Greenlease said nothing. He looked toward the golf course. Some fools were playing. Hadn’t snowed yet.

Finally, he said, “No.” Then his eyes came to mine. “You think he’s dead. That’s why you’re talking about priests and nurses.”

“I think you need to prepare yourself for the possibility. Your wife, too. In the meantime, get the FBI on this full-throttle. If the worst happens, I can ask people I know in my world and see if we can find the bitch who took your boy and this bastard M, too. The feds can trace serial numbers. But I know how to trace lowlife scum.”

I got to my feet and so did he. We shook hands and went back inside, where he returned to his daughter’s side. Finally she smiled at me, just a little. But it was enough.

I was on my way out, back in my Burberry with my hat in hand, when an unfamiliar female voice called out to me, although I immediately knew just who it was.

“Oh, Mr. Heller?” The voice was a sweet, soft second soprano. “Would you wait a moment?”

I turned and a tall nicely built woman in her mid-forties approached from down the hall; her hair dark and short and well-coiffed, she was attractive in a dignified manner, reminiscent of Irene Dunne in some late ’30s tearjerker. She wore a navy suit, white silk blouse and low heels, as if ready for church on this Monday. Of course Catholics went to church all sorts of times we heathens couldn’t keep track of.

“We may have met years ago,” she said. “I know you’ve done a number of jobs for Bob.” She seemed utterly composed, but her dark eyes screamed red like her husband’s.

She had offered her hand for me to take—not a handshake, but for me to hold, which I did in both of mine. “No, Mrs. Greenlease, I would have remembered. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this.”

“You were very kind to come from Chicago to help us,” she said. “I understand you played a crucial role last night.”

I wished I’d played a more crucial role, like grabbing that M by the goddamn throat when he picked the money up and squeezed out of him what he’d done with her son.

I said, “I have a boy Bobby’s age. Glad to do anything to help. I’m heading back to Chicago for now, but I’ll be on call.”

Her smile was a lightly lipsticked wound. “You were on the Lindbergh case, I understand.”

Oh, Christ—not that again.

I risked the smallest smile. “Yes, I was a liaison between the authorities there and the Chicago police department—I didn’t have my own agency then.”

“Why a liaison?”

“Well, Al Capone was claiming he could get the child back through his underworld connections if we’d just let him out. All kinds of crazy things were going on back then.”

Her hand was still in mine. “Are things really any different now?”