I asked about his older son.
“It’s been rough on Paul,” he admitted. “He knew this Hall creature in military school, not well but did know him, and felt guilty over bringing him into our lives. Not his fault, of course. And he’s doing very well now. Has his own dealership over at 50th and Main — he sells more Cadillacs at that location than we do here.”
“Must make you very proud.”
“I am. I am. But it does hang over him... the feeling of guilt. And it’s same for Sue.”
“Your daughter? Why would she feel guilty?” But then it came back to me, from the press coverage. “Oh, that’s right... Hall and Heady originally targeted her.”
He sighed, nodded. “Yes, they made several attempts to take her that we weren’t aware of. Apparently they settled on Bobby because Sue was older — she was eleven — and our boy looked... easier to handle.”
I touched his sleeve. “You don’t have to go into it.”
“The point is, she felt guilty. What do they call it?”
“Survivor’s guilt. Soldiers who come back from war have it.” I had it. “Is she doing all right now?”
“Yes. She’s in high school. And she’s had counseling over time. A child psychologist initially, lately a psychiatrist. She and her mother are very close. She and I are very close.”
“And Mrs. Greenlease?”
He gazed down at his folded hands. “My wife takes solace in her church work. She’s a very devout Catholic — I’m not of that faith, but I support her and the charities she’s interested in. She’s convinced she’ll see Bobby again in Heaven.”
He didn’t sound quite so convinced.
“Mr. Greenlease... Bob. I wanted to talk to you in person because a telephone just wouldn’t do.”
His head came up.
I continued: “I’ve been asked to look into what happened to the missing half of the ransom you paid.”
That seemed to confuse him. “What was recovered has already been returned.”
“I figured as much. But there’s a great interest in what became of the missing three hundred thousand dollars and where exactly it went... and who benefitted from it.”
He stood. Sudden enough to surprise me. He walked to the curtained window onto his showroom and stared as if he could see anything but fabric. His posture reminded me of Johnny Hagan at his flophouse window.
“I think you care about that money,” I said. “I don’t think you care about it as money... you obviously have everything you need in life.”
“Not,” he said quietly, “everything.”
“No. Not everything. And who else would put up twenty-five thousand dollars to make that cabbie talk?”
He turned quickly — quicker than a man his age might be expected to. “Is that why you’re here, Nate? You figured that out?”
“It wasn’t hard. I’ve worked for Pearson. He wouldn’t pay two dollars admission for a last moment with his dying mother. You’re the only one in this thing who could have afforded an offer like that. So you must want to know where the money went. It must mean something to you who ended up with it. I have a couple of clients who would like to know, too. Before I say yes to them, I want your blessing to go on with it.”
“You don’t need my blessing...”
“Oh, I do. You have that much coming. I’d think you would want me to go forward. But I need to hear it from you.”
His hands were in his pockets. He looked at me like I was an apparition and he was trying to decide whether to be scared or not.
“I don’t give a good goddamn about the money,” he said finally. “But I can’t stomach the idea that anyone is out there profiting off the murder of my son.”
I gestured for him to return to the couch.
He did. Sat. His hands were folded in his lap again. His head was lowered but his shoulders were straight.
“What would you have me do?” I asked.
“If you can get the money back, I’ll give it to my wife for her Catholic charities. Maybe somebody will build something in Bobby’s honor. But what I really want is... I’m not going to say what it is. I’m not Catholic but I like to think I’m a good Christian. Some of what I’ve read about you, in the cheap true detective magazines, indicates you are thought to have on occasion employed what some might call... rough justice. It seems bad people who have crossed your path, at times, sometimes... simply disappear. Or have died under violent circumstances about which opinions vary as to the party responsible.”
“Such rumors add color in my profession,” I said. “There are clients of mine who appreciate an ability to cut a corner now and then.”
“Or a throat?” He gripped my right wrist; it was remarkably firm, coming from a bony hand. “I will not only okay your efforts, Nate, I will take over as your client. And I will pay you well.”
I patted his hand on my wrist, gently. He relaxed the grip, withdrew his hand.
I said, “I already have two clients. I don’t need another. Anyway, you’ve already paid me enough on this job.”
He accepted that reluctantly, then said, “You must do what you think is... appropriate. I ask only two things.”
“Yes?”
“I want a detailed report on what you’re able, and not able, to accomplish. Client confidentiality should cover both of us in that regard.”
“Of course. What’s the other thing?”
“My wife is to know nothing of this. She is a gentle soul and she would not... approve.”
“Understood.”
I rose and he walked me to the door. “When will you start?”
“I’ll rent a car and head to St. Louis tonight or tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “No. I’ll loan you a Cadillac. And if you’re staying overnight, I’ll book you at the Hotel President. As my guest.”
Like old times, I thought.
“Matter of fact,” he said, “there’s someone you should talk to before you go to St. Louis. You’ll need to make time for that.”
On my previous visit to the President Hotel’s Drum Room, I had barely eaten half of my evening meal. Now here I was again, the identical menu selections before me, seated at a small table designed mostly for drinking in the snare-shaped bar bordered by red pillars. The bar’s garish, dominant red with yellow trim and circus touches would have been perfect for a six-year-old boy, if they let kids in. Any who weren’t buried in the back yard anyway.
But that was five years ago and here in the present I was hungry, and the filet, baked potato and even the lima beans went down just fine. I passed on dessert and sat there nursing my second rum and Coke, the bar’s after-work crowd having faded away and the weeknight dining crowd scant. After a while a guy wandered in who might have been one of Greenlease’s sales staff if his suit had cost a little more.
Special Agent Wesley Grapp of the FBI came over and I rose, shook his hand, and we both sat down. About forty now, he looked noticeably older — his wasn’t an easy job, the long face longer now, his hairline going Nixon on him. The nose seemed more pointed, the jutting chin cushioned in a second un-jutting one.
Bob Greenlease had put this meeting together, so I got right to it: “Five years, and you’re still on this case?”
“Not on Bonnie and Carl we aren’t,” he said. “Though that bastard Hall is just as annoying dead as he was alive.”
“How does he manage that? No dumber criminal ever fumbled a big score.”
He sighed, shook his head, laughed a little. A waitress came over in a white blouse, red string tie and short red skirt; she was blonde and pleasant, trying out her nice smile — on a slow night, a couple of middle-aged guys in business suits meant a potentially good tip.