We waited.

Connie whispered, “Overnight visit?”

I nodded.

“Mayflower?”

“Statler.”

“Doing anything later?”

“You tell me.”

“Ten?”

“Ten.”

After a while, he pulled a page from the machine, added it to a small stack and glanced over at us, just outside his sanctum. “Ah! Nathan. Come in, come in.”

Connie nodded to both of us and evaporated.

I sat opposite him on a visitor’s chair of unforgiving hard wood designed to keep stays short. The office around me was more a study, its chocolate plaster walls awash in framed political cartoons pertaining to Pearson and signed celebrity photos with him in them; a fireplace, cold in summer, had its mantel lined with warm family photos; behind him, a sleeping cat shared a windowsill with stacked books and magazines. The desk had the expected in-and-out box, a single telephone, and a glass jar of Oreos, freshly filled, perhaps by Connie.

“Drew,” I said by way of noncommittal greeting.

We’d had something of a contentious relationship over the years, mostly based upon his skinflint ways, which extended especially to paying my legitimate expenses. But having Drew Pearson as a client could lead one into the corridors of power, and that had paid off well over the years, even if Pearson himself hadn’t.

He rocked back comfortably in his comfy chair, folded his arms in a loose, easy manner, a small smile making the mustache twitch, a maitre d’ pleased with his tip. “I understand you’re heading back to Chicago tomorrow.”

I didn’t bother asking him how he knew that. He had sources all over town, high and low and in between.

“Tomorrow, yes,” I said. “This was a short trip. I spent a day with Bob Kennedy going over some things—nothing I can share.”

He raised a palm, then returned it to his folded arms. “When Bob has something, he’ll let me know. He’s good about that. I have a very simple task for you.”

I helped myself to an Oreo. Did “simple” mean it didn’t pay much? Or anything? Still, I said, “I’m listening.”

“I have it on reliable authority,” he said, “that you were far more entwined in the Greenlease kidnapping case than is commonly known.”

None of that pleased me to hear, but the word “entwined” was especially troubling. I chewed Oreo casually and did my best not to show any reaction at all. I’m pretty good at that.

When I didn’t fill the silence, he did: “I notice you’re not denying it. You know me well enough by now, Nathan, to understand that I make damned sure my facts are solid before sharing them.”

He rarely swore—he was a devout Quaker, despite a long line of “fair-haired girls.” So “damned” from him was a big fucking deal.

Chewing, I said, “Who are you sharing this with?”

“You. Just you.”

I swallowed Oreo; managed not to choke. “You said you had a task.”

He nodded slowly. “I am looking into the possibility that the missing three hundred thousand dollars of ransom money, if I might round off the figure, has long since made its way into the coffers of the Teamsters. Specifically, into that ignoble union’s pension fund…the final stop on a money-laundering train. Likely used to cover up embezzlement.”