This time, Blood got behind the wheel while I rode shotgun. I wanted to make a call to O’Connell just to reassure him that I was working the case and not spending his nine-hundred bucks inside some bar on shots of Jack and Quickdraw. He answered after a couple of rings.
In place of a hello, he offered a pleasant, “This is Jim.”
I skipped any greeting and began with, “I spoke with Long. He’s not budging. He wants to talk. God is telling him to talk.”
He cleared his throat. I pictured him seated in a leather smoking chair beside the big stone fireplace with a roaring fire inside the Fort Orange Club, still wearing his suit, his tie perfectly knotted. Other lawyers and doctors would be seated around him, reading their newspapers, checking stock quotes on their smartphones, all of them si
