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as a stupid hobby of hotwiring cars for joyrides had veered dangerously close to a way of life for the two boys on the verge of manhood.
    His three boys had all survived in a way that made his heart swell with pride. And with that, he should be happy, content, not restless, the way he’d been all night long.
    When he felt a chill shoot straight to his soul, he looked around the room until his gaze settled on the muted TV that had been turned to a twenty-four-hour news station.
    He saw the devil’s face—contorted in fake grief—on the big screen set up in the green room of the massive concert hall, where his latest out-of-control band was currently performing.
    The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he said a silent prayer to both God and Maggie and hoped one of them was paying attention.
    Senator Winfield’s wife, Deidre, died early yesterday morning at the family home in New York from complications of lungcancer. The Winfields chose to wait twenty-four hours before announcing Deidre’s death so they could have time to mourn in private. Services will be held this weekend in a private memorial. The Winfields have a long history of both public and political service and an even longer history of family tragedy, beginning with the untimely death of the senator’s brother, William “Billy” Winfield, and followed by the still unconfirmed death of his youngest son, Cutter Nicholas Winfield, at age fourteen…
    “Cutter’s not coming home, is he?”
    Walter Winfield looked away from the television reports to see his eldest son standing in the doorway of his office. Eric, still looking very much like the star quarterback hedging for a tackle or routing out a kick path, leaned against the doorjamb. With his body poised in a forward motion of hunger, hair hanging over his forehead in a decidedly noncorporate length, he looked every inch the man Walter’s brother had been.
    Walter’s throat still tightened when he thought of Billy, killed in combat one month before Cutter was born.
    “He can’t,” Walter said finally. “He knows that.”
    Eric hesitated for a beat, and then muttered that his day had already been ruined. He walked farther into the office, not bothering to shut the door behind him the way he would during normal business hours. It was close to midnight, and they were the only two on the floor—and most likely in the entire building, save for a cleaning staff. “You still haven’t been able to get inside the will, have you?”
    “No. Not yet.”
    “Do you think there’s going to be a problem?”
    “I don’t. But if there is, I’ll take care of it, Eric.” Walter pushed back in his chair and sighed, feeling the weight of the world on his sixty-year-old shoulders and hating it.
    He glanced at the note he’d prepared, one that would be picked up shortly and hand-delivered to Cutter by morning. Simple and to the point, the way he’d always taught his children to be. The way Deidre could never have acted, even later on when talking got too hard for her. And then he ripped it in half and threw it into the fireplace.
    Nick, as the man was known today, would hate him for the message, but his youngest had always found a reason to despise his father. Running away, first at twelve and again, for good, at fourteen, had proven the point.
    He would only have come home for his mother. Only if and when she’d called, and she never had.
    The Winfields were all about public face and private pain. This would prove to be no exception.

CHAPTER 5
    Ineed to find someone,” Nick told Max, once he’d gotten onto base and into Max’s private sanctum sometime after 0500.
    Max sat at a long table, rows of computer monitors in front of him and overhead. “Do I have missing persons stamped on my goddamned forehead?”
    “Aw, come on, man.” Nick slid into one of the chairs next to the captain and held his gaze steady.
    “You and your entire team owe me more favors, and you’d best be sure I’m keeping