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.”