“Dad,” Paul said quietly from where we stood just inside the room, “Mr. Heller from Chicago is here.”

Greenlease’s hand raised slowly, like a slow child risking an answer in class, and he gently motioned me forward. He did not turn.

Paul nodded to me and disappeared and I went around to face Greenlease, who wore a white shirt and tie under the dressing gown, its lapels so dark blue they were almost black. His eleven-year-old daughter, blonde and cute in a plaid jumper, was curled up sleeping next to him on a brown leather sofa cushion, her head on his knee; his hand was on her shoulder.

In his early seventies, Bob Greenlease was a big man with a rectangular head and white hair, wispy on top. His eyes were wide-set and light blue behind browline glasses, nose hawkish, mouth a thin line, a face that could have been severe but wasn’t, because he so frequently smiled.

Of course he wasn’t smiling now.

Seated or not, he had an off-balance look, as if he’d just realized he stood at the edge of a cliff.

He whispered, “Thank you for coming, Nate. We’ll keep our voices down. Don’t want to disturb the girl.”

He extended his left hand—his right remaining on his daughter’s shoulder—and we awkwardly but warmly shook.

I drew up a wood-and-leather-cushion chair, careful not to let it screech on the hardwood floor. “I’m so sorry about this terrible thing,” I said, sotto voce.

“Your son is well? Sam, isn’t it?”

“Yes. With his mother in California. He’s six. Like your boy.”

The tight mouth flinched. “Wish I’d called you in sooner. Should have been smart enough to take advantage of your prior experience with Lindbergh and all.”

I knew what he meant. But I wondered how it made me an expert, considering how that had come out.

I said, “You don’t have to fill me in. I spoke to Agent Grapp and your son and heard all about this damn nonsense you’ve had to endure.”

He nodded, just barely. “We seem to finally be on the verge of arranging the ransom drop. It’s been like something out of the Marx Brothers. But we’re to get a phone call at eight P.M. with the instructions.”

The fire snapped at us and was almost too warm as it cast an orange glow.

“What do you want me to do, Bob?”

“Join the team. Two old friends of mine, valued business associates, have been helping out on this thing—Will Letterman, who runs my Tulsa dealership, and from my K.C. operation here, Stew O’Neill. You’ll meet them. Fine fellas.”

“I’m sure they are. But you’re obviously dealing with dangerous, unscrupulous criminals. You need someone who can handle that breed.”

His smile was barely discernible. “Which is why I wish I’d called you sooner. Are you too old and successful, Nate, to still carry that Browning semiautomatic pistol?”

I nodded toward the outer area. “It’s in my bag. Holster, too.”

“Good. Afraid we don’t have room for you here, between the help and my support crew. I’ve had arrangements made for you at the Hotel President, just fifteen minutes away. I’ve got a new Cadillac waiting for your use, here in the garage—Paul has keys for you. Go get settled at the hotel and be back at seven-thirty. I’ll introduce you to Will and Stew.”