The Silent Hour (13 page)

    "Yes.
That's what bothered me. It was like he was playing a game." "You think
he could have murdered Cantrell—"

    "I
have no idea, but now you've got a better idea of why I wanted to stay out of
this."

    "Did
you talk to any cops about him—" "No."

    He
said, "Maybe you should. This guy I talked with, Graham." I didn't
answer.

    "You
say he was writing you letters for a few
months—."
Ken asked.
"Yeah."

    "Sounds
pretty strange to me, Lincoln."

    "He
sent the first one the week Cantrell's body was discovered." Ken leaned
back and spread his hands, a what-more-do-you-need gesture.

    I
looked down at the file, stared at Harrison's photograph for a few seconds,
then snapped the folder shut and tossed it on the desk. "You got Graham's
number—"

    I
called from the office, with Ken listening to my half of the conversation.

    He
didn't hear much. I'd barely begun my explanation when Graham interrupted.

    "Yes."

    "You
still have them—" "No."

    "Damn
it. That's okay, though. That's okay. You said you're in Cleveland—"
"That's right. Now I only—"

    "About
a two-hour drive," he said as if I hadn't spoken. "I have a few
things to finish up, take maybe an hour, then I can head your way. You give me
your address, I can be up there by two, two thirty at the latest." "I
can tell you everything over the phone." "No, no. I'll come up."

    So I
gave him the address. When I hung up, Ken said, "Seem interested—"
"Enough to make a two-hour drive without even hearing the whole
story," I said, and that made Ken smile. Odd. I didn't feel like smiling at
all.

    Quinn
Graham arrived just before two, and it didn't take him long to make me feel
like a fool. He was probably in his late thirties, black, with a shaved head
and a thin goatee. Not tall but powerful, with heavy arms and a substantial
chest.

    "So
Harrison explained in the first letter that he was a convicted murderer, and
you chose not to keep that letter or any that followed it—" he asked about
thirty seconds after exchanging greetings.

    "That's
right."

    He
didn't shake his head or make a snort of disgust or a wiseass remark. He looked
at me thoughtfully.

    "Okay.
Probably wanted to get it out of your sight. Is that it— Yeah, I don't blame
you for that, but I wish you'd held on to them. It's a police thing, though.
People with experience tend to be more concerned with potential evidence."

    "I
know," I said. "I used to be a police detective."

    "Oh—"
he said and gave me more of that stare, as if he were thinking it was no real
surprise that I wasn't still a police detective.

    "I
remember the letters quite well, though," I said, "and while I do
wish

    I'd
kept them, I'm not sure how much evidentiary value they would have
offered."

    "We
could have analyzed the language, given it to a profiler. Harrison might have
even been crazy enough to incorporate some sort of code."

    All
right, I was an idiot. What else to say— I waited for him.

    "Well,
they're gone now," he said. "Nothing to do about that."

    "Exactly."

    "You
say you remember them well, so let's hear what you remember."

    I
took him through the sequence as best as I remembered it, offering approximate
dates for the letters, describing each message. Then I told him about
Harrison's visit, the simplicity of his request, and the few brief hours I'd
invested into working his case.

    "Now
when you told him off and said you were done," Graham said, scribbling
notes onto a leather-bound legal pad on his lap, "was that in person or on
the phone—"

    "In
person." I told him about that final meeting.

    "Since
then, no communication—"

    "He
mailed a check."

    Graham
lifted his head. "I assume you cashed it—"

    I
shook my head.

    "Did
you keep
that
at least—"

    Another
shake.

    He
frowned and scribbled a few more words onto the pad. "So you have no
record of your relationship with Harrison— That's what I'm understanding— No
record at all—"

    "No,
I do not. As I said, I wasn't expecting it would lead to a meeting like this. I
just wanted to end it."

    "So
how
did
it lead to this meeting—" he asked, looking at Ken for the
first time. "I've spoken to Kenny here, but how is it that the two of you
found each other—"

    Ken
took it from there. I watched Graham, and when Ken explained that he'd been
called by Dominic Sanabria, the pencil stopped moving across the pad, and he
lifted his head much slower.

    "Dominic
Sanabria called you three days ago—"

    "That's
right. To ask if Lincoln was—"

    "I've
already heard the reason, Kenny. I'm wishing you might have found that
information worthy of my attention. I believe I asked that you pass such things
along."

    "That
was several months ago," Ken said.

    "I
don't recall putting an expiration date on the request." Graham stared at
Ken for a few seconds, then sighed and looked back at his pad. He took his time
with it, reading through all of the notes, and then he closed the notebook and
set it on the edge of my desk.

    "Was
supposed to have the day off," he said. "I decided, well, go in this
morning, get a few things done, be gone by eleven. Noon at the latest. Now I'm
in Ohio. That's the way the damn days off always seem to go. You think you only
got a few hours, then you're in Ohio."

    "We
could've waited," Ken said.

    "Oh,
no." Graham was shaking his big head. "No, this couldn't have waited.
This, boys, this is important."

    "Ken
told me he had the sense that Harrison was the focus of your
investigation," I said, trying to prompt a little information.

    He
was frowning at his notebook on the desk and spoke again without looking at me.
"If you were with the police, then you understand what a nightmare this
one is, Linc, my friend."

    Apparently
Graham liked to dispense nicknames. Too bad there was nobody in the world who
called me Linc, and I could tell from Ken's face that he didn't go by Kenny,
either.

    "It's
an awfully cold trail," I said.

    "Not
the only problem, Linc. Yes, the trail is cold, but it also starts in
Pennsylvania, beautiful Crawford County, over which I have jurisdiction."
He cocked his head and stared at me. "You know what's in Crawford County—
Woods. You know where I'm from— Philadelphia. Now, the woods are nice, sure,
but I miss sidewalks. Strange damn thing to miss, but it's true. I miss my
sidewalks."

    He
looked from me to Ken and then back as if he were disappointed that we didn't
chime in with our shared love of sidewalks.

    "Now
I work in Crawford County," lie said, "and the wonderful thing about
having a body dug up in the woods in Crawford County is that I get to go to
work. Bad thing is that in this case, all of the work to be done seems to be in
Ohio. That limits me. I've been out here before, spent a few weeks driving back
and forth after the body was ID'd, but it's a pain in the ass. An investigation
that requires I spend time in Ohio when my superiors would like me to be
spending it in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, which does in fact pay my
salary."

    He
sighed again. "And, you're right, the trail is cold. Twelve years cold,
and the people who left it, well, they're a different sort from you and me. A
handful of people who knew them suggested that Joshua might have been suicidal,
that he'd been depressed and secretive toward the end. You know what else those
people had to say— That if Cantrell actually committed suicide it's possible
his wife would have just buried his body, lit a few candles, and marched on. A
different sort, yes, they were. Ah, but the family ties— Oh, the family ties,
boys, they are
tremendous.
What I've got is a new-age, holistic healer
of a sister to a Mafia hit man. How about that— You ever heard anything
better—"

    He
turned his wide eyes to Ken. "Dominic Sanabria called you."

    "Yes."

    Graham's
head swiveled toward me. "And he
visited
you."

    "Yes."

    "Keeps
careful tabs, doesn't he—" Graham's eyes were on his notebook again, and
he was frowning, as if he were reading right through the leather cover and
didn't like what he read.

    "Harrison
sent you a check after you told him to get lost," he said. "That's
really something. Why give up the money to a guy who said he didn't want
it—"

    "He
was real worked up about giving me a retainer."

    "Or
maybe his motivations lay elsewhere. Like keeping open that door of
communication that he'd been knocking at over several months." He leaned back.
"What do you think, Linc— Could we open that door back up—"

    "I
was pretty happy to extract myself from this situation," I said. "Not
as happy to plunge back into it. What's your idea— I'm supposed to play a game
with this guy—"

    "I
love a good game, Linc. That is one hell of an idea. I'm really not sure yet.
I'll need a few days to think on it. But I might ask you to play, yes."

    I
frowned. "Look, Graham, I understand the importance of what you're doing
here, but if you expect me to contribute, then I'd like to know more about the
situation. You still haven't said why you're so interested in Harrison."

    "He
lived with the victim at the time of the victim's disappearance."

    "That's
it—"

    He
didn't answer.

    "Because
I don't think that's enough. In fact, from what I've seen, there are plenty of
other people worth your time and attention. Like the parolee who had a history
of association with Sanabria, went to live with the Cantrells, and died soon
after he left."

    He
nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, Bertoli's part of it, sure."

    "Or
her brother, shit, that guy—"

    "Oh,
yes, him, too." Still nodding.

    "Seems
to me there's more potential in those two areas than with Parker
Harrison."

    He
stopped nodding, made a pained face, and then said, "No, I'm afraid I
can't join you there. I was with you right up till the end, though."

    "Why—
What do you see in Harrison that makes him stand out from the pack—"

    "I
have my reasons."

    "I'm
going to need to have them, too, Graham, if you want my cooperation."

    He
was studying my face, and he kept his eyes hard on mine when he finally spoke
again. "Only one of those parolees you mention ever had any direct contact
with Dominic Sanabria," he said. "That was Parker Harrison. He made
half a dozen phone calls to Sanabria in the same week the Cantrells left their
home."

    "Looking
for information, maybe. Trying to track them down, just like he is now."

    "Perhaps.
Then there was a twelve-year gap between calls, which ended not long ago, when
Harrison made two more calls to Sanabria. That was in December, Linc. Same time
Harrison contacted you."

    "Following
up with him, seeing if he'd heard the news," I said.

    "Most
interesting thing about the timing of those two calls— Harrison made them a day
after the body was discovered."

    "So—"

    Graham
smiled, his teeth brilliantly white against his dark skin. "Took a while
to identify the corpse, Linc. Harrison didn't call after the ID. He called
after the body was found. A body that, at the time, was an unidentified pile of
bones in another state."