Robert Jackson’s apartment was too quiet.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the suit he’d worn to the funeral, listening to the silence. The others had gone—Oliver back to the office, Joe’s wife, Karen, to her home with her sister and brother-in-law. Everyone had somewhere to return to, except him.
All he had was Peppy, his cat, and a cold cup of coffee.
He took off the suit jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, then emptied his pockets onto the dresser. Keys. Phone. A folded program from the graveside service, with Joe’s name printed clearly above an old photograph that must have been at least fifteen years old. Joe would’ve liked that. He’d gained weight since then and probably would’ve said something like, “Have you ever seen a better-looking stiff?”
Robert set the program aside. He looked at the dresser and noticed the receipt from the Thai restaurant on Ashton Avenue, time-stamped 12:42 p.m. One entrée. One Coke. He’d sat waiting in that booth for half an hour before finally ordering, certain that Joe was just running late.
But Joe was never late.
He stared at the receipt.
One bill. A meal taken, but never eaten.
He’d kept that receipt, but now wondered whether he should throw it away. To avoid that urge, he folded the paper and slipped it into his wallet. It felt like the right thing to do.
He moved into the living room and plunked down in a chair. As he sat there, the memories returned in no particular order.
Joe, leaning across the booth table, his voice lowered, a conspiratorial glance around the restaurant to make sure no one was listening—and then, with complete seriousness: I got this from—a person. Then Joe had leaned back, laughing so hard he nearly choked on his iced tea.
Robert had called him a bastard, and Joe had loved that.
Joe had always done that—wrapped serious things in laughter, handed you something real, and then made you wonder whether he’d been joking. I was completely honest with you, he’d say, still grinning, and you could never quite tell where the joke ended and the warning began.
This can cause you all kinds of hurt, Robert.
That one hadn’t come with a punchline.
Robert remembered exactly when Joe had said it, a few days after Quest had been turned over to the CIA. Joe hadn’t been joking that afternoon. His hand had rested flat on the table as he’d quietly said, This can cause you all kinds of hurt, Robert. Then their meals had arrived, and the conversation had drifted elsewhere. Robert never pushed it, having assumed there would always be another lunch.
Then, days later, he’d asked Joe to meet him at the restaurant to get his perspective on the treatment he was receiving from the CIA. Although Joe hadn’t mentioned anything on the phone when Robert had called to set up the meeting, he sensed Joe had something important to tell him. Something that couldn’t wait until next month. Something worth discussing in person.
Whatever Joe was going to say had died with him. But Joe Carter had spent thirty years in the FBI and had never once believed information simply disappeared. Traces were left. They always were.
Find it, Robert thought. Whatever it is. Find it.
“Joe, you always said the truth leaves a trail,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll find it, Joe.”
Outside, the evening settled over Los Angeles.
Inside, Robert Jackson made a commitment that would change the rest of his life.
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