Jefferson City, Missouri
Stanley Blackstone had the sudden urge for a cigar and a stiff drink, a desire that surprised him considering it was 10:00 a.m. and he rarely imbibed anymore.
A crowd of a hundred had gathered before a small stage at the outside entrance of the Jefferson City Mall. Stanley stood on the fringe with his arms crossed at his chest, carefully studying each person and scanning the surroundings, including the roof and the bushes along the entrance to the mall.
Above the platform a banner flapped in the morning breeze, surrounded by red, white, and blue balloons that bobbed and twisted against the clear May sky. The banner read:
HOPE IN ACTION!
HUBERT FOR SENATE
A podium and microphone awaited the keynote guest, Gwendolyn Hubert, though Stanley hadn’t seen her arrive yet. She was probably in some private office or closed-off area inside the mall. He needed to leave before she appeared. Gwen had made it clear that the distance between them should remain, but Stanley needed to know she was safe. The world was darker than Gwen understood, with her idealistic views. She believed she could make a difference by running for political office, that the world was still worth fighting for.
Someone bumped into him from behind, and he whipped around to confront the offender. A thirtysomething man turned in unison, a baby attached to his chest.
“Excuse me,” the man said lightheartedly until he saw Stanley’s size and fierce expression. Stanley knew his glare and burly stature were an imposing combination. He’d learned to use them to his advantage.
“Sorry, man,” the guy muttered and quickly herded his wife and children away. Not the best way to win supporters for Gwen’s campaign, Stanley mused with only slight remorse.
He read the banner again. Gwen had changed her name to her stepfather’s before she even entered high school. He deserved that, he supposed. But it didn’t mean he had to like it.
Stanley saw a bearded man in a black trench coat move in close to the stage with his hands in his pockets. He seemed to be staring at the empty podium. Before Stanley could move forward, he saw Lancaster, his hired bodyguard, thread his way through the crowd toward the man without appearing at all suspicious—unlike Stanley, who had scared off a man carrying a baby.
At that moment a businessman-type guy raced up the stairs to the podium and tapped the microphone. Stanley knew he should be leaving now, but he moved through the crowd to watch Lancaster and the man by the podium.
“Is this on? Oh, it is, great,” the guy said into the microphone.
Lancaster intercepted the bearded man as the announcer welcomed the crowd and explained who he was—some local city councilman or something. Stanley mostly tuned him out as he watched Lancaster escort the bearded man away from the stage and through the crowd. The man protested until Lancaster leaned in closer. Whatever he said or did was enough for a sudden exit without further objection.
Stanley smiled. He’d hired the right man.
“Today I’m pleased to introduce you to a woman I greatly admire. Gwendolyn Hubert is the quintessential . . .”
At the sound of her name, Stanley felt his hands begin to sweat. He had faced many imposing foes in his day. He’d killed men with his bare hands. But only this five-foot-seven, 115-pound woman could make his palms sweat like this.
She walked from the closest building near the stage and toward the back of the podium with several people beside her, probably her campaign manager and assistant. He didn’t know the others, but Lancaster would report back to him.
A last glance at the bodyguard assured him that everything was fine here. His daughter was safe even if she didn’t want his help.
“Gwendolyn’s Missouri roots run deep,” the announcer said.
Blackstone scoffed. She’d been born in Louisiana on the plantation that had been in the Blackstone family for generations. Her mother and stepfather may have raised Gwen in Missouri, but her roots were Deep South.
“Gwendolyn attended the University of Missouri where she joined Kappa Alpha Theta sorority. She placed second at nationals for diving during college, was the president of . . .”
Stanley knew all of this, though he hadn’t attended many of Gwen’s important events, like graduations or birthdays. For years he’d been too busy; then, when he wanted to be there, his ex-wife asked him to stay away. Now it was Gwen who did the asking.
“When Gwendolyn Hubert sets her mind to do something great, she accomplishes it. She’s ready to take on Washington next. Let’s welcome the next senator from Missouri . . . Gwendolyn Hubert!”
Stanley couldn’t keep his eyes off his daughter as she made her way up the stage to the hearty applause on the ground around him. She walked with confidence and welcomed the crowd with an air that exuded capability, power, and warmth. Stanley hadn’t come up with this description; he’d read it in one of the many publications that had been tracking Gwendolyn’s political rise for the past few years. But now she was running for US Senate. Someday his only child might just sit in the Oval Office. She may have changed her name from Blackstone to Hubert, but she was his daughter and he was proud of her. Even after all these years, he remembered what it felt like to hold her against his shoulder when she slept and how she used to cry when he left. Even if she was conflicted about his role in her life and the danger he posed to her political career, they were father and daughter. Time didn’t change that. Nothing could.
Leave now, he told himself.
But something kept him planted there.
A couple beside him talked loudly as Gwen spoke about opening avenues for small businesses. Before he decided between leaving, staying, or slamming his fist into the man’s stomach, Gwen’s and Stanley’s eyes connected.
For less than a millisecond her voice caught, then she recovered and moved through her points on how to make that happen. But even from the distance between them, Stanley could see the red flush rising from her chest up her neck, just as it had whenever she was upset as a child.
The one skeleton in her closet was standing in the audience. Stanley understood how detrimental he could be to his daughter’s political career. Her campaign manager might spin it that they were estranged, but he was still her father, and his past had become a liability.
While most viewed him as an heir to success who had built an even bigger empire through real estate and imports, Stanley was plagued with rumors of corruption, illegal activities, and shadowy actions against civil rights groups. It hadn’t hurt him, but it could harm his daughter’s run for office. She had a proud Southern heritage that went back to Confederate officers and slave owners. She’d never been proud of it herself, at least not yet.
Stanley saw a TV news cameraman move closer toward the stage with a reporter beside him. That moved his feet away.
He’d come to Missouri to talk to her. She’d been out of the state until early this morning and had let him know through some assistant that she had a full schedule.
Stanley walked toward the black town car idling in the parking lot. He needed to get back to Miami anyway. There was a situation there he needed to resolve once and for all. As he wove through a stand of bushes, he felt the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket.
“Marcus,” Stanley said, wondering why his nephew and company VP was calling when he was supposed to be in a meeting.
“Some information came in that you’ll want to hear.”
“What about?” he asked without slowing his pace.
“I got a call from a contact at the Texas State Prison. You must have set this up before I came in, because I didn’t know anything about it. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Leonard Dubois?” Stanley asked.
“Yes, yes, exactly. You’ll have to update me when you get back, but apparently Dubois is scheduled for execution.”
“I know that.”
“Okay, well, the contact also spotted correspondence from Dubois to a retired FBI agent. Name is . . . let me see here.”
“Special Agent James Waldren.”
“Yes.” Marcus didn’t hide his surprise.
“What else?” Stanley asked.
“That’s all I know. Who is this FBI agent and what does it have to do with you?”
“It’s a lesson, my boy. A lesson to always tie up loose ends.”
“O-kay,” Marcus said with a long pause. “Should something be done?”
“Something will be done, but I also have that other matter to attend to in Miami. I’ll fly home today. Call the pilot and make the arrangements.”
“Sure,” Marcus said, and Stanley could hear his nephew’s curiosity. The boy really needed to build a tougher exterior. Sometimes he was transparent as glass. That was never good in business, gambling, or relationships.
Stanley leaned against the outside of the car, feeling the rumble of its engine through his back. He could see his daughter waving to the crowd as they cheered at the closing of her speech. The execution of Dubois was less than two months away. Gwen’s election was in six.
“You don’t want me to do anything?” Marcus said.
“I’ll be there tonight.”
This was a loose end. Stanley notoriously wrapped up all loose ends, but in this instance he’d been young, and everything had gone wrong. Now it was coming back to haunt him. It could haunt his daughter as well, could end her political future. Stanley wasn’t about to let that happen.