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Carter assured him that there’d be no repercussions.
    After a call to Chris Tu, however, Carter got what he needed. He punched the number into his cell.
    As the phone rang on the other end, Carter checked his watch. Eight-thirty was a little late to be calling anyone at home, but under the circumstances, he’d live with the guilt.
    They picked up on the other end in the middle of the fourth ring. “Michaels residence, Nathan speaking,” said a reedy voice.
    Carter smiled. Last time he heard that voice, it belonged to a little boy. “Hello, Nathan, this is Carter Janssen, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m—”
    â€œYou’re the lawyer from New York,” Nathan said, and judging from the sudden weakness in his tone, the sound of the prosecutor’s voice terrified him.
    Carter felt bad for not having introduced himself more gently. He remembered that day on the square near the obelisk, just as most of the country remembered from the television news coverage. At the age of twelve, Nathan Bailey had been the object of a nationwide hunt as a suspected murderer, and had very nearly earned a sniper’s bullet. Carter could have prosecuted the boy on dozens of charges, but when Warren Michaels and his wife stepped in to be his foster family, Carter had cut them a break.
    â€œThere’s no problem for you to be concerned about,” Carter assured him, “but I need to speak with Lieutenant Michaels. Is he home?”
    The teenager hesitated. “Yes, sir, I’ll get him.”
    On the other end of the line, Carter heard Nathan yell, “Papa! Telephone!” There was movement, and then intense, muffled talk that Carter couldn’t understand.
    A more familiar voice came on the line. “This is Lieutenant Michaels. Can I help you?”
    â€œHello, Warren, this is Carter Janssen. I’m sorry to have startled Nathan like that. This is nothing about him or those old problems. I need to talk to you about a favor.”
    â€œName it and it’s yours,” Michaels said.
    â€œIs there a place where we can meet, and where I can maybe get a bite to eat? I haven’t had anything since lunch.”
    â€œYou bet. Where are you now?”
    * * *
    They decided on a twenty-four-hour breakfast place near the bus station. Warren Michaels hadn’t changed much in four years. Maybe a little grayer around the temples, but he still had the easygoing athletic grace that Carter remembered.
    Carter stood and they shook hands before Warren slid into the padded bench on the other side of the table. “It’s great to see you again,” Warren said.
    â€œI really am sorry about startling Nathan.”
    â€œDon’t give it a thought. Keeping him a little off balance keeps him from thinking he rules the world.”
    â€œHe sounds so old on the phone.”
    Warren nodded. “Sixteen. He sings bass in the choir, and he’s a head taller than me. Wears size twelve shoes. It’s amazing.”
    The small talk was killing Carter, but he understood that this was the way things were done in Virginia, and it only seemed polite. “So, is he living with you permanently?”
    Warren explained, “He’s officially my foster son, but it’s as permanent an arrangement as you can get. After the . . . incident ”—he leaned on the word—“I looked into adopting him, but what with his inheritance and all, it got too complicated. He knows where home is. He calls me his papa and I call him my son.”
    The explanation had the rhythm of a stump speech, details explained so many times that they’d become automatic. Such was the price of fame, Carter supposed.
    â€œBut you’re not here to talk about Nathan,” Warren said, reading the body language. “Still, before I turn over the floor, I want you to know yet again how much I appreciate everything you did to iron things out for him.”
    Carter waved it