Snapshot

by Lis Wiehl

  She stared out the window at the Texas countryside, suddenly melancholy for a home that didn’t exist for her. Dad’s house was not her own. Her mom and stepdad lived in a seniors-only condo in Orlando. Her house in Boston was the closest thing Lisa had to a home. It was beautiful, cozy, and empty with her son in England for the next year. The rooms were filled with silence now. She didn’t even have a dog.

  What had she built in her years of striving? An admirable career and an empty house. Perhaps Drew’s words were getting to her, because suddenly Lisa wondered, would that be enough?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Any discoveries?” William O’Ryan asked from the doorway.

  “A few,” James said. He pushed aside the file on the table, frowning at the name on the label. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it at the moment. His head was overly filled with names, dates, and information.

  He stood and stretched, his back aching after several hours at the table.

  “I found these pictures in one of Peter’s files.” James pointed out the timeline of images with the missing photos and negatives from the civil rights rally.

  “These lead up to the time of the shooting?” O’Ryan asked. He grasped the edge of the table and studied the images.

  “Yes. They stop immediately before, from what I can tell.”

  “And some of those photographs are missing. Interesting. Peter may have taken pictures of the shooter.”

  “Yes. And I think Peter might have shot the killer. My daughter called with further evidence that there were two shooters—both Caucasian—with one person other than Gray injured.”

  O’Ryan’s eyebrows rose. “And the man convicted of this is the one set for execution—oldest man on death row with a death date, right?”

  “Yes.” James explained what he’d witnessed at the rally in 1965, then how he’d received Leonard Dubois’s letter a month earlier and the man’s countdown to the needle.

  O’Ryan listened, sitting on the edge of the table, deep in thought.

  “You’ve got quite a story going on here. But someone worked hard to keep the truth hidden.” O’Ryan leaned over the line of photos.

  “I think we have a multiagency cover-up. Fort Worth PD may have been part of putting Leonard Dubois away. Peter and the FBI may have covered up the real killer. But I don’t understand why Peter would shoot that killer, then help to hide it.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to shoot him.”

  James frowned, considering this.

  “You know, high-level cover-ups make it harder to get your man off death row.”

  “Yes,” James said. The deeper he got into this, the more daunting the task of saving Leonard Dubois—especially with time running out.

  “If you want, I’ll put some people on researching this. And send me what you have on the inmate. I’ll review it while I travel, see what I can do.”

  James realized that he couldn’t have planned a better team than this—his background, his daughter and her contacts, Rosalyn’s surprises, and now William O’Ryan’s assistance. It gave him some hope despite their challenges.

  “What made you contact Peter in the first place?” James asked O’Ryan.

  “The JFK assassination. I was a cub reporter for the local Fort Worth news. But what pushed my interest beyond that was Peter himself.”

  “Peter? Why?”

  “I saw him at an event in DC and found out he’d been doing what you did, investigating the Oswalds and contributing to the Warren Commission. He also had that history with the Kennedys.”

  “What history?” James asked.

  “Peter had known the Kennedys since he was a kid.”

  “The Kennedys as in Robert and Jack and the rest?”

  “This guy was your partner?” O’Ryan asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Apparently he kept a lot to himself. He told me he grew up in Massachusetts, but he never talked much about it. He and his sister weren’t close when I knew him. His parents were dead.”

  “His uncle worked with the Kennedys, or there’s some connection there. If I remember correctly, Joseph Kennedy pulled strings to get Peter into the FBI. Peter hadn’t done well on the written exams, though he excelled at his interview, shooting, and physical tests. He probably had a learning disorder, but people didn’t know about those things back then.”

  It was as if they were talking about a stranger. James had known that Peter couldn’t spell or read worth a darn, but his closest friend apparently had a wealth of secrets he’d never revealed.

  “But on that last day, the one when Peter died—”

  “When Peter killed himself?” O’Ryan said bluntly.

  James cringed. “Yes. I can’t remember why you were there, at his sister’s house.”

  “I went to ask about a missing key that had belonged to the Kennedys. I’d written to Peter about it, but he wouldn’t respond. So I decided to drop in at his sister’s in Queens.”

  James stared at O’Ryan. “You know about the key?”

  O’Ryan stared back. “How do you know about it?”

  “Peter mentioned it,” James replied.

  O’Ryan nodded. “I heard about it from former White House staff members and a close family friend. One source swore that Evelyn Lincoln, JFK’s longtime assistant, was the keeper of the key after both brothers were assassinated, and she wouldn’t give it up. It’s common knowledge that she kept many of Kennedy’s belongings, even auctioned some off after a number of years.”

  “Maybe we’re talking about different keys?” James said.

  “The key I’m talking about is one of many that belong to a historic cabinet located in the White House when JFK was in office. It’s a unique piece of furniture gifted to the Kennedys by Queen Elizabeth II. It had been in Windsor Castle for over a century, or was it Buckingham Palace—I’d have to double-check that. I can’t remember the craftsman, seems he was French or Italian, but the cabinet had drawers crafted with separate individual keys. One key for each drawer.”

  O’Ryan tapped on his phone as he talked, then turned the screen around and displayed an image of the Kennedy cabinet. Next he scrolled to a picture of an ornate key, matching the one James displayed in his workshop.

  “Yes, that’s it. And some of the drawers to the cabinet were missing their keys,” James said.

  “That’s right. When I heard that Evelyn Lincoln regularly hid the tapes of the recordings the Secret Service made for JFK, I went down that trail to see if Evelyn knew anything about the keys to the cabinet or what the drawers contained. She wouldn’t talk to me.”

  James had known about the secret recordings. He’d heard two stories behind the rationale for making them. First, JFK had been infuriated by people changing their stories after top-secret meetings were held, and second, he wanted infallible records about his time in the White House for future biographical purposes.

  Whatever his reasons, under the president’s direction the Oval Office, Cabinet Room, and telephones in his bedroom were wired with the recording device hidden in the White House basement.

  “That must be the key Peter mentioned,” James said. His gut had told him to follow this lead, but he’d lost faith in his friend and in turn lost faith in so much that had been connected to Peter in any way.

  “What did he say about it? And why do you think he told you about the key when he didn’t tell you his other secrets?”

  James considered that for a moment. “In the years before he was fired, Peter continually brought up the key. I thought at first it might uncover something new about JFK’s assassination. He once said that if I helped him find the key, it would save us both. When I asked what that meant, Peter brought up the Dubois conviction. But he was drinking a lot then, so I disregarded most of what he said.

  “I’ve been wracking my memory for the past few weeks, but all I recall is what you said. The cabinet was moved and one key was missing. Other times he implied that more than one key was missing, but he need
ed a specific key for what he sought.”

  O’Ryan crossed his arms at his chest and leaned back in thought.

  “Let’s talk this through. So after JFK was killed, Bobby went into protection mode. He had locks changed on file cabinets and the Resolute desk—his brother’s desk used in the Oval Office—until he could remove all sensitive information before President Johnson, his enemy, could get his hands on it. Bobby also had the Secret Service dismantle the recording devices and move this historic cabinet from the White House. Then less than five years later, when Bobby was assassinated, much of what he had protected became scattered, including keys to various drawers in the historic Kennedy cabinet.”

  “Yes, but what do you think happened to them?”

  “The Kennedys might have them. Or an heir of Evelyn Lincoln’s. Back in the day, I’m sure President Johnson wanted them. And of course, so did Hoover. Your old boss wanted every secret he could gather on anyone of any importance. But my hunch? After Robert Kennedy’s assassination, Evelyn Lincoln gave one of the keys to Peter Hughes.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Evelyn knew what was inside. She knew the secrets. If she gave it to Peter, it was because there was some connection to him.”

  James pressed his fingers against his temples. “This only gets worse and more complicated.”

  “Keep looking. I think we’re closer than you think. I feel it.”

  “We?” James said with a smirk.

  “You’ve made this too compelling to walk away from,” O’Ryan said, glancing at his watch.

  “I could go for some coffee,” James said. So much for green tea, he thought.

  “What about a break for dinner?”

  “Even better.”

  O’Ryan and James went to a nearby Irish restaurant and found a table in the back. As they enjoyed the best shepherd’s pie James had ever eaten, the conversation returned to Peter.

  “You do know that Hoover took Peter down,” O’Ryan said.

  “Peter was caught exposing FBI secrets.”

  O’Ryan leaned back with a skeptical expression. “Maybe Peter was corrupt. Or maybe he just didn’t know where to put his loyalty. He seemed like a pretty good guy from my investigations.”

  “Yeah. I guess he was,” James said.

  “But Peter did something that ticked Hoover off. I have numerous off-the-record reports about it. Peter supposedly leaked secrets to the press—but there’s no one in the media who confirms this. Peter certainly never tossed me a bone.”

  James set his fork on his plate. If Peter hadn’t leaked secrets, then what had he done? Their waitress stopped by to fill their glasses with iced tea.

  O’Ryan asked her for a pen, then pulled a napkin out and started writing down dates. “November 1963, JFK is killed. You were sent to Dallas. When did Peter talk about that key?”

  “I think a few years later, ’68 maybe. He was a bit obsessed by it, but then I never heard about it again. He was fired in early 1971.”

  “Which is after Robert Kennedy was assassinated in 1968. So if Evelyn gave Peter the key, it would’ve been after that. These are a lot of leaps, but let’s play them out. If Hoover and the FBI helped to cover up the shooting at your Fort Worth rally in 1965, which included Peter, why didn’t Peter get exposed for sharing FBI secrets until 1971? Hoover could have sold him out. There has to be a reason why.”

  “Maybe Peter wouldn’t give Hoover the secrets he wanted.”

  “Maybe Peter wouldn’t give Hoover the key.” O’Ryan folded his arms at his chest as he sat back in his chair.

  James stared at him. “So Peter’s obsessed with finding this key. Then Evelyn Lincoln gave it to him after Robert Kennedy was killed. Hoover either knew or guessed Peter had the key and demanded he turn it over so that he could have the power to use whatever was inside the drawer against even more powerful people. If this is right, what do you think is hidden in that drawer?”

  O’Ryan shrugged. “Information that people didn’t want revealed. Probably still don’t. Look how they won’t even release all of the JFK files after all of these years. But everyone was afraid of Hoover, and with good reason. He destroyed people.”

  James wondered if his former boss really had destroyed Peter or if his partner had done that himself.

  Night had fallen over the city as they walked back to the news building.

  “Don’t you have a flight in the morning?”

  “Yes, look what you did to me. I’m not even packed yet, and it’s an hour to get home,” O’Ryan said without remorse. “You can stay in the office as long as you want. I’ll show you how to leave without getting hauled off by security. And make all the copies you want of Peter’s files. Really, the boxes should’ve been sent to you instead of me. I don’t know why Peter’s sister didn’t like you.”

  “She blamed me for Peter’s suicide. I cut him off after the whole scandal. Maybe I was wrong.” James felt his stomach tighten at another of his great life regrets. How had striving to do right led him to make so many mistakes, especially with the people he loved most?

  “Hey, it’s understandable. You were his partner. It would be tough hearing he’d kept all kinds of secrets.”

  “We weren’t good at sharing our feelings,” James said with a smile.

  “What man is? But especially a suit, and from your era? But you should know, Peter’s sister blamed everything and everyone for Peter’s suicide. Not just you.”

  They made the route back to the storage room on the fifteenth floor.

  “I’m caught up in this book tour for a few weeks, but if you need something, I’ll do what I can.” O’Ryan hung at the door a moment longer.

  James could tell that he was having a tough time leaving. The two men were similar in that way. For James it was a case, and for O’Ryan it was a story. And once the clues started unraveling, it was hard to turn away.

  “There is something,” James said, seeing the name on the file he’d been looking through earlier. Now he remembered why the name was familiar. “Peter had this file about a company, the Blackstone Corporation, out of Louisiana and Florida. This is the second time I’ve come across the name Blackstone. There’s a definite tie to the shooting of Benjamin Gray.”

  “Blackstone? If it’s the same name I’m thinking, Stanley Blackstone’s daughter is running for Senate in Missouri—Gwendolyn Hubert. Election year, so we’re checking the candidates. She changed her name as a child, but I think it was Blackstone. I’ll find out.”

  After O’Ryan left, James stretched in the chair and reopened the box loaded with packages of photographs. For the next hour he sifted through Peter’s personal images.

  The photos told the story of Peter. They showed his love of the outdoors. Black-and-white rolls of landscapes: a storm moving in across the plains, close-ups of flowers, a series dedicated to trees of all sorts of interesting shapes and sizes.

  Some were of events—a party at his sister’s, a camping trip, a retirement party.

  But most of the packets depicted time spent with the Waldrens. Several rolls of film were dedicated to Lisa’s birthday parties and a ballet recital. Others were of holidays and barbecues, and a day out on a lake in a ski boat they’d rented. Some included Peter’s short-lived girlfriends that James had forgotten about. Peter never dated anyone for long. The job was hard on Peter’s love life … or perhaps it was the many secrets the man carried.

  Finally, James put the lid back on top and moved the box aside. Its contents had brought his friend back to life for him. This was the Peter Hughes he had known. The one with the quick laughter and sharp wit.

  But this was only one side of Peter Hughes. The other boxes told the story of his friend as well, and those revealed a man tangled in secrets and lies that might never be unraveled. At least not in time to save Leonard Dubois.

  The reminder of the man on death row sent James through the file boxes one more time. With all of Peter’s files, why wasn’t there one dedicated to Dubois? />
  Then James opened a file labeled A. Snow and found what he was looking for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The white plantation house rose into view at the end of the tree-lined driveway and up against the brilliant blue sky. Stanley had given only a few hours’ notice before arriving at the local airport in his private jet, but the grounds of Red Wolf Manor appeared in perfect order. He made a quick perusal as he pulled the SUV around the circular driveway. Everything was in bloom, contrasting with the stark appearance of Stanley’s last visit in late autumn.

  As Stanley walked toward the wide porch steps, the door swung open.

  “Mr. Stanley, welcome home. We got the house all prepared for you. How was your flight?” Hollis Jr. wiped his hands on his jeans and took Stanley’s travel bag. Stanley kept his black messenger case over his shoulder.

  “Relaxing flight. I had a massage,” Stanley said.

  “I’m sure she was beautiful as well,” Hollis said with a grin.

  Stanley noticed that the man’s blue eyes were bloodshot and his skin had the flushed coloring of someone who drank too much too often. Stanley had liked Hollis Sr. better, but he trusted the son and his wife enough to keep the house and grounds in top shape. By the look of him, Stanley wondered if he was unwise to do so. Stanley didn’t tolerate drinkers or drug users—they were too inconsistent.

  “Of course she was beautiful. Now, what’s all the woodcutting going on up by the front gates?” Stanley paused at the doorstep to scan the lush front grounds. The huge magnolia trees that shaded the front yard had opened their pink-cupped flowers.

  Miami smelled of the sea and city, but Red Wolf Manor carried a medley of scents. He could pick out the magnolias, honeysuckle, and jasmine mixed with the smell of fertile soil, the ponds toward the back acreage, and South Fork River. He also caught a hint of coming summer threaded in the air.

  Standing there, he was hit by a flood of memories. He remembered shooting bullfrogs with his bow and arrow, swinging from the rope swing into the big pond, building forts in the tall willows. Down near the cemetery he’d dug up square nails, broken pieces of household items, and bits of bone. The old slave barn had been burned to the ground by his great-granddaddy—with many of his slaves locked inside—when the South surrendered at the end of the Civil War.