“What if this bundle is the kidnap ransom?”

He swiped the air with a sideways hand. “If Steve is the kidnapper, we finger the fucker. Call in the cops. We got plenty of ’em in our pocket.” He had something else in his pocket, too, and he shoved it toward me: an engraving in green of Grover Cleveland.

In other words, a thousand-dollar bill. With a business card attached: Joseph G. Costello, President, Ace Cab Company, Taylor Avenue and Forest Park Boulevard.

“That’s just to come to St. Louis and talk to Joe,” Barney said. “You don’t even have to tell the tax boys about it. That’s between you and your conscience.”

I got my wallet out and slid the bill in. Barney apparently didn’t know my conscience was packed away in my overnight bag.

“You got wheels?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You go on ahead and see Joe. I got business here. You may not see me in St. Louis.”

Was I supposed to be disappointed?

I got to my feet and put my wallet away. “Despite this wind-fall, Barney, I’ll let you get lunch. I don’t buy anybody three meals in one sitting.”

He tossed a fat hand. “Fair enough.”

The waitress was back and he asked her what kind of pie they had.

CHAPTER FOUR

The front desk traded me a roll of quarters for a ten-dollar bill and, just off the lobby, I selected a phone booth from a row and settled in. An operator gave me the numbers I needed and the first call I made was to the airline at the Kansas City Municipal Airport, cancelling my reservation for a flight back to Chicago.

The second call was a quick one to Lou Sapperstein at the A-1 telling him I might not be back for a few days. The third was to the Pittsburg, Missouri, Western Union office; I was told that the two gentlemen waiting for an important wire had gone back to their hotel, but that if it came in, a runner would take it over. The fourth was to Pittsburg’s Hotel Besse, where the hotel switchboard connected me to the room shared by William Letterman and Stewart O’Neill.

“I thought,” Letterman’s voice said, “you’d be on a plane by now back to Chicago.”

He and Greenlease were talking “on the hour,” so his knowing that was no surprise.

“I just cancelled that,” I said.

“We’ve had no word.”

“I gathered. How long are you going to wait for M to get in touch?”

“Another day at least.”

“That kid isn’t coming home, you know.”

“…I have to keep a good thought, Nate. What can I do for you?”

“I need to get word to Bob and I don’t dare call him. The feds will be listening in.”

“They’ve been listening in all along.”

I knew that. But they’d been sitting on their hands, so what good had it done? That they hadn’t traced M’s calls was damn near as criminal as the kidnapping itself. I didn’t blame Wes Grapp for that—complying with Greenlease’s wishes was a directive that came from the top.