was nothing. Dowell was based in Atlanta. All his crimes had been committed there.
She almost closed the window at that point. Only her innate curiosity stopped her. After all, the message had specifically told her to read articles from seventeen years ago.
She changed the search terms, adding the specific year.
This time, fifty articles came back.
The first one she opened had run in the Atlanta paper seventeen years ago.
Alleged Boss of the Southern Mafia Charged with Murder
By Christina Steel
Martin Dowell, 55, who the state police allege is head of the so-called Southern Mafia—a loose alliance of drug gangs and organized criminals based outside Atlanta—was arrested last night at his Marietta home, and charged with murder and racketeering in the death of Paul Johnson, a convicted drug dealer.
Johnson’s body was found in February, inside an oil barrel at the Halerson Refinery outside Atlanta. The gagged and bound corpse had been shot twenty-seven times. By then, Johnson, who had a long record of arrests and convictions related to robbery and drug crimes, had been missing for six weeks.
Police sources say they believe the murder was revenge over a drug deal gone wrong. Dowell and Johnson were known associates, and Dowell had been a suspect since Johnson disappeared.
Police declined to reveal the evidence behind the arrest. And Dowell’s attorney said this showed the arrest was groundless.
“This is a fishing expedition,” attorney Peter McClain said, outside the courthouse where Dowell was arraigned. “The police have wanted to bring my client down for years. They’d do anything to get a conviction. We will fight this all the way.”
As soon as she saw her father’s name, Harper stopped breathing.
Her mind scrambled for excuses. It couldn’t be her dad. It had to be another Peter McClain. After all, her dad had done most of his work in Savannah. His office had been a few blocks from where she was sitting right now.
She scrambled to close the article and bring back the list of news stories from that year. But she was moving too fast in her panic, fingers gripping the mouse too tightly, and she managed to close the entire list by mistake.
Swearing under her breath, she typed in the search words again, fumbling with the keys. And then waiting impatiently for the articles to reappear.
Finally, the list was in front of her again, and she clicked on article after article, scrutinizing the images at the top of each story. It took a few minutes to find what she was looking for.
The caption read, “Accused murderer Martin Dowell, leaving the courthouse with his lawyer, Peter McClain.”
The two men stood side by side in front of the cold, stone edifice of the Fulton County Courthouse. Both of them stared straight at the camera. Dowell’s blunt nose and round, pugnacious face were instantly recognizable. He looked at the photographer like he’d enjoy punching him.
Next to him was a young version of Harper’s father. No salt-and-pepper hair yet, just that straight dark hair her mother was always complaining needed a trim. His face was unlined; his eyes clear and youthful. And he stood with one hand on the shoulder of a murdering drug kingpin.
Harper stared at her father, barely breathing.
One year after this was taken, his wife would be stabbed to death in the kitchen of their modest home in Savannah. His twelve-year-old daughter would find the body when she returned from school.
The murder would never be solved.
“Are you still here?” Baxter walked back into the newsroom, her low-heeled shoes tapping against the floor. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
With effort, Harper forced herself to look up. “I’m going in a second.” Her voice sounded small and far away.
Distracted, Baxter didn’t notice. She typed something into her computer, mumbled to herself, and left the room again. The whole time, Harper sat frozen, trying to process exactly what she was learning.
Her father had never once mentioned his connection to Dowell. Not when her mother was newly dead and the police were using words like “professional” to describe the killing. And not years later when the case grew cold.
With his record, Dowell would have made an obvious suspect if police had been aware of his connections to her father. But there was little chance they’d have discovered it on their own. Her father was a busy criminal lawyer. They would never have the time to go through every case he’d represented. This case hadn’t even been reported in the Savannah paper.
Besides, her father had been the suspect, not his clients. Until