“You can trust me to keep your confidence, Paul, unless I think it might bear on bringing your brother home or finding those responsible.”

He tried to shrug it off. “It’s nothing, really. I shouldn’t bother you or…or anybody with it.”

“No. Please. Go ahead.”

He drew in enough air to make his chest grow; when he let it out, words came along: “I took two of the phone calls. Mostly it’s been Mr. Letterman and a few times Mother. But I spoke briefly to this…individual.”

“M?”

“M.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “And this is what I want to share with you. His voice sounded…familiar.”

I frowned; put a hand on his shoulder. “You think you may know this person?”

“I might. I can’t give you a name or anything. I don’t think it’s one of my friends. I mean, frankly, all of my circle are well-off. Not as well-off as we are, but…nobody I know needs money. Nobody needs to do something like, anything like…this.”

“The voice doesn’t remind you of anyone in particular?”

“No. It’s almost…eerie. Something, someone, from the past.”

“Paul, you aren’t old enough to have much of a past.”

“I know. Jesus, I know! I’ve been racking my brain. When I was in military school, and later college, some of us would go out drinking. Could it have been somebody from those days?”

“Could it?”

His eyebrows went up and came down. “The voice on the phone sounded drunk to me.”

“And to me. Letterman commented on it, too.”

“If I come up with something, can I bring it to you?”

“Of course.”

“If I did get a hunch about who this might be, maybe you could look into it without getting some innocent guy in trouble.”

Did he already have a hunch? I really didn’t think so. But he was right—it might come to him.

I said, “Be glad to.” I gave him an A-1 business card. “If I wind up going back to Chicago, call me there.”

His eyes widened. “Are you planning to go back to Chicago?”

“No, but I might. If the FBI steps in and your father doesn’t have any further need of me.” I offered him my hand. “Thank you, Paul. Thank you for coming to me with this.”

We shook. Firmly, this time. He smiled a little and nodded, then led me to the library where his father and the hunting wall mural awaited, then quietly slipped away.

Greenlease was sitting on the couch with his little blonde daughter, who wore a green corduroy jumper and was reading a Nancy Drew book, The Ringmaster’s Secret. She looked up at me, but didn’t smile, still wary of me. The kid was a good judge of character.

“Darling,” Greenlease told the girl, getting to his feet, “I need to talk to Mr. Heller.”

She nodded and returned her eyes to the page while her father escorted me through the double doors onto a patio that looked onto fiery-topped trees and a browning golf course. The sun was out and the chill of the night before had backed off some. We sat at a wrought-iron table on wrought-iron chairs.