The Silent Hour (14 page)

    I
didn't respond to that.

    "Let
me ask you something," Graham said. "When you talked to Harrison, he
say anything about being part Shawnee— Talk about his, uh, culture—"

    "Yes."

    "Not
surprised to hear that," he said. "The folks at Harrison's prison
told me he did a lot of reading on the subject. A lot of study."

    "That
has some significance to you—"

    He
nodded but didn't speak.

    "Well—"

    Silence.

    "Graham,
I'm going to say this again: If you want me to cooperate in whatever game you
cook up for Harrison, I'll need to know everything that you do."

    "If
it leaks," he said, "it jeopardizes an already weak investigation.
That cold trail we keep talking about, it's not making this thing easy."

    "It's
not going to leak," I said. "Not from this room."

    He
looked at Ken, waited for the nod of agreement.

    "We
held one detail back from the report on the discovery of Cantrell's body,"
Graham said. "A detail of potential value."

    "What
is it—" I said.

    "Joshua
Cantrell was buried in a grave that was about four feet deep, lined with bark,
and laid carefully in an exact east-to-west fashion. Then poles were placed
over his body, more bark laid over the poles, and dirt piled on top." He
looked at Ken, then back at me. "Those are all elements of a traditional
Shawnee burial."

    Something
you learn early as a detective—your work is damn dependent on physical evidence
and people who know things relevant to the crime. Have either of those, and
you're going to get somewhere. Have neither— Not going far, at least not
easily. Quinn Graham had spent six months determining he had none of the former
and only suspicions of the latter.

    Whatever
physical evidence might have existed at Joshua Cantrell's grave at the time he
went into it was gone by the time the body was discovered. The evidence techs
worked it as thoroughly as they could and came back with nothing. The poles,
bark, and arrangement of the grave were physical evidence, yes, but didn't link
back to a killer.

    "Except
in circumstantial fashion," Graham told us, "and you both know that's
not worth a shit in court. It's worth something to me, though. That grave and
those phone calls to Sanabria, they're worth something to me."

    Their
worth, it seemed, had been a load of frustration. He'd attempted to talk to
Dominic Sanabria and immediately been met by a team of attorneys. Then he'd
shifted his focus to Harrison and found the same response. "Harrison
lawyered up—" I said, the surprise clear in my voice. Graham swiveled his
big head to me and nodded. "He's not confirming so much as his own name
without his attorney present, Linc. That shouldn't surprise you."

    It
did. It surprised me because it didn't jibe with the Parker Harrison who'd
given up on his letter campaign and come to see me in person, the Harrison
who'd gazed at me with a mixture of sorrow and intensity as he implored me to
find Alexandra Cantrell. Of course, Harrison hadn't mentioned he knew Joshua
Cantrell was dead, either.

    "The
guy took a sentence for murder," Graham said. "If there's one thing
he's not anxious to do these days, it's talk to a homicide detective. Does that
imply guilt— Not necessarily, but it doesn't exactly clear his good name,
either."

    "How
much did you push—"

    "Interviewed
him a few times, and it was an absolute bastard because he had this attorney
with him, telling him exactly what to say and when to say it."

    "You
asked about the phone calls, though— And the burial—"

    "Phone
calls, yes, burial, no. Like I said, we decided to sit on that. We were hoping
for a physical link between him and that grave. Didn't get it, but we're not
done yet, either. Sent some of the stuff in for DNA testing months ago, still
don't have results. You were on the job, you understand that."

    "Cold
case, out-of-state case, and a mile-long wait list at the lab."

    "Check,
check, and check."

    "How
about the phone calls—" Ken said. "What was his response—"

    "Says
he called Sanabria after the couple took off, hoping to get in touch with them.
Then, after the body was found, says he was merely doing the same thing,
checking in again for an update. I pointed out that was a hell of a twist of
timing, waiting twelve years to check in and then doing it the same damn week the
body was found, but of course he and his attorney refused to go down that
road."

    "Sanabria
confirm that—" I asked.

    Graham's
face went sour. "Through his attorneys, yes, he did. It's too perfect,
man, too rehearsed. They remember these phone calls like they're looking at a
transcript."

    "Still,"
I said, "seems to me you've got something to work with there."

    "No
shit, Linc— Seems that way— Well, hell, buddy, I'm glad to hear you think so.
Now let me remind you what my superiors have to say—"

    "I
get that," I said. "At least I get it from the Pennsylvania side. I'm
amazed you haven't stirred somebody with the FBI up about Sanabria."

    "That's
another part of the problem. I did, but they didn't stir in the way you are
thinking and I was hoping. Didn't come into the game looking to help. Instead,
they came in warning me that we'd have a nightmare on our hands if we hassled
Sanabria. They took their run at him, hard as they could, back in the nineties
and didn't get much to show for it. A couple years on a bullshit charge—and
they were looking at the guy for, what, five, six murders— Who knows what else—
Sense I got from the boys who worked on him back at the time, Linc, was that
they didn't want any piece of it. They've kept tabs on him, shit, maybe kept
surveillance
on him, and he hasn't stepped wrong in fifteen years. If he
killed his brother-in-law or had him killed, they don't seem to care. There's
one guy who felt different, but he's retired now, and what he says doesn't
carry water."

    We
fell silent. Graham got to his feet and walked to the window and stared down at
the street.

    "If
I find Alexandra, it will be put to rest," he said. "That simple. I'm
sure of it."

    "You've
looked for her— Pushed hard—" I said.

    "Yes,
I've pushed hard," Graham snapped, "and so did your buddy here and a
lot of other people before us. Nobody found her. Not me, not anybody else.
Right—"

    He
was looking at Ken, who didn't answer, just stared back at him as if waiting
for more. Graham turned away and went back to staring at the street.

    "Fact
is, I was pretty well distracted from it until today. Got us a couple of dead
girls a few months back. Raped, beaten, strangled, and dumped off the highway.
Two in two weeks. One was hitchhiking, one a runaway. Two in two weeks, both on
my highways… yeah, ain't nobody talked about Mr. Cantrell in quite a
while."

    He
turned from the window. "Now you call, and I don't know what the hell to
do with what you've got. Don't know yet. All I do know is I'm going to think on
it, going to get back in touch, and when I do— I'm expecting cooperation."

    He
was looking at me, not at Ken. Had himself one hell of a stare. I braved it for
a few seconds before I had to nod.

    The
day after I'd thrown Parker Harrison's check in the trash and promised myself
that would be the end of it, I stood in the parking lot below my office and
assured a Pennsylvania police detective I'd be willing to cooperate with his
investigation if he asked it. I hoped he wouldn't. If he did, I knew my
cooperation
would amount to baiting a psychopath. It would be a game in which Graham would
man one side of the board and Harrison the other. Me— The pawn shuffling around
in the middle. Yeah, wouldn't break my heart if he decided not to pursue that
avenue.

    "I've
got to head home tonight," Ken said as we watched Graham's Ford Explorer
pull onto Rocky River. "How about we grab a bite to eat first—"

    It
was closing in on four, and we hadn't eaten any lunch.

    "We
can do that," I said, "and now that you've managed to involve me in
the police investigation, I'd say it should be your treat."

    We
went to Sokolowski's University Inn in Tremont. It was one of my favorite
places in the city, a third-generation family-owned restaurant with an
exceptional vantage point of downtown. When I was still with the police, Joe
and I would stop in and sit at the bar and admire the view. Today, Ken and I
walked directly to the back dining room and found a quiet, dark corner.

    "Four
different varieties of sausage on the menu," he said, dropping his tray
onto the table. "This is Cleveland's idea of gourmet—"

    "Shut
up and taste it."

    He
bit into the bratwurst and raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Point made."

    I'd
gotten perch, but the lingering hangover dulled my appetite. Ken, on the other
hand, seemed to make a full recovery at the first smell of food.

    "Hell
of an interesting talk with Graham," he said. "Got more out of him
than I'd expected."

    "Yeah,
it was fantastic. Can't wait till he calls me and asks me to commence the game
playing with Harrison."

    "I
don't know that he will." He cut into his potato pancake, forked about
half of it into his mouth. "He gave us some starting points, that's for sure.
I'd say it's safe to focus on Harrison."

    I
sipped some ice water and watched him eat, wondering if he'd stop when he got
down to bare plate or just keep right on going until the tray was gone. I've
known some people who could chase a hangover away with food, but I'm sure not
one of them. Just watching him was making me queasy.

    "Safe
for
him
to focus on Harrison."

    He
finished the potato pancake, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked at me.
"I've already told you. I want this one."

    "Then
talk to Graham about it."

    "I
intend to. You heard him bitching about how difficult this is for him when his
other active cases are in Pennsylvania, how he's not getting the support he'd
like. I think the man would appreciate the help."

    "He
also would have appreciated a phone call as soon as you heard from Sanabria. So
if you're so eager to help him, why'd you wait on that—"

    "I
already told you, I wanted this one."

    "So
you've said. Yet you haven't done anything on it."

    His
face darkened. He looked at the table and slid a thumb along the edge of his
knife. "I had some other things going on in my life at that time.
Distractions."

    "Like—"

    "Like
losing my daughter," he said and looked up. "My divorce was finalized
in January. The ex had a new husband—and my daughter a new stepfather—by March.
You do the math on that, Detective."

    I
nodded, drank some more water, waited.

    "So
here I am," he said. "Doing something about it, a few months too
late—and I've got to thank you for wandering into this by mistake and pissing
Sanabria off, because that led to the phone call that got me off my ass. I
intend to push it as far as I can, Lincoln. With or without your help and with
or without Graham's approval, I intend to do that. Know what I said about being
distracted this spring— Well, summer's rolling on in now, buddy, and I'm
looking
for a distraction. This one fits fine."

    His
easy, amused manner had lost its grip and tumbled free, leaving behind a sheen
of bitterness. I could sympathize with some of it—I'd lost a fiancee to another
man—but what he was going through as a father was not an experience I knew. Or
wanted to know.

    "You
know why I want that distraction—" he said, his hand returning to the
knife. "Because when I have to sit around and think about what's happened
in my life in the past year, nine times out of ten I conclude that my wife was
right to go, and that my daughter's better off for it." He pressed his
thumb into the blade. "That's the truth of it, but as you can imagine,
it's not a truth I want to have to spend a hell of a lot of time
considering."