“Hey,” Ryan said. “You still there?”

“What do you want?”

The voice was low and husky. Ryan pictured it coming from an old man.

“You want to see me?”

“I want to see Robert Leary, Jr. Tell me what year you were born.”

“Listen, you want to see me or not?”

“All right,” Ryan said. “Where do you live?”

“Meet me-you know where the bus station is?”

“Downtown?”

“Yeah. Nine o’clock tonight. Park on the roof of the bus station-wait a minute.” Another pause, silence. “What kind of car you drive?” Ryan told him. “Okay, park up on the roof, take the elevator down. Go over and stand-wait a minute.” Again a pause, longer this time. “Hello?”

“Yeah.”

“Go over and wait by the door to the men’s room.”

“How’ll I know you?” Ryan said.

“Nine o’clock. You want to see me, be there.”

“Let me ask you something.”

Robert Leary, Jr., or whoever it was, hung up.

Ryan called Dick Speed. He was out on assignment. So Ryan sat around again, wondering if he should bother going all the way down to the bus station. He was reasonably sure the guy on the phone wasn’t Robert Leary, Jr. In fact, he knew it wasn’t. The guy could have been calling for Leary, though, getting instructions from Leary during the pauses. That was a possibility. So he’d have to go down to the bus station, go through the motions, and put in the report.

The second Robert Leary, Jr., called at five to seven, while Ryan was changing his clothes. This time he forgot to clear his throat before picking up the phone.

“Your number 355-1919?”

“That’s right.”

“Who am I talking to?” A slow, quiet voice; maybe a southern accent.

“My name’s Ryan. What’s yours?”

“You put that in the paper today?”