“Channel Six, come on in, it’s your turn. Channel Twenty-nine, we’ll be with you next, and then Channel Three. But I might have to take a moment when the New York Times calls – don’t want to keep the old gray lady waiting. And then I have a photo shoot with the Inquirer scheduled for two. Will that give us all enough time?”

And in each discussion about the painting and its whereabouts, because that’s what the press all asked about, I talked about my client Charlie, who was simply trying to come home to say so long to his dying mother but was being stymied by the heartless autocrats at the FBI.

“My client wants to return this painting, not for his own benefit, or even for the benefit of Randolph Trust, but for the people of this great country and for all the generations to follow. He wants to return it for all the children who will someday find their lives enriched by this preeminent work of art. If only the FBI would show a little flexibility. If only the Bureau could stop thinking of its own selfish ends and consider the children. The children are what really matter.”

And, of course, there was one key statement I made in all my interviews, the most important point I drove home that day and in the days to follow.

“The name is Carl,” I said to the reporter who sat across from me with her notepad out and her pencil sharpened. “Carl with a C.”

“You said that already,” she said. “Twice. Tell me about your client.”

“He’s a nice old guy,” I said. “Harmless, really. My gosh, he’s over sixty and not even five feet tall.” I forced out a chuckle. “I’d hardly call him a threat to the community.”

“Where is he now?”

“Still in hiding. It’s a shame, really, with his mother deathly ill and praying to see her son one more time before she dies. I think the government is being quite unreasonable.”

“So it appears.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Water?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

The interview was being conducted in my office. My jacket was on, my tie tight, my feet were off my desktop. I was feigning a thoughtful, concerned manner, listening to the questions as if I hadn’t heard them before, phrasing my answers as if I really cared. There were no cameras to explain my faultless etiquette, which could only mean that the reporter sitting on the other side of my desk was remarkably good-looking, which she was. Hair like scrubbed copper, green eyes, pale freckly skin, no longer young but far from too old. Her name was Rhonda Harris, and she was wearing a tight blue sweater and a green scarf. Occasionally, as she concentrated on her notebook, the pink tip of her tongue showed at the corner of her mouth.

“Could I possibly talk to Charlie?” she said.

“No, I’m sorry. That’s not feasible.”

“But it would really help me set the right tone. I’m trying to focus this article on whether it is possible to come home again, despite what Thomas Wolfe wrote.”

“Ah, a literary twist. Good for you. Do you like Wolfe?”

“I adore him.”

“Too many words for my taste.”

“But that’s what I love about him. All that ripe excess, the sensual pleasures of his long and twisting sentences. My God, sometimes his prose leaves me feeling ravished.”

“People say I talk too much.”

“But, see, if I could just speak to Charlie, even on the phone, it would help so. I think his sense of exile is at the heart of this story. Charlie Kalakos, like George Webber, trying to come home to a hostile city.”

“That sounds very interesting, Rhonda. Can I call you Rhonda?”

“Of course.” Nice smile, that, the way her eyes crinkled with warmth, the way the corners of her mouth curved down like a kitten’s even as she showed her very white and very even teeth.

“And call me Victor, please. As I’m sure you understand, Rhonda, there are many people searching for Charlie, some more dangerous than others. His location must be kept a secret. I don’t even know where he is or how to reach him.”

“You have met with him, though, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Now, now, Rhonda, really. I can’t disclose that.”

“How often do you meet him?”

“Who did you say you wrote for again?”

“Newsday.”

“And you’re their crime reporter?”

“I cover the art scene for them on a nonstaff basis.”

“Ah, the Rembrandt.”

“Yes, the famous Rembrandt.” She leaned forward, tapped her pencil to her lip, opened wide her lovely eyes. “Have you seen it?”

“Just the photographs on television.”

“Such a fabulous piece of work. It would be thrilling to behold it after all these years. I’d give anything to examine it up close.”

“We’re hoping you get that chance very soon.” Pause. “At the Randolph.”

“Of course,” she said, leaning back again, tapping her notebook in disappointment. “Can I ask one thing more, Victor?”

“Shoot.”

“I’m just on the art beat, so I might be missing something here, but is this whole thing fair? Do you really think that Charlie deserves a sweetheart deal simply because he somehow has possession of a valuable piece of stolen property? Isn’t that just as bad as a rich man buying his way out of an indictment?”

I glanced at my watch. “Oh, I’m sorry, Rhonda, I have to cut this short. Maybe some other time we could talk in depth about fairness and the law. I have some very interesting theories about that.” Smarmy smile. “Over drinks, perhaps.”

“I’d like that, Victor. Very much.”

I tastefully refrained from punching the air and letting out a whoop.

As I was escorting Rhonda through the hallway and toward the stairs, I caught a whiff of something precious in the air.

“Are you wearing a new fragrance, Ellie?” I said to my secretary as we stopped at her desk and I sniffed deeply. “Because I must say, whatever it is, it’s lovely.”

She didn’t respond, she didn’t even smile at the compliment. Instead she just let her eyes shift to her left. I followed her gaze.

He stood there, short and slight in a purple suit with lace shirt cuffs and very shiny, very small black shoes. “Mr. Carl, is it?” he said in a Southern drawl so thick it seemed to drip with kudzu.

“That’s right.”

“I wonder, sir, if I could have a smidgen of your time.”

I glanced at Ellie, who was fighting to keep the smile off her face.

“I’m a little busy right now,” I said. “Are you press?”

“Oh dear, no. Do I look reptilian to you? And if you see me in brown corduroy, please shoot me. This won’t take but a moment, and I can assure you that our meeting will be very much worth your while. Oh so very, very much.”

“You think?”

“Most assuredly.”

I stared at him for a moment, tried to figure out what he was all about and failed. I turned to Rhonda Harris, who, surprisingly, wasn’t smiling. I suppose some people just have no sense of humor about their profession.

“Thank you for coming, Rhonda,” I said. “I hope we meet again sometime.”

“Count on it, Victor,” she said.

As Rhonda Harris passed the little man, she stared down at him and he stared back and I felt something spark between them, like the tension between two dogs circling a dead squirrel. I almost thought I heard a guttural growl. Then Rhonda was off, heading for the door, and both the man and I stared at her as she walked away. Her skirt was as tight as her sweater, and her pumps were sturdy.

“Do you know her?” I asked the little man as she swung open the door and disappeared.

“Never saw her before in my life.”

“You seemed to know her.”

“I know the type.”

“And what type is that?”

“Cold-blooded killer.”

I turned my head to stare once more at the man, then I checked my watch. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have much-”

“Just a pinch of time is all I need,” he said, his voice flying high like a startled sparrow at the last word, “just the tiniest pinch.”