Greenlease poured himself some bourbon while both Letterman and I declined. Our host gestured to the chair and I took it, while Letterman sat on the couch, the twin phones in front of us. Behind me Greenlease began pacing; he might have been walking guard duty.
“I’ve already told Will,” Greenlease said, his words coming in a rush that undermined his controlled businessman manner, “that you’ll be handling the call when it comes in.”
“Mr. Heller...” Letterman began.
I said, “Please, Will. Nate.”
Letterman leaned forward. His features seemed to be hanging off his already long face; his eyes were light blue peering from slitted pouches. “Nate. I’ve told Bob I think putting you on the phone is a mistake. I have a pretty good rapport going with this ‘M’ character. He’s talked to Stew, as well, and a couple of times to Virginia.”
“Where is Mrs. Greenlease?”
Pausing his pacing, her husband said, “Still sedated. Our family doctor has been quite good about all this. Ginny was upset earlier today, after taking that call. Paul is at her bedside. This... ordeal simply has to stop, Nate.” Some rage broke through the calm: “Has to stop.”
I caught Greenlease’s eyes and nodded to the couch. He sighed and went over to join his associate; but he took the glass of bourbon along.
“I’m just afraid,” Letterman said, “a new voice might raise a warning bell with our ‘friend.’”
I said, “Will may be right.”
Greenlease’s palms came up. “Who the hell knows at this point? But you may be able to get more out of this son of a bitch than we have, Nate. You can size him from your perspective and experience. May be able to get him to, hell, clarify these jumbled instructions he keeps giving us.”
I frowned. “Is it a stall, you think?”
Letterman said, “I don’t take it that way. He seems... I hate to say this, but I’d swear this M has been drunk every time I’ve talked to him.”
“And you’re convinced this isn’t an impostor?”
Greenlease said, “He knows about the Jerusalem Cross Bobby was wearing — the medal with ribbons on it that was sent back with the second letter. Which we kept from the press.” His eyes went to his crony. “Will, Nate is an old hand at this. He’s dealt with this kind of thing before.”
The damn Lindbergh case again. Didn’t anybody remember how badly that had gone, right down to frying the wrong man?
“And I’ve told Nate,” Greenlease continued, “that if we’re able to make the exchange tonight, your word goes. You can overrule him, Will... Right, Nate?”
Not to be crass, but the five-grand check in my pocket said yes, and so did I.
I asked, “Are the feds or police in on this?”
Greenlease shook his head. “No. I’ve requested the call not be traced. They’re not to follow us on the drop. I don’t want to come this far and have it compromised. The important thing is Bobby making it home safe and sound.”
I didn’t look at Letterman — I was afraid we’d both give away our doubt that the boy’s safety remained an issue. But Bobby could still be alive. He could. Right?
The call was due at eight, which was coming up soon. I asked a few questions and heard some detailed stories from Letterman about the insanely frustrating runaround they’d been getting. Eight came and went. I allowed myself a rum and Coke. Green-lease had a second bourbon. Letterman continued to abstain, his eyes on those phones. We’d agreed that he and I would pick up on the count of three, and Greenlease would join him on the couch to listen in.
At 8:28, the phones rang. Frankly, we all jumped a little — the watched pot had seemed like it would never fucking boil. I counted to three silently with Letterman’s eyes on me, and picked up. Greenlease had already made his way over to the couch beside his associate, who held the receiver sideways so both could listen. Hand covering the mouthpiece.
I held the receiver to my ear. Silence.
I said, “Is this ‘M’?”
“...Speaking.”
“Let’s get this thing over with.”
“I don’t recognize your voice.”
“There are several of us who work for Mr. Greenlease helping him out. You and I haven’t spoken before.”
“If you’re police—”
“I’m not police. By the way, did the boy answer those questions his mother gave you this morning?”
That was my way of making him think I’d been part of this for a while.
“No, I, uh... I couldn’t... We couldn’t get anything out of him.”
The voice was tenor and thick, unsure and slurring. As Letterman said, almost certainly drunk. And his words had been less than encouraging.
I said, “You couldn’t get anything from him?”
“He wouldn’t talk.”
“Are we going to see the boy tonight?”
“No, you can’t, because they want to check the money. Anyway, the kid is raising so much hell they don’t want to have to deal with him on the pickup. You’ll get him back tomorrow, in Pittsburg, Kansas.”
The caller, I’d been told, had been portraying himself as an intermediary — hence, “they.” As for Pittsburg, Kansas, that was a new wrinkle — I would learn later that it was a town of twenty thousand, one hundred miles south near the Oklahoma border.
I asked, “Is that the straight goods?”
“It’s gospel.”
“And somebody will contact us there?”
“Someone will contact you. By telegram.”
“Where do we wait?”
“The telegraph office.”
“Listen, I want that kid tonight. No waiting till morning.”
The two men on the couch were frowning at me — they probably thought I was playing it too tough. But I could read this guy. He was soft if you weren’t six.
“You’ll get him tomorrow,” the slurry voice said, “but first I’ll call you tonight at Valentine 9279. At 11:30 P.M. exactly.”
Letterman was writing that down on a pad.
I said, “Valentine 9279? Where is that?”
“Phone booth in a hotel.”
“Here in town?”
“Yes.”
“Kansas City? Where in Kansas City?”
“Near the LaSalle Hotel.”
“In the LaSalle Hotel?”
“Near it. The Something-shire Hotel. Right across from the LaSalle.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? And we’ll get instructions for the drop then?”
“Yes.”
“Is this another drive in the country? This crap about climbing trees and crawling around on the ground looking for the right rock is getting old. Let’s deal man-to-man. Middle of Main Street. Anywhere.”
More frowns.
“I would like that too, but I don’t have anything to say about it.”
“I thought you were running the show.”
“I’m just ‘M’ — the middleman. But I’ll see to it things go perfectly tonight — no mix-ups. And you’ll be contacted about the boy in Pittsburg, Kansas, in the morning.”
A click announced the end of the call.
The hotel across from the LaSalle was the Berkshire. Linwood Boulevard at 11:15 P.M. on a Sunday night in downtown Kansas City was underpopulated to say the least and traffic was minimal; tall buildings bore so few lighted windows the effect was black dominos with only occasional white dots.
We pulled in at the entry’s drop-off area. Letterman was at the wheel in topcoat and fedora, I was riding with my Burberry unbelted, and the passenger in back was a zippered olive-colored canvas duffel bag with $600,000 dollars of cash stacked within.