“So far?”

“Well, Mr. Heller…Nate…he’s called you in. Might mean a change of tactics.”

“Yeah, but it’s taken almost a week.” I’d half expected a call; the case had made the papers and even CBS-TV by way of Edward R. Murrow’s fifteen-minute national evening news. But that had amounted to little more than descriptions of the boy and the fake aunt. And expressions of ongoing sympathy for the parents.

“We don’t have a man on the inside,” Grapp said. “So your cooperation could prove key.”

“What have you been able to do?”

He offered me a smoke and I declined. He lit up and said, “With Kansas and Missouri butting up against each other, chances are good this thing has crossed state lines, which’ll give us jurisdiction. Already we’ve been able to intercept Greenlease’s mail at the K.C. Post Office and record incoming phone calls.”

“So there’s been contact. Were you able to trace the calls?”

He sighed smoke. “We probably could have, and possibly closed in on the people responsible, but the family’s wish was that we do nothing that might hinder the boy’s return.”

I frowned, shook my hand. “That’s crazy.”

“I agree. Perhaps you can reason with Mr. Greenlease. After all, he’s taken a big step, bringing you in…considering your reputation.”

“Somehow I don’t think you mean to flatter me.”

A thick eyebrow went up. “Nate. Mr. Heller. You’re well-known for your underworld connections. And you’ve been in a number of well-publicized situations where you have, let’s say, taken matters effectively into hand.”

“Gee whiz, thanks. But let me remind you, Wes, Special Agent Grapp, that J. Edgar Hoover assures us that there is no such thing as organized crime.”

The young agent at the wheel frowned at me in the rearview mirror, but Grapp only smiled a little.

He gestured with the cigarette-in-hand. “Nate, let’s just say anything you can do to help this situation would be appreciated. Whoever did this goddamn thing must be aware that, even if state lines haven’t been crossed, the kidnapping law in Missouri means a death sentence.”

“Understood. Since there’s effectively been a press blackout, what can you tell me? What don’t I know?”

The FBI man’s laugh was raspy and wry. “You have been spared experiencing one of the most sadistic, heartless series of letters and messages and phone calls any of us has ever seen. Six ransom notes, over a dozen phone calls. One wild goose chase after another.” His eyes, a dark brown and almost black, narrowed. “We do know they have the boy, or at least had him—a medal he’d worn to school that day was sent along with the second note.”

“When you say ‘they’…?”

“It’s at least two people. The woman who picked the boy up at school, and a man who’s been making the phone calls. He insists Bobby’s still alive. Talks about him being a handful and mentions a pet the child misses, how homesick he is. But, uh… they aren’t the smartest pair, these two.”