“You must be Mr. Heller,” he said, and stepped aside and gestured me in. He took my coat, hat and bag and set them on a chair by a mirror.
Then I was in a world of big rooms with dark woodwork, pale plaster walls, dark wood floors, tall leaded-glass windows; along the left wall, a stairway rose with a carved lion for a newel post. The interior seemed oddly at war with itself — everything Prairie-style and spare but for carved touches, as if the house couldn’t decide if it was a mission or a manor.
Few lights were on. This was a somber place — not necessarily always so, but right now the inhabitants could not quite acknowledge light, which even the tall windows seemed reluctant to admit.
He was about to lead me deeper into the house when he froze, remembering himself, and turned and said, with a stiff nod, “Paul Greenlease.”
This was the adopted son of Bob Greenlease’s first marriage; Greenlease’s second wife, Virginia, had presented her husband with two late-in-life children, a daughter whose name I didn’t recall and of course the missing Bobby.
“I’ve been serving as the family’s spokesman,” Paul said, offering a listless handshake. “Dad has taken this awfully hard.”
We were standing in an entryway larger than most living rooms.
“I’m sure,” I said. “How’s your mother doing?”
“It kind of varies, day to day. She’s been sedated a lot, frankly. Sometimes things seem to be looking up, then...”
“Then they’re down. I understand these creatures have you folks jumping through hoops — one message, one call, one snipe hunt after another.”
He nodded, swallowed. “They’ve left us notes under crayon-marked rocks. They’ve taped letters underneath mailboxes. One note sent us to another note with instructions too confusing to follow.”
“Sounds like you’re dealing with dolts.”
He had an ashen look. “They want a lot of money. That’s not a problem, understand, but it took a while to get together.”
“How much?”
He paused, not sure he should share this, then did: “Six hundred thousand. Dollars.”
“Good God. That must be a record.”
“I wouldn’t know. Is that a lot for this kind of thing?”
Lindbergh had been asked for $50,000. Of course that was a while ago. Inflation had hit every business.
“The very first letter specified federal reserve notes,” Paul said, “in tens and twenties. Mr. Eisenhower at Commerce Trust is helping. He’s the president’s brother.”
“Of the bank?”
“No, of America. You know — Ike?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t mention I hadn’t voted for him. “And Ike’s brother got the money together?”
“Yes. And we tried to deliver it but it was raining and these letters have been kind of illiterate and... well, we left the money but the kidnapper called us later and said he couldn’t find it.”
Jesus.
“We went back and picked the money up,” Paul said, escorting me down a hallway. “We tried another time, but... You should really talk to my father.”
We stopped at a doorless archway. Very softly, he said, “Sue’s become a sort of appendage to Dad. She’s eleven. They’re sort of... helping each other through this.”
“I understand.”
“But it might hamper what gets said. Just so you know.”
“Got it.”
We moved through the archway into a big living room. Again, the room was fighting itself, stark Arts and Crafts furnishings, walls of square-panel mahogany, but a ceiling of ornate plaster work with a chandelier; a grand piano lurked in one corner, the fireplace going, dispensing warmth out of a coldly elaborate decorative mantel over which hung a gilt-framed painting, a family portrait of Robert Greenlease and his wife Virginia with a much younger Paul at his side and a toddler Sue by her mother’s. Bobby Greenlease, not yet born, was already absent.
A dark leather-cushioned Stickley sofa faced the fire and the back of Robert Greenlease’s head and his broad shoulders — he was in a blue satin dressing gown — were to me.
“Dad,” Paul said quietly from where we stood just inside the room, “Mr. Heller from Chicago is here.”
Greenlease’s hand raised slowly, like a slow child risking an answer in class, and he gently motioned me forward. He did not turn.
Paul nodded to me and disappeared and I went around to face Greenlease, who wore a white shirt and tie under the dressing gown, its lapels so dark blue they were almost black. His eleven-year-old daughter, blonde and cute in a plaid jumper, was curled up sleeping next to him on a brown leather sofa cushion, her head on his knee; his hand was on her shoulder.
In his early seventies, Bob Greenlease was a big man with a rectangular head and white hair, wispy on top. His eyes were wide-set and light blue behind browline glasses, nose hawkish, mouth a thin line, a face that could have been severe but wasn’t, because he so frequently smiled.
Of course he wasn’t smiling now.
Seated or not, he had an off-balance look, as if he’d just realized he stood at the edge of a cliff.
He whispered, “Thank you for coming, Nate. We’ll keep our voices down. Don’t want to disturb the girl.”
He extended his left hand — his right remaining on his daughter’s shoulder — and we awkwardly but warmly shook.
I drew up a wood-and-leather-cushion chair, careful not to let it screech on the hardwood floor. “I’m so sorry about this terrible thing,” I said, sotto voce.
“Your son is well? Sam, isn’t it?”
“Yes. With his mother in California. He’s six. Like your boy.”
The tight mouth flinched. “Wish I’d called you in sooner. Should have been smart enough to take advantage of your prior experience with Lindbergh and all.”
I knew what he meant. But I wondered how it made me an expert, considering how that had come out.
I said, “You don’t have to fill me in. I spoke to Agent Grapp and your son and heard all about this damn nonsense you’ve had to endure.”
He nodded, just barely. “We seem to finally be on the verge of arranging the ransom drop. It’s been like something out of the Marx Brothers. But we’re to get a phone call at eight P.M. with the instructions.”
The fire snapped at us and was almost too warm as it cast an orange glow.
“What do you want me to do, Bob?”
“Join the team. Two old friends of mine, valued business associates, have been helping out on this thing — Will Letterman, who runs my Tulsa dealership, and from my K.C. operation here, Stew O’Neill. You’ll meet them. Fine fellas.”
“I’m sure they are. But you’re obviously dealing with dangerous, unscrupulous criminals. You need someone who can handle that breed.”
His smile was barely discernible. “Which is why I wish I’d called you sooner. Are you too old and successful, Nate, to still carry that Browning semiautomatic pistol?”
I nodded toward the outer area. “It’s in my bag. Holster, too.”
“Good. Afraid we don’t have room for you here, between the help and my support crew. I’ve had arrangements made for you at the Hotel President, just fifteen minutes away. I’ve got a new Cadillac waiting for your use, here in the garage — Paul has keys for you. Go get settled at the hotel and be back at seven-thirty. I’ll introduce you to Will and Stew.”
“Fine.” I got to my feet. “How are you holding up?”
“A lot of support here. Good people. My son and Will have been handling the press. My daughter sticks right by me, and my wife... well, Virginia has occasional rough moments, but she’s smart and strong. She took the call that came in today, herself, and let this ‘M’... that’s what he calls himself... have it.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Told the bastard there’d been enough runaround. But afterward...” He swallowed thickly and the blue eyes behind the glasses were glittering. “...she rather... came apart. You see, she had specific questions that M couldn’t, or anyway didn’t, answer. Name of our driver on the latest European trip... what Bobby was building with his monkey blocks in his room. The caller skated over those, just said what a handful Bobby was being. I think for the first time, Virginia... well. You know.”