“Got a jury late this afternoon. Opening statements in the morning, then Mancini starts calling witnesses. Should go pretty fast. We got a deal?”

He shovels in a large, crusty ring and chews fiercely while looking around. The place is empty. He swallows hard, says, “Yep. Woody met with Mancini two hours ago and fired him. He replaced him with a flunky who was planning to move for a mistrial first thing in the morning. Mancini backed down and agreed to play along. He wants to meet with you and the judge at 8:30 tomorrow.”

“The judge?”

“You got it. Seems Woody and Janet Fabineau have some mutual dealings, friends, whatever, and Woody insisted on putting her in the loop. She’s good to go. She’ll take the plea, approve the bargain, sentence your boy to five years at the penal farm, recommend early release. Just like you said, Rudd.”

“Marvelous. And Link’s thugs?”

“That investigation is going nowhere. Forget about it.” He sucks on his straw and selects another onion ring. “Now, Rudd, the fun part.”

“The last time I saw Swanger, the meeting was arranged through a prepaid cell phone he left behind for me in a pharmacy. I still have the phone. It’s right outside in my van. I haven’t used it since, so I don’t know if it’ll work. But if I get Swanger on the phone I’ll try to set up a meeting. I’ll have to give him some cash.”

“How much?”

“Fifty grand, unmarked. He’s not stupid.”

“Fifty grand?”

“That’s about a third of the reward money. I’m assuming he’ll grab it because he’s broke. Anything less might cause problems. Last year you guys cashed in forfeited assets to the tune of four million bucks, all retained by the department, pursuant to our brilliant state law. The money’s there, Nate, and Roy Kemp would spend anything for the chance to see his daughter again.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll pass it along. That’s all I can do.”

I leave him with his onion rings and hurry to the van. As Partner drives away, I open the cheap phone and call the number. Nothing. An hour later, I call again. And again. Nothing.

14.

Aided by exhaustion, the two beers, and a couple of whiskey sours, I fall asleep with the television on. I wake up in my recliner, still wearing a suit but no tie, socks but no shoes. My cell phone is ringing; caller ID says “Unknown.” It’s 1:40 a.m. I take a chance and say hello.

“You looking for me?” Swanger asks.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I say, collapsing the footrest and bolting to my feet. Things are foggy and my brain needs blood. “Where are you?”

“Dumb question. Any more stupidity and I’m hanging up.”

“Look, Arch, there could be a deal in the works. That is if you’re telling the truth, which, frankly, no one involved believes you’re capable of.”

“I didn’t call to get insulted.”

“Of course not. You called because you want money. I think I can broker a deal, act as the middleman, without a fee of course. I’m not your lawyer, so I won’t be sending you a bill.”

“Very funny. You’re not my lawyer because you can’t be trusted, Rudd.”

“Okay, next time you snatch a girl, hire somebody else. You want the money or not, Arch? I really don’t care.”

There is a brief pause as he thinks about how much he needs cash. Finally, “How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand now to tell us where the girl is. If they find her, then twenty-five more.”

“That’s only a third of the reward money. You taking the rest?”

“Not a dime. As I said, I’m getting nothing, and that’s the very reason I’m asking myself what the hell I’m doing in the middle of all this.”

Another pause as he contemplates a counteroffer. “I don’t like the deal, Rudd. I’ll never see the other twenty-five.”

And we’ll never see the girl, I think but don’t say. “Look, Arch, you’re getting twenty-five thousand bucks from the very people who would shoot you on sight. That’s a lot more than you made last year with honest work.”

“I don’t believe in honest work. Neither do you. That’s why you’re a lawyer.”

“Ha-ha. You’re clever. You want a deal, Swanger? If not, I’m butting out. I got more important things on my mind these days.”

“Fifty grand, Rudd. Cash. Fifty grand and I’ll tell you and you alone where the girl is right now. If this is a setup or if I smell a cop anywhere around, I’ll bolt, make a call, and the girl will be gone for good. Understand?”

“I got it. I’m not sure about the money, but all I can do is pass this along to my contact.”

“Work fast, Rudd, my patience is running thin.”

“Oh, you’ll find the time if the money’s on the table. Who are you kidding, Swanger?”

The line goes dead. So much for a good night’s sleep.

15.

Three hours later, I stop at an all-night convenience store and buy a bottle of water. Outside, I’m approached by a cop in plain clothes who grunts, “You Rudd?” Since I am, he hands me a brown paper grocery bag with a cigar box inside. “Fifty grand,” he says. “All in hundreds.”

“That’ll do,” I say. What am I supposed to say? “Thanks”?

I leave the City, alone. During my last conversation with Swanger, about an hour ago, he instructed me to ditch my “thug” and do the driving myself. He also told me to forget the fancy new van and drive something else. I explained that, at the moment, I had nothing else and didn’t have time to run get a rental. The van will have to do.

I try not to dwell on the fact that this guy is watching me. He knew the moment Partner and I began buzzing around in a U-Haul van. Now he knows I have new wheels. It’s astonishing that he’s in the City enough to know these things, yet still undiscovered by the police. I suspect he’ll finally disappear when he gets the money, which will not be a bad thing.

As instructed, I call him as I leave the City on the southern bypass of the interstate. His directions are precise: “Go sixteen miles south to exit 184, take Route 63 east to the town of Jobes.” As I drive, I remind myself that I have this trial that’s supposed to kick off in just a few hours, or is it? If Judge Fabineau is really in the loop, what does that mean for the rest of the day?

I have no idea how much surveillance is tracking me right now, but I’m sure it is substantial. I didn’t ask questions, didn’t have time to, but I know Roy Kemp and his team have called in all the bloodhounds. There are two mikes in my van and a tracking device inside the rear bumper. I’ve allowed them to listen to my cell phone, but just for the next few hours. I’ll bet they already have people closing in on the town of Jobes. A helicopter or two in the air above me would not be a surprise. I’m not frightened—Swanger has no reason to harm me—but my nerves are jumping nonetheless.

The money is unmarked and cannot be traced. The police don’t care if they get it back; they just want the girl. They’re also assuming Swanger is smart enough to spot anything fishy.

Jobes is a small town of three thousand. When I pass a Shell station on the edge of town, I call Swanger, as instructed. He says, “Stay on the line. Turn left just past the car wash.” I turn left onto a dark, paved street with a few old houses on both sides. He says, “You swear you got fifty grand, Rudd?”

“I do.”

“Take a right and go over the railroad tracks.” I do as I’m told, and he says, “Now turn right onto that first street. It has no name. Stop at the first stop sign and wait.”