It wasn't there, which meant either she wasn't wearing it that day or someone got to it first. Marcus's eyes held Jack's. I'm betting you went to her apartment, found it before I could. Jack didn't confirm or deny. What would you do if you had it?
Look at the evidence. See the names. Understand what really happened in 1972. Marcus took a step closer. Then I'd decide what to do with it, whether to bury it or expose it.
And if your grandfather's name is on that list, if he really was corrupt then I'd want to know why, what he was involved in, whether he had a choice. Marcus's voice hardened. And I'd want to know who killed my father. Jack reached into his jacket. Marcus tensed, hand moving toward his waistband.
Jack moved slowly, deliberately, pulled out not a weapon but the locket. The gold caught the morning light, swung gently on its chain. Marcus stared at it like a man seeing a ghost. Your father, Franklin Morrison, he was my uncle, Jack said. My father's older brother.
He raised my dad after their parents died. Everything my father knew about being a man, he learned from Franklin. Marcus seemed to have trouble breathing. Your family? Yeah, we are.
The weight of that hung between them. Two men connected by blood and violence and 50 years of secrets. My father spent his whole life carrying shame, Jack continued, because when Franklin was murdered, my dad had evidence that could have brought the killers to justice. But he was threatened, told that if he used it, his family would die. So he hid it, gave the locket to my mother, and spent 30 years wishing he'd been braver.
He was protecting you. I know that now, didn't know it when he died. I thought Jack's voice caught. I thought he was just weak. Marcus nodded, understanding.
My mother told me Franklin was the bravest man she'd ever known, that he could have walked away from what he'd discovered, could have pretended not to see the corruption, but he couldn't live with himself if he did. Sounds like my uncle. Your uncle? Marcus repeated the words like learning a new language. Christ, I have an uncle, had an uncle, Richard Morrison.
He died in 1992, heart attack, 2 months after my mother's car accident. Jack paused. He never knew about you, never knew Franklin had a son. It would have meant everything to him. Silence stretched between them, not hostile, just heavy with the weight of lost time, lost connections, lost chances to be family.
I need to see it, Marcus said finally. The microfilm, I need to know. Jack held up the locket. The truth isn't easy. Whatever's on here, it's going to hurt.
It's going to change how you see your family, both families. I know. And when you see it, you're going to have to make a choice about what to do with it, about whether justice matters more than protecting a legacy. I know that, too. Jack looked at this man, his cousin technically, though they'd never met, never known each other existed, and saw something he recognized.
The same struggle Jack had been fighting his whole life. The weight of fathers and their mistakes, the question of whether you honored family by hiding their sins or by exposing them. There's a place, Jack said. My garage, private. We can look at it there, together.
Marcus hesitated. Why are you doing this after what happened to your mother? Because you're Franklin Morrison's son, and Franklin deserves to have his story told right. By family. Jack met his eyes.
And because my mother taught me that revenge just creates more pain. But truth truth can set people free. Marcus considered this, nodded slowly. Your garage, lead the way. They rode in convoy through Phoenix as the city woke up.
Jack on his Harley, Marcus following in the Mercedes. The morning commute was just beginning, people heading to jobs they tolerated to support lives they were building one day at a time. Jack thought about those lives, about how fragile they were, how easily they could be shattered by violence or loss or the revelation of ugly truths. He thought about his mother lying in a hospital bed trusting him to handle this right. He thought about his promise.
The garage appeared like sanctuary, small, honest, the kind of place where things got fixed instead of broken. Jack unlocked the side door. Marcus followed him inside, looked around at the tools, the bikes, the evidence of work done with care. You built this yourself? Marcus asked.
30 years ago, right after I left the Angels. It's good work. It's honest work. Jack moved to the office area, pulled out a laptop that was 10 years old but still functional. The kind of technology that couldn't be hacked remotely because it barely remembered how to connect to the internet.
He opened the locket carefully, removed the photograph of his parents. Behind it, pressed flat against the backing, was the microfilm. Tiny, translucent, holding 50 years of secrets in a space smaller than a postage stamp. Marcus stared at it. That's it.
That's what got my father killed? That's it. Jack had a scanner, old but serviceable. He'd prepared for this moment, though he hadn't known Marcus would be here to see it. The microfilm went under the scanner.
Jack adjusted the settings, magnification, contrast, resolution. The first image appeared on the screen. A document, typed, official, Department of Defense letterhead, dated March 1972. A list of names, ranks, positions, and beside each name a notation, amounts, dates, bank account numbers, payments, bribes. Evidence of a network that stretched from Arizona to DC, from local cops to military brass, all working together to move weapons from military stockpiles to criminal organizations.
Jack scrolled down, more pages, more names. Photographs of men in uniform shaking hands with men in expensive suits, transfer documents, shipping manifests, the entire operation laid out in meticulous detail. Franklin Morrison had been thorough. Marcus leaned closer to the screen. His breathing had changed, shallow, quick.
There, he said, pointing, Colonel James Webb, logistics coordinator, monthly payment $5,000, total received $85,000. Marcus made a sound like he'd been punched. Jack kept scrolling. More names. Some Jack recognized from his father's stories.
Some were strangers. All of them connected. All of them guilty. Then another page. Different handwriting.
Franklin's own notes. James Webb confirmed. Direct oversight of weapons transfer. Oldest daughter Linda unaware of father's activities. Must protect her.
Plan to present evidence to FBI agent Morrison, no relation, next week. Marcus read it twice. Three times. He was trying to protect my mother. Your father knew your mother's family was involved.
He could have just walked away. Could have divorced her, disappeared, saved himself. But he tried to protect her while still doing the right thing. More scrolling. More pages.
Then something that made both men stop. A handwritten note. Different hand. Rougher. Dated two days before Franklin's death.
F. Morrison getting too close. Recommend immediate action. Witnesses to be minimal. Make it look like accident.
DUI motorcycle crash. Standard protocol. No signature. But below it another note in different ink. Approved.
Webb to coordinate. Timeline 48 hours. Marcus's hands were shaking. My grandfather ordered my father's death. Jack didn't say anything.