“Sir, that last part is needle-in-a-haystack stuff.”

“I don’t think so. My suspect is a male Caucasian in his late thirties, and he’s about six-foot-five and very powerfully built. If you see him, you don’t forget him.”

“I copy. Do you want me to call you back?”

“I’ll hold. If you don’t get me anything in ten minutes, come back on the line and take my number.”

“Yes, sir. You hold now. I’ll get right on this.”

Littell held the line. An image held him: Big Pete Bondurant crucified. The kitchen cut through it: cramped, hot, saints’ days marked on a parish calendar-

Eight minutes crawled by. The sergeant came back on the line, excited.

“Mr. Littell?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, we hit. I didn’t think we would, but we did.”

Littell got out his notebook. “Tell me.”

“American Airlines flight 104, Los Angeles to Miami. It left L.A. at 8:00 a.m. yesterday, December 10th, and arrived in Miami at 4:10 p.m. The reservation was made under the name Thomas Peterson and was charged to Hughes Aircraft. I talked to the agent who issued the ticket, and she remembered that man you described. You were right, you don’t forget-”

“Is there a return reservation?”

“Yes, sir. American flight 55. It arrives in Los Angeles at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

Littell felt dizzy. He cracked a window for some alt

“Sir, are you there?”

Littell cut the man off and dialed 0. A cold breeze flooded the kitchen.

“Operator.”

“I need Washington, D.C. The number is KL4-8801.”

“Yes, sir, just one minute.”

The call went through fast. A man said, “Communications, Special Agent Reynolds.”

“This is Special Agent Littell in Chicago. I need to transmit a message to SA Kemper Boyd in Miami.”

“Is he with the Miami office?”

“No, he’s on a detached assignment. I need you to transmit the message to the Miami SAC and have him locate SA Boyd. I think it’s a matter of a hotel check, and if it wasn’t so urgent, I’d do it myself.”

“This is irregular, but I don’t see why we can’t do it. What’s your message?”

Littell spoke slowly. “Have circumstantial and suppositional- underline those two words-evidence that J.H. hired our old oversized French confrere to eliminate Committee witness R.K. Our confrere leaves Miami late tonight, American flight 55. Call me in Chicago for details. Urge that you inform Robert K. immediately. Sign it W.J.L.”

The agent repeated the message. Littell heard Mary Kirpaski sobbing just outside the kitchen door.

o o o

Helen’s flight was late. Littell waited in a cocktail lounge near the gate.

He rechecked the phone call list. His instinct held firm: Pete Bondurant killed Roland Kirpaski.

Kemper mentioned a dead witness named Gretzler. If he could connect the man to Bondurant, TWO murder charges might fly.

Littell sipped rye and beer. He kept checking the back wall mirror to gauge his appearance.

His work clothes looked wrong. His glasses and thinning hair didn’t jibe with them.

The rye burned; the beer tickled. Two men walked up to his table and grabbed him.

They jerked him upright. They clamped down on his elbows. They steered him back to an enclosed phone bank.

It was swift and sure-no civilian patrons caught it.

The men pinned his arms back. Chick Leahy stepped out of a shadow and got right up in his face.

Littell felt his knees go. The men propped him up on his toes.

Leahy said, “Your message to Kemper Boyd was intercepted. You could have violated his cover on the incursion. Mr. Hoover does not want to see Robert Kennedy aided, and Peter Bondurant is a valued colleague of Howard Hughes, who is a great friend of Mr. Hoover and the Bureau. Do you know what fully coded messages are, Mr. Littell?”

Littell blinked. His glasses fell off. Everything went blurry.

Leahy jabbed his chest, hard. “You’re off the THP and back on the Red Squad as of now. And I strongly urge you not to protest.”

One man grabbed his notebook. The other man said, “You reek of liquor.”

They elbowed him aside and walked out. The whole thing took thirty seconds.

His arms hurt. His glasses were scratched and dented. He couldn’t quite breathe or stay balanced on his feet.

He swerved back to his table. He choked down rye and beer and leveled his shakes out.

His glasses fit crooked. He checked out his new mirror image: the world’s most ineffectual workingman.

An intercom boomed, “United flight 84 from New Orleans is now arriving.”

Littell finished his drinks and chased them with two Clorets. He walked over to the gate and bucked passengers up to the jetway.

Helen saw him and dropped her bags. Her hug almost knocked him down.

People stepped around them. Littell said, “Hey, let me see you.”

Helen looked up. Her head grazed his chin-she’d grown tall.

“You look wonderful.”

“It’s Max Factor number-four blush. It does wonders for my scars.”

“What scars?”

“Very funny. And what are you now, a lumberjack?”

“I was. For a few days, at least.”

“Susan says Mr. Hoover’s finally letting you chase gangsters.”

A man kicked Helen’s garment bag and glared at them. Littell said, “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

o o o

They had steaks at the Stockyard Inn. Helen talked a blue streak and got tipsy on red wine.

She’d gone from coltish to rangy; her face had settled in strong. She’d quit smoking-she said she knew it was fake sophistication.

She always wore her hair in a bun to flaunt her scars. She wore it down now-it rendered her disfigurement matter-of-fact.

A waiter pushed the dessert cart by. Helen ordered pecan pie; Littell ordered brandy.

“Ward, you’re letting me do all the talking.”

“I was waiting to summarize.”

“Summarize what?”

“You at age twenty-one.”

Helen groaned. “I was starting to feel mature.”

Littell smiled. “I was going to say that you’ve become poised, but not at the expense of your exuberance. You used to trip over your words when you wanted to make a point, but now you think before you talk.”

“Now people just trip over my luggage when I’m excited about meeting a man.”

“A man? You mean a friend twenty-four years your senior who watched you grow up?”

She touched his hands. “A man. I had a professor at Tulane who said that things change with old friends and students and teachers, so what’s a quarter of a century here and there?”

“You’re saying he was twenty-five years older than you?”

Helen laughed. “Twenty-six. He was trying to minimize things to make them seem less embarrassing.”

“You’re saying you had an affair with him?”

“Yes. And I’m saying it wasn’t lurid and pathetic, but going out with undergrad boys who thought I’d be easy because I was scarred up was.”

Littell said, “Jesus Christ.”

Helen waved her fork at him. “Now I know you’re upset, because some part of you is still a Jesuit seminarian, and you only invoke our Savior’s name when you’re flustered.”

Littell sipped brandy. “I was going to say, ‘Jesus Christ, have Kemper and I ruined you for young men your own age?’ Are you going to spend your youth chasing middle-aged men?”

“You should hear Susan and Claire and I talk.”

“You mean my daughter and her best friends swear like longshoremen?”

“No, but we’ve been discussing men in general and you and Kemper in specific for years, in case you’ve felt your ears burning.

“I can understand Kemper. He’s handsome and dangerous.”

“Yes, and he’s heroic. But he’s a tomcat, and even Claire knows it.”

Helen squeezed his hands. He felt his pulse racing. He got this Jesus Fucking Christ crazy idea.

Littell took off his glasses. “I’m not so sure Kemper’s heroic. I think heroes are truly passionate and generous.”