I did know. She had realized how possible it was that her boy might already be dead.
The little girl stirred. She looked up at me with big eyes, as blue as her father’s, and grabbed his arm, startled, afraid. “Is he one of them, Daddy?”
“No, darling. This is Mr. Heller. He’s on our side.”
Chapter Two
The fifteen-story Hotel President in the Power and Light District — Kansas City’s business and entertainment section — was unquestionably elegant, even if it was best known for a mysterious murder that happened in Room 1046 in 1935. Nobody asked me to solve it then and I wasn’t interested in doing so now.
But Bob Greenlease had always known how to treat the help. The lobby — quiet on a Sunday afternoon but for my echoing footsteps — put any Chicago hotel to shame, what with the golden two-story columns, chandeliers, marble floors, wrought-iron second-floor balcony, green palms and over-stuffed furnishings.
My room on the eighth floor was larger than need be, but who was complaining? The hotel had been around since the late twenties, but a recent remodel had led to modern, spindly furnishings, abstract wall art, and a red coverlet to make up for gray walls and curtains; there was even a small TV by the mirror on the dresser opposite the bed.
I unpacked my bag and retrieved the second suit I’d brought along — a gray twill woolen number from Richard Bennett in the Loop, cut to conceal a holstered accessory. I hung the Botany 500 in the closet and the tailored suit on the hook inside the bathroom door and took a shower, providing steam for the suit to hang out and for me to loosen up. The meeting with Greenlease had left me tight as a drum.
Speaking of which, the hotel’s Drum Room — a big circular restaurant with a snare-shaped red-and-yellow bar at its center — was my destination for an early supper. Sunday was the only night they didn’t offer live music — everybody from Frank Sinatra and Benny Goodman to Glenn Miller and Dean Martin had played here. Right now, at six o’clock, one of a handful of diners, I had to settle for mellow Muzak.
I had the filet medium rare, hash browns, buttered lima beans and salad, and a rum and Coke. But I only ate half of everything and limited myself to the one drink. I would be working tonight and even now I was in the tailored Richard Bennett with the nine millimeter under my arm. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone over the photostats of the ransom notes before I came down to eat.
You’d have lost your appetite, too.
If do exactly as we say an try no tricks, advised the first missive in what looked to be a feminine hand, your boy will be back safe withen 24 hrs after we check money. The second said, Don’t try to stop us on pick-up or boy dies you will hear from us later. More notes followed, with instructions like: Tie a white rag on your radio aerial. Proceed north on highway No. 169 past the junction with highway No. 69 about there miles where you will come to Henry’s place. And: Go west to first rd heading south across from lum reek farm sign. None of this gibberish had panned out, of course. Phone call instructions had been even worse.
These were people who thought stealing a six-year-old boy was a good way to get ahead — stupid people who’d spent almost a week botching their ransom delivery instructions. When I asked myself if this boy could still be alive, the food I’d eaten roiled in my belly like storm clouds.
Back in my hotel room I put a long-distance call in to my ex-wife in Beverly Hills. Peggy was married to a film director who’d had his ups and downs, currently up. We maintained a truce for Sam’s sake, but she not surprisingly never seemed glad to hear from me when I phoned.
“Sam’s at a pool party at the Lewises,” she said.
He and Jerry’s son Gary were longtime pals, longtime for six-year-olds anyway.
“And you’re not with him?”
“I think he’ll be safe with a dozen other kids and more than enough parents. What did you want with him?”
“Just to see how he’s doing. I’m his father, or did that slip your mind?”
A tense truce, admittedly.
“Well,” Peg said, “he’s fine. You’ll see him soon enough.”
I got him during his Christmas vacation. He was in the first grade.
“Would you tell him...”
“What?”
Tell him his daddy loves him.
“Nothing,” I said.
At seven on this chilly but not quite cold night, I left the loaner Caddy in the driveway outside the four-car garage and walked around to the front door, where I was let in by a tall, white-haired, bald-on-top Sunday school teacher type in a tie under a sweater vest. Somewhat hunch-shouldered, probably nearly as old as Greenlease, he introduced himself as Will Letterman from the Tulsa branch. I had missed Stew O’Neill, the local Greenlease Motors crony who’d been released to spend the evening with his family.
Anyway, that was the story. The real reason for O’Neill’s night off, I figured, was my arrival on the scene. For a lot of good reasons — including staying close to his wife and not making a second kidnap target out of himself — Greenlease would likely maintain his executive position here and send his people to make the ransom drop. In this case, that was Letterman and me.
A colored maid in her twenties, shy with a friendly smile but a beleaguered demeanor, collected my hat and Burberry — working in a place under siege was not an easy job. Within moments the missing boy’s father — no dressing gown now, rather shirt sleeves and tie — joined us in the expansive entryway and took me aside. No sign of the clinging young daughter now, or the adopted son.
Greenlease’s smile was a ghastly thing. “Nate, if you have the opportunity to... do something, I know you will. But I must insist you honor Will’s lead, if this ransom drop finally happens tonight. He’ll be representing me.”
“No offense, Bob, but then... why bring me in?”
“Because these people are unpredictable and matters could get out of hand. That’s where I’m counting on you — the unexpected. You’re going to be compensated, of course.”
“I didn’t ask for—”
He pressed something that crinkled into my hand. “If this isn’t sufficient, let me know. And your expenses’ll be on top of it, of course.”
Then he started down the hall and Letterman trailed after him. I’m human — before I fell in line, I had a glimpse at the check before tucking it away. Five thousand dollars with “Retainer” in the memo line. Well, sure — we would do things his way.
Our little party wound up in a rectangular study with a wall of leather-bound books at right and at left a mural of hunting dogs and their shotgun-wielding masters heading after game in the trees. Leaded windows behind a big mahogany desk at the far end looked out at real trees and leaded-window double doors adjacent surveyed a dark night not helped much by a crescent moon over which clouds drifted like the black smoke of a distant fire.
Down by the mural a well-stocked liquor cart awaited with a leather-cushioned chair arranged in front of a low-slung coffee table with a matching sofa running along the wall under the hunters and dogs and trees. The coffee table had two phones on it, one on a wire from nearby, the other stretched on its cord from another room.