The Silent Hour (16 page)

    It
was Graham who called, but he quickly blamed Ken.

    "Your
buddy doesn't have the best touch with police," he said. "Calls me up
today, says he
wishes to inform me
that he'll be running his own
investigation. Wishes to inform me. No bullshit, that's what he said. Not 'Yo,
Detective Graham, I was wondering if I might be able to assist.' Not 'Excuse
me, Detective Graham, I understand this is a cold case in another state and you
might actually, for once in your career, be in favor of a PI's involvement.'
No, Linc, instead he
wishes to inform me
that he's going out on his own.
Whether I approve or not."

    "Hmm,"
I said.

    "Hmm—
Hmm— Yeah, hmm is right, Linc. That's about what I had to say, too. Might have
added a few more colorful terms, I don't recall. Your buddy, though—"

    "Don't
know that you can really call him my buddy, Graham. I met him two days ago. You
two go back much longer than that. I figure, with that history, maybe he's
really
your
buddy."

    "Oh,
you're not working with him on this— Because he said you were. He said, I
believe this is a direct quote—'Perry and I are going to see what we can shake
loose.' Shake loose, Linc. You not shaking— He shaking by himself—"

    "I
said I'd back him up. That's all. You know, give some advice—"

    "Oh,
some
adv
ice. Good, good. That's what I want to hear. You're giving
advice to a guy who's never been any closer to a murder case than his TV
screen."

    "You
don't want me to help him, then I'll just explain that and stay the hell
out."

    "Uh,
no. Not at this point. Too late for that. Your buddy, he's in the game now.
Already
informed
me, as I said. And if he's in the game, Linc— You
better be, too. Because at least you been around. At least you know what you're
doing. I did a little checking on you. Found out, my man Linc, he's a big
shot."

    "I
wouldn't say that."

    "Okay,
we won't say that. Here's what we will say: I'm counting on you to keep Kenny
from hurting this investigation. If he helps it, great, I'll be the first man
down to shake his hand—but I am not going to let him
hurt
it, and I'm
counting on you to help."

    I
rubbed my temples.

    "Kenny
does bring something to the table," Graham said. "I've got to admit
that."

    "Yeah—"

    "He
brings us an excuse to get you back in touch with Harrison. I was worrying on
that one while I drove home yesterday. If you blew up on Harrison the way you
said, then it'd feel wrong to have you go back, wanting to talk. Don't you
think—"

    Sure.

    "So
we needed an excuse to open that door again. Needed one that felt right. I
couldn't decide on it yesterday, but then this morning your buddy calls, and
while I'm listening to him go on, I thought, yes, sir, this is the ticket.
Kenny is the ticket. It'll be easy to sell as the truth, because it is the damn
truth. Kenny looked you up, told you he wanted your client's name, and you
agreed to give it to him. You might not want to work for Harrison, but he can.
There's money in it, right—"

    "Yeah."
I could hear loud voices in the background, somebody swearing profusely,
everybody else cracking up. Cops. Something about it hit a chord of absence
that had been quiet for a long time.

    "So
you two, you're going to go see Harrison," Graham said. "You're going
to talk, and you're going to tape."

    "A
wire—"

    "Yeah.
I'll get you set up."

    "I've
got one. Got a couple."

    "Good
quality or cheap shit—"

    "They're
good."

    "All
right. I'm considering you an informant, not a cop, understand— This isn't your
investigation, it's mine. What you hear, I hear."

    "Tell
it to Ken. I'm just an adviser, remember—" Even I wasn't buying that
anymore.

    "Yeah,
my ass. Anyhow, go easy this first time. Feel Harrison out, check his attitude,
see what you think."

    "You
want me to tape everything—"

    "Every
word, Linc. Every word. Now, you get a good talk going with him, there's a name
I'd like you to drop. Bertoli. Salvatore Bertoli."

    "He's
of interest—"

    "Man
died at the same time the Cantrells decided to make their exit. Man also used
to run with some boys in Youngstown and Cleveland who were close to Dominic.
Man's
plenty
interesting, is what I'm saying."

    "Is
he tied to Dominic through ten degrees of separation or two—"

    "Two
would be high, I think. He was definitely in Dominic's circle, though.
Definitely."

    "Well,
that's a hell of an important fact, don't you think— How did he end up with the
sister if he's—"

    "Just
ask Harrison about him. See if he takes you somewhere different than he took
me."

    "Which
was—"

    "Nowhere.
Now, I don't want you getting too heated with the questioning, Linc. You keep
it toned down. We're just feeling our way in the dark here. So you introduce
Harrison to Kenny, and if the chance is there, maybe you ask him what he
thought of the Italian guy, Salvatore. Whatever, we're treading lightly at the
start."

    Does
it matter how lightly you tread on a land mine
— I wondered.

    Ken
Merriman returned the next afternoon, to a hotel just off 1-71 where he'd
reserved a room for a full week. It was called a business suite and consisted
of a bedroom, living room, and kitchen jammed into the same space as an
ordinary hotel room, and when I made a joke about the place he told me I'd be
more impressed by it if I'd seen the apartment he'd been living in since the
divorce. I didn't make any more jokes after that.

    I'd
already located Parker Harrison's address and decided the way to approach him
was in person and without warning. His sort of style. Besides, I wanted to see
where he lived. There aren't many things that give you a sense of people faster
than seeing them at home, in their own environment. Maybe he wouldn't let us
in, but it was worth the try.

    By
the time I picked Ken up I was wearing the wire, just a simple seed mike that
clipped to the inside of my collar and connected to a digital recorder fastened
on my belt. I had a button-down shirt on, untucked over jeans, and it hung low
enough that it covered the recorder even when I lifted my arms over my head.

    In
addition to the recorder, I had my Glock in its holster at my spine, and the
feel of those things, the hard press of the gun and the cool, light touch of
the wire running along my back, reminded me what I loved about my job. At some
point during that preparation, testing the equipment and putting it on, I began
to relish my role. After a few weeks of insisting I wanted no part of it, I was
ready to go. A man had been killed and buried in the woods, and for twelve
years nobody had answered for it. Whether Parker Harrison had killed him or
not, he'd wanted to play games with me, writing his letters and telling his
half-truths. Well, all right. If he wanted a game, I was ready to give him one.

    The
adrenaline was still riding with me when I got to Ken's hotel, and as I stood
in his cramped room and explained things to him, he began to grin.

    "What—"
I said.

    "You're
fired up, aren't you—"

    "Just
ready to go. That's all."

    "I
was expecting more of the whining," he said. "You know, gloom and
doom, all the reasons we should be playing chess or knitting or whatever
instead of working this case."

    I
thought about what he'd just said and shook my head. Holy shit, I was turning
into my partner. I was turning into Joe.

    "You
want me to take the gun out, fire a few rounds into the ceiling—" I asked.
"Maybe bring along a pump shotgun—"

    "It
doesn't need to be that exciting."

    "All
right. Then let's get to work."

    Harrison
lived in an apartment in Old Brooklyn, not far from what had been Deaconess Hospital
when I was a kid. My father was an EMT who'd worked out of Deaconess for a
while. It was an area that had gone through plenty of cycles in a fairly short
time, hit hard by poverty and crime only to come back a few decades later with
skyrocketing house values. Harrison's apartment building wasn't attractive—a
two-story brick rectangle with all the aesthetic appeal of a shoe box—but it
was clean and bordered on either side by nice homes. There were only ten units
in the building, and Harrison's was located at the front, on the ground floor.
I had no idea what he did for a living or what he drove, so it was anybody's
guess whether he'd be home. One way to find out, and that was a knock at the
door.

    He
didn't answer. Nobody did. It was pushing on toward five, but early enough that
most people would still be at work. We got back in my truck and went up to
Pearl Road, found a restaurant with a bar, and killed an hour and a few
Coronas. At six we returned to the apartment building. There were more cars in
the lot, including an older Toyota pickup parked directly in front of
Harrison's unit.

    I
pulled in next to it, cut the engine, and resisted the urge to double-check my
recorder on the off chance that Harrison was watching. That's one of the
challenges of wearing a wire: You're constantly aware of it, but your goal is
to make sure nobody else is. I've found the best approach is to try to let it
float at the back of your brain. Don't forget you have the thing on—do that and
you're bound to screw up—but don't worry about it, either.

    When
we reached the door, I could hear music inside the apartment, some soft blues
that was turned off as soon as I knocked. A brief pause, Harrison probably
taking a look through the peephole, and then the door opened inward and he
said, "Don't tell me the check bounced."

    It
sounded like a joke, but his face held all the humor of a brick wall.

    "Didn't
even cash it," I said. "Mind if we come in—"

    He
was wearing jeans and no shirt, and his body was more muscular than I would've
guessed. Not cut from working out, but strong and free of fat in the way you
can be if you eat right. Something told me Harrison probably ate right. He
regarded Ken with a curious but not unfriendly gaze, and then he nodded and
stepped back, and we followed him into the apartment.

    It
wasn't spacious—the rooms were narrow, and the ceilings felt low—but it was
clean and laid out with a nice touch, furniture carefully situated to keep the
small space from seeming cramped. There was a large piece of art on one wall,
an elaborate wood carving in a symbol that meant nothing to me.

    Harrison
watched me look around and said, "It's not my first choice. I don't like
living in apartments. I'd rather have some space, but I can't afford that yet, and
the neighborhood here is quiet. Besides, I spend all day outside."

    "Do
you—" I looked away from the wood carving, back at him. "What is it
that you do for a living, Harrison—"

    "I'm
a groundskeeper. For a cemetery."

    "Really—"

    He
nodded. "It suits me."

    Ken
said, "How unsettling," in a flat voice that was pure Bogart and
would have made me smile anywhere and anytime else. Harrison gave him one
quick, hard stare, then returned his attention to me.

    "Can
I ask—" he began, but I interrupted and pointed at Ken.

    "He's
the one who wants to talk with you. It wasn't my choice."

    His
eyes went to Ken and lingered there, studying, but when he spoke again it was
still to me.

    "If
he wants to talk to me, why did he go through you—"

    "I'll
let him explain that." I walked past Harrison and sat on his couch. He
watched me but didn't say anything, and after a short pause Ken sat down, too.
Harrison stayed on his feet.

    "Well—"
he said, speaking directly to Ken this time.

    Ken
launched into his story, explaining the twelve-year-old case, the way it had
eaten at him, how he'd promised Joshua Cantrell's parents he'd deliver an
answer. I listened and tried to look bored, a little put out, as I was claiming
to be. The seed microphone was cool and firm against my collarbone, but so far
it hadn't taken in anything worth hearing, just Ken talking and Harrison
staying silent.