“You’re saying I should fade.”
His grin was an unsettling array of big yellow teeth. “Heller, you are so close to gone already I can barely see you.”
He gave me a nod and sauntered out, shutting the door soft, like he didn’t want to wake the dead.
I drove through the night.
No moon, just blackness, the big Cadillac cutting through nothing, farmland rolling flat and anonymous, with only the occasional small-town Main Street to indicate the world hadn’t ended. What seemed a fire in the night was only the lights of Columbia, where a We-Never-Close service station filled the belly of the Caddy. I was hungry too, and had a Baby Ruth bar and a cup of vending machine coffee. The heater put out fine. I found a radio station that wasn’t playing Grand Ole Opry, instead putting me in the soothing company of Johnnie Ray, Rosemary Clooney and Eddie Fisher. I turned it off once, when Patti Page started singing “(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window.” The song was worth hating in general, but it reminded me of Carl and Bonnie’s dog Doc and the comforter the animal used to sleep on before it became Bobby Greenlease’s shroud. I thought the veins on the back of my hands would pop, clutching the steering wheel. After a while I switched the radio back on and Frankie Laine was singing “High Noon,” all about killing bastards and that was better.
Then, somehow, it was four hours after I left the Coral Court and I was in Kansas City — or I should say Mission Hills, coming up to the FBI checkpoint at West 53rd and Verona Road, the sleepy affluent neighborhood that at midnight was even sleepier.
I slowed and the passenger door opened on the parked blue Ford and agent Wesley Grapp stepped out. Like me, he was in a raincoat, just not a Burberry — I made more money than FBI agents, which wasn’t fair but that was capitalism for you.
I pulled over and, leaving the motor running, met him just outside the driver’s door of the Cadillac.
We skipped any greeting.
I went right to: “Has anybody informed Bob Greenlease yet?”
Once again, it was cold enough for our breath to smoke, and his glasses were already fogging. “Informed him of what?”
“That the kidnappers are in the custody of the St. Louis police.”
His face was immobile but I could tell he was frowning inside. “What do you know about it, Nate?”
“I asked you first, Wes. I’ll remind you that I’m in Mr. Greenlease’s employ.”
His sigh made a misty cloud. “We don’t know much yet. Just that the two suspects keep confessing but never the same way twice. They can’t seem to stop gilding the lily. We’re looking for a third suspect.”
That would be Tom Marsh. I could have told him it was a waste of time, but better to let the feds track the guy down and make sure he really didn’t have anything to do with anything.
Now Grapp’s frown emerged. “What’s your role in this, Nate?”
“I did some poking around in St. Louis. Undercover, essentially. The key cops are in the know, but I’m to stay off the official radar, unless I’m needed.”
His jutting chin came up. “You like these suspects?”
“In the ‘like’ sense of yes, they are the scum responsible. That boy is dead, Wes. His body will turn up tomorrow at the latest. They were thoughtful, though. They planted flowers over him.”
“This is our case now,” Grapp said. “Lindbergh law kicks in — maybe you’ve heard of it.”
I didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m guessing there will be some jurisdictional squabbling between county and city and federal, but I don’t care about that. I might lean toward Missouri because they are more liable to execute this lovely pair. Uncle Sam hasn’t killed a woman since Mary Surratt. That’s before your time — she conspired to kill Lincoln.”
“I know my history. What are you doing here?”
“I want to prepare Bob Greenlease for what’s coming. He has a right to know.”
He sighed another cloud, then said, “I don’t know that that’s your call.”
“You don’t know that it isn’t. Let’s just say I’m returning the Cadillac he loaned me.”
I gave him a smile that barely cracked my face and got back in the Caddy where it was warm. He seemed to be thinking about stopping me, but probably couldn’t think of a legitimate reason why.
The Greenlease house, so austerely lovely by day, seemed just a barely defined geometric shape on a night so black it threatened to swallow the structure up. The handful of yellow flickery windows might have represented a fire not quite out of control yet.
Rather than ring the bell, and risk waking more people than necessary, I knocked, gently. I had a hunch someone would be posted near the door. They were still in the mode of getting Bobby back, and time was a precious commodity. Yes it was — but one little boy’s had already run out.
The door cracked open. I’d been right — a guardian was at the gate, and once again that guardian was the other son, the adopted one, Paul. He was in a suit that looked slept in and lacked a tie — probably camped out on the living room sofa, should the door need him.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, blinking, making himself wake up more. He gave his head a shake. “Come in. Please.”
He opened the door for me and I stepped into that ballroom of an entryway, the stairs rising to darkness, its lion’s-head newel roaring with silence.
I said, “I don’t suppose your father is still up.”
“No.” Quickly he gathered my raincoat and hat, placing them on a chair nearby. “He went upstairs about eleven. Have you heard something?”
“Could we sit down for a moment, Paul? I’ll fill you in.” I gestured toward the living room, down the hall to the right.
He nodded and led the way. Then we were in the room where just days ago I’d spoken with his father while his young sister slept nestled to Daddy on the sofa that faced the fireplace, which was going now, giving off ironic warmth. A blanket was on the cushions — this was indeed where Paul had been bivouacked — and he picked the thing up quickly, folded it, set it on a chair.
We both sat.
“I do have news,” I said. “Most of it very bad.”
“Tell me.”
“I will, but I need to know whether you think we should wake your father up for it.”
“Oh, we should. Whatever it is. But... but not Mother.”
I nodded. “Listen first. Your brother is dead. The kidnappers took his life right away the first day.”
The blood drained out of his face and made a ghost of him. He swallowed. His lower lip quivered.
“The only good news,” I said, “is that the two who did it are in the custody of the St. Louis police.”
“What... what kind of people are they?”
“Possibly a married couple. They seem to have lived together, at least. A pair of drunken lowlifes looking to make a bundle.”
“They did this... together?”
“The woman picked your brother up at school. The man killed Bobby shortly after. Shot him to death. It was relatively quick. Bobby suffered, I won’t lie to you... but not for long.”
Tears came from his eyes and then trailed onto his cheeks like rain down a window. His voice wobbled. “What kind of man...”
I shrugged. “You’ll know soon enough. He’s about your age and from your social class. His name is Carl Hall. From things he said, I’d gather he squandered his own fortune and looked for a way to... replenish it.”
Paul’s eyes had grown wide. Large. “Carl Hall? Carl Austin Hall?”
“His middle initial is ‘A,’ so it... it could be Austin. Why? Does that sound familiar?”
“Tell me what he looks like.”
I did.
“My God,” Paul said. His tears had stopped. He dug out a handkerchief and dried his face. “So that’s why his voice stirred something. I think I know him. Or, anyway... knew him. Carl Austin Hall was at Kemper with me.”