“I couldn’t help myself,” Brandon said, grinning at the very thought of it. “The guy’s a jerk.”

“That’s true,” Diana agreed. “I saw him tracking you down during the reception. What did he want?”

That surprised Brandon. He knew he had been keeping an eye on Diana from across the room, but he hadn’t realized that she’d also been keeping an eye on him.

“He wanted to talk to me about John Lassiter.”

“Big Bad John? Whoa, that’s a name out of the dim, dark past.”

“Indeed,” Brandon agreed.

“So why talk to you about it? I heard they were trying to work out a plea deal of some kind. Evidently two trials weren’t enough.”

“Wait,” Brandon said. “You knew about that—­about the plea offer?”

“I read about it in the paper,” Diana said with a shrug. “I seem to remember Lassiter’s daughter was responsible for bringing in the ­people from Justice for All.”

“John Lassiter has a daughter?” Brandon asked. “What daughter? I didn’t know Lassiter had a child.”

“He does.”

Brandon thought about that. He and Diana read the same papers each day over their morning cups of coffee. Even so, they often came away with totally different sets of information.

“Since you and Michael Farraday were the officers who arrested Lassiter back in the day,” Diana continued, “I figured it was just as well to let sleeping dogs lie.”