There was a stretching interval of silence during which Oakley’s motionless scrutiny got on Adams’ nerves as it was intended to do; Adams squirmed and said, “Look, God knows I didn’t mean any of this to happen. How was I to know he’d come busting in on us? She said he hadn’t been inside her bedroom in three months.”

“You drop-kicked him like a pro. Where’d you learn that?”

“When you’re a runt like me growing up on the Lower East Side you learn how to fight. Besides, I started out in a boardwalk carnival. Acrobatics.”

“I thought as much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m a lawyer. A little rusty on criminal code, maybe, but I seem to recall the special skills of certain athletes can be considered deadly weapons, legally. A prizefighter’s fists, for example.”

“You’re saying—”

“I’m only speculating.”

“You’re trying to scare the shit out of me—and you’re succeeding. Why?”

Oakley shook his head; he was still thinking. Adams broke into his thoughts: “You brought that fat greaser into this. Why?”

“Earle wanted him in.”

“To handle the kidnaping?”

“Yes.”

“How much you tell him about—about the way Earle Conniston died?”

“Enough.”

“Who guarantees he won’t blow the whistle?”

“Diego works for me. If anybody blows any whistles I’ll be the one.”

Adams flushed, poured a second drink, and said without the belligerent conviction the question required, “Since when did you get elected to give the orders here?”

“Do you want me to pick up the phone and tell the cops who killed Earle?”

Adams held his tongue. But Oakley pressed it: Adams had to be convinced. “What do you want to do, Frankie? Call in the police, tell them Earle caught his wife with her head on the wrong pillow and you killed him to keep the truth from getting out? Killed him with what might just be described by a sharp prosecutor as a deadly weapon—an acrobat’s feet?”

“It wasn’t like that! You know it wasn’t like that!”

“Maybe. But if Louise and I get behind that version and stick to it, they’ll put you away.”

“Nuts. The sonofabitch came at me like a maniac. It was self-defense—an accident. It’s your word against mine.”

“Let’s say it’s the word of a bankrupt third-rate nightclub comic with a shady background against the word of a respected member of the bar and a multimillionaire widow. Whose story would you believe if you were on the jury?”

“Bastard,” Adams hissed without strength. “You want a fall guy and I’m it, hey? Let’s hear it for Frankie Adams, lez an gennulmen, Frankie Adams the ten-carat loser. Jesus H. Christ.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“You’ve got it all set up. Go ahead and pull the rope.”

“No. There’s another way to play it. Unless you want to drag a scandalous mess through the courts and the newspapers and end up with your head in a sack.”

“What are you, kidding?”

“Which way do you want it?”

“What choice have I got?”

“Suppose you and I and Louise were sitting in the front room playing cards when we heard a thud from the back of the house. Suppose we went back to investigate and found Earle had tripped over the rug and fallen and hit the back of his head on the bedpost. Suppose we tell that story and I have a doctor sign the death certificate accidental death.”

Adams sat slack-jawed, watching him warily. “Where you figure to find a doctor to sign something like that?”

“Big money can buy a few harmless lies—and a lot of silence. How about it, Frankie?”

Adams tucked his chin in toward his shoulder like a shy schoolboy trying to remember the answer to a teacher’s question. “What do I have to do?”

“I’ll let you know. In the meantime you don’t say a word to anyone about anything unless you clear it with me first. Fair enough?”

“Listen, the first time I got jumped by three big kids in the playground I learned not to fight a squeeze. Don’t worry about me.”

“I won’t,” Oakley said, and gave him a synthetic smile utterly devoid of trust.

He shepherded Adams back to the office. Louise looked better; there was color in her face and when he crossed the room her eyes followed his movements alertly. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair tightly.

Oakley settled into Earle’s chair and veiled his eyes and spoke in a soft voice which eased up against the cork-lined walls and was immediately absorbed:

“We’ve all heard the tape. I’ve told you what Earle wanted to do. I think he was dead wrong but we’ll see. Diego, what about the tape?”

“I just played it back again. I think the sonabitch meant business. You asking my advice? Usually, a snatch caper like this, you get the cops and the FBI and they tell you to follow instructions and pay the ransom. Rule of thumb is you got a better chance to get the victim back alive if you pay the ransom and don’ rock the boat.”

“Rock the boat,” Adams mumbled, incredulous. “Christ, the boat’s already sunk.”

Oakley ignored him; he said to Orozco, “I get a feeling your next word will be ‘But.’”

“Yeah. She said one of them wants to kill her so she won’t be able to identify them. Does that mean she’s seen all their faces? Or have they got her blindfolded but one of them wants insurance anyway? She knows their voices.”

Louise said, “What difference does that make?”

“Could make a lot, lady. If they keep her blindfolded and she don’t see their faces, maybe they really expect to let loose of her after it’s over. But if they never even bothered to blindfold her it’s a whole different enchilada.”

Oakley shook his head. “We’ll probably have to make our decision without the answer to that question. What about trying to trace the phone calls?”

Orozco’s fleshy dark cheeks sagged. “Maybe—maybe. First thing in the morning I’ll get a tap on the line. These new computer exchanges, sometimes you can get a real fast trace on a call if you’re ready for it. I can get a crew of operatives stand ready to move on signal. Beyond that I just don’ know. You people got to make your own decision about the ransom. I only say this—was it my daughter I wouldn’t take the chance Conniston was going to take. I’d play it by the book whether you bring in cops or not. They’d tell you to play it by the book, believe me.”

“You mean pay the ransom?” Louise asked.

“Yeah. I mean pay the ransom.”

Frankie Adams said, “Isn’t there any other way we could start trying to get a line on them?”

Orozco made a face. “Few honnerd thousand people in this half of Arizona. Where you going to start? That guy on the phone sounded too smart to give away any clues we could use. We got nothing to go on.”

Louise sat up straight. “All of you are forgetting one little thing.”

The determined quiet of her tone drew Oakley’s full attention. Louise looked from face to face; finally she said, “None of you is in any position to decide what’s to be done with Earle’s money. That money belongs to Terry and me. We’re his heirs.”

Oakley closed his eyes down to slits. “You’re saying you don’t want to pay the ransom?”

“I’m saying I think maybe Earle was right. Maybe we’ll stand a better chance by not paying—by frightening them instead.”

“In other words,” Oakley murmured, “Terry’s not worth half a million dollars to you.”

“You make me sound cold-blooded. You know I don’t mean that. The chances are if we pay the ransom we lose both Terry and the money. What’s the good of that?”

Oakley bounced to his feet; the backs of his knees knocked the big swivel-chair back against the wall. “Don’t even think about it, Louise.”

“Are you threatening me?” she demanded.

“If you like. I’ll remind you a criminal forfeits any right to the proceeds of his crime. If you’re found guilty of being accessory to your husband’s murder you won’t inherit a dime—regardless of whether Terry’s alive or dead.”