That method of getting ransom dough into circulation would take time, but then the Outfit had plenty.

“Only about half of the recovered bills come from the Chicago area,” Grapp was saying, “the rest showing up every which where—but your hometown shows a pattern. One bank in particular pops up frequently—Southmoor Bank and Trust Company.”

Grapp didn’t have to explain the significance of that. South-moor was an Outfit bank on the South Side, founded by a bookmaker for bookmakers, going back to Capone days. The bank’s co-founder had been taken for a ride just last year—the .45-slug-in-the-head kind.

Southmoor would make the perfect laundry for the ransom money. They’d have paid probably twenty cents on the dollar for a tidy $240,000 profit when they replaced regular funds with hot money for channeling through ordinary bank transactions. They would then pocket those regular funds, minus the $60,000 they’d paid someone for the hot money.

But who was that someone?

“Both Costello and Shoulders are on the streets again,” Grapp said, “Costello back at his cab company, Shoulders managing four rooming houses he owns. He’s also gone into the dry-cleaning business with the Dolan pup. I think Dolan is just an innocent who got caught up in this, but I’ve had no luck turning him—he’s a clam. Shoulders got religion in stir and weeps at the drop of a hat over the death of Bobby Greenlease, and especially his own travails—the hero cop who got shafted and sent away for no good reason.”

“Such a sad story.”

“These are men who might open up to you,” Grapp said, “where they won’t to us. Won’t to me. You do have a reputation, Nate. Mr. Greenlease asked me to cooperate. You’re going to sniff around, I understand. I’d start with Barney Baker’s ex-wife, Mollie, and that prostitute, Sandy O’Day. She’s a madam now, running hookers out of the Coral Court for the last couple of years.”

Coming up in the world, our Sandy.

“You can try Jack Carr too,” he was saying, “but he’s one hard apple. You’ll need to watch your ass. I doubt you can get to Buster Wortman, who probably knows more than anybody about the Greenlease money, but isn’t likely to give you a damn thing. He runs East Saint Louis, which is purgatory by day and Hell at night. You know how they say a man’s home is his castle? Well, Buster has a moat around his. You already know Barney Baker, I understand, but he’s in Washington, D.C., right now.”

“So I hear.”

“He may be back before you’ve wound up your investigation. I have contact info on everybody, and a few notes on some of them.” He had a last gulp of highball. Stood. “Well. I better get home to the wife and kids. To my castle.”

“You’re awfully cooperative.”

The long face softened. “I think I’d do about anything for Bob Greenlease, after what he suffered. Including turning you loose. If Bob wants to see what somebody less official can turn up in this thing, I’m all for it.”