The Silent Hour (23 page)

    "Murray
Hill's nothing
but
little Italian places, Mike."

    "The
one with all the red, white, and green," he said. Real help narrowing it
down. When I finally determined he meant Mama Santa's, we agreed to meet at
noon.

    Ken
and I left early, largely by virtue of having nothing else to do. There'd been
no more word from Graham, so I assumed he was still planning to show up that
afternoon. If he came by while we were with London, he could wait. I wasn't
feeling particularly gracious toward Quinn Graham.

    We
got to Murray Hill around eleven thirty, which meant we were in for a long
wait, because London was never early and rarely on time.

    "Here
we are," I said as we drove up Mayfield Road and passed by Holy Rosary's
brick facade and stained glass windows, the building more than a hundred years
old now but still looking solid and clean. "Cleveland's fierce Little
Italy. Do you want to go to an art gallery first or a bakery—"

    "Yeah,
yeah, I get it, not a threatening place anymore—but remember, we're here to
talk about a murder. Speaking of murder—"

    "I
love that segue."

    "Thought
you would. I forgot to tell you, I checked my office voice mail last night.
There was a message from an attorney representing Cantrell's parents."

    "Did
somebody call them to ask about what you're doing up here—"

    "Nope.
Wanted to inform me that I may be called for a deposition. They're trying to
claim the property."

    "That
house—"

    He
nodded. "You've been out there, you know how much it must be worth. The
thing's held free and clear in Alexandra and Joshua's names, but they're gone.
So his parents want a piece of the estate."

    "I
don't see how they could get it if there's no proof that Alexandra is dead. The
taxes are paid and current, there's no mortgage, no excuse to take it away from
her."

    "That's
what I thought, but their attorney intends to file suit to have her declared
dead. They're going to subpoena her attorney to see if he's had any contact
with her in the last seven years. Apparently that's some sort of legal standard.
They're sure nobody else has been in touch with her for that long."

    It
sounded crazy, seeking a courtroom ruling over whether or not a life still
existed, but I supposed it was reasonable for them to try. Just the night
before, Amy and I had wondered if Alexandra was still alive.

    "Supposing
Child says he hasn't heard from her in the last seven years, then…"

    "They'll
have to publish a notice of her presumed death. Run that for sixty days or
something, I'm not sure of the specifics. If she doesn't respond in that time
frame, and nobody else comes forward with proof of life, they can get a judge
to rule that she's legally deceased. Once that's done, they can put a claim on
the property."

    I sat
with my car keys in my hand and thought about the house, that arched doorway
into the earth, the quiet that surrounded it. "They're going to sell it,
aren't they—"

    "I'm
sure that's the idea. They aren't well-off."

    It
was tough to imagine anyone moving into the place. I tried to picture it—a
moving truck parked outside under the trees, a family inside sorting through
boxes, kids running around the grounds, ready to transform the empty home into
someplace full of life. It didn't seem right.

    "That's
interesting," I said finally, when I realized Ken was still looking at me
and I hadn't said anything for a long time. "I'll be curious to see what
happens."

    "She'll
come back to it," he said.

    "What—"

    "I
think Alexandra will come back to it if she's still alive."

    "I
don't know why she would."

    "Because
the place is a grave to her, Lincoln. It's a memorial. You have to see that.
She left a home that's worth millions sitting empty and alone for twelve years.
She had a damn epitaph carved beside the door. That place means something to
her. So let me tell you—if she's alive, I bet she'll come back to see it
again."

    There
are plenty of good restaurants on Murray Hill, but Mama Santa's pizzeria is one
of the oldest and best known. Ken and I were ahead of the lunch crowd and got a
table in the back of the dark, wood-paneled dining room.

    "I
hope Mike sits next to you," I said as we took our seats.

    "He's
that big—"

    "Three
hundred at least."

    "That's
not tiny."

    "I
knew a guy who worked a surveillance with him once, said Mike brought this feed
bag of beef jerky along, like five pounds of the stuff. Went through that in
the first hour, then spent the rest of the night bitching about how hungry he
was. Guy said the longer the surveillance went on, the less he liked the way
Mike looked at him, started to feel like he was out with the Donner
Party."

    Ken
smiled as he leaned back from the table, stretched out his long legs, and
crossed his feet at the ankles. "What's your best surveillance story— Or
worst experience, rather. Those usually make the best stories."

    "That's
easy. I was in an unmarked car by myself not long after I switched to narcotics
and started working with Joe. This is early on, and Joe was something of a
legend, so I'm trying to impress, right— Well, it's February, bad snowstorm had
just blown through, left it cold as a bastard, and my lovely and charming
fiancé—yes, I was engaged, and no, it didn't stick—she's feeling bad for
me and decides to give me a present. One of these heated pads for the car seat,
you plug it into the cigarette lighter. I was embarrassed by the damn thing
since it didn't exactly feed the tough-guy image I was trying to cultivate. I
threw it in the car, though, because I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

    "So,
the night of this surveillance, we sit on the guy's house for hours, and
nothing happens. Started in late afternoon, and now it's two in the morning and
our guy hasn't moved, which means neither have we. It's getting colder and
colder, just crawling into my bones, you know, and I figure, hell, might as
well use her gift for a little while, just long enough to warm up. I plugged it
in for maybe twenty minutes. Half hour at best."

    Ken's
smile widened as he saw where I was headed.

    "Thing
warms me up, and now I understand why—it must have been burning watts like a
set of stadium lights. I unplug it about an hour before our guy moves. He comes
out of the house and gets into his car, and I think,
finally,
and turn
the key."

    "Click,"
Ken said, and laughed.

    I
nodded. "Click. Absolutely no juice, battery's dead. So I have to get on
the radio with Joe and say, uh, our boy's in motion, but I can't tail him until
I get a jump."

    "You
tell him what killed the battery—"

    "Hell
no. You kidding me— I spent the next three weeks bitching about the shitty
unmarked cars they gave us. Joe
still
doesn't know the truth about that
one."

    "Nice."

    "All
right, your turn," I said.

    "You'll
like this—worst surveillance I ever went on was a fake surveillance."

    "A
fake surveillance—"

    "I
have—
had
, rather—a brother in law who I simply could not stand. He was
older than my wife, had the protective big brother thing going on, but he was
also just a dick, you know— Owned a car lot, made piles of money, told bad
jokes and laughed at them way too loud. Only his own jokes, though. Never
cracked a smile at anything anybody else had to say, but when
he'd
make
a joke he always cut up, roared at his own dazzling wit. When we first got
married, my patience with him could last about an hour. That's how long I could
stand to be in the same room. That time frame diminished over the years."

    "I
can imagine."

    "One
Friday night my wife informs me that he's coming by for dinner, and I thought,
oh, shit, not on a weekend. Because on the weekends he liked to hit the bottle,
and when he did that, he lingered longer and laughed louder. So I thought, just
tell one little white lie and give yourself a night off. Tell them you have to
work, a rush surveillance job came up, and then go sit in a bar and watch a
basketball game."

    "Good
plan."

    "That's
what I thought. When I came home that night, I planned to sell the story to my wife
by picking up a tripod and acting real annoyed at this last-minute development.
Well, the son of a bitch was already there. He'd shown up early. So he started
asking a thousand questions about the surveillance, what it is that I do, all
of that. I was edging for the door, he was following me with beer in hand, and
just as I was about to escape, he turned to my wife and said, 'Hey, you
wouldn't mind if I skipped dinner and tagged along with Ken, would you—'"

    I
started to laugh.

    "Yeah,"
Ken said, nodding. "Of course she agreed to it. So now instead of dealing
with this asshole over dinner in my own home, with my wife to distract him,
I've got him alone, and in my car."

    "Without
any surveillance to do."

    "Exactly.
So I thought, well, what the hell can you do at this point but play it out— I
drove us to some apartment complex, just picked one at random, and gave him a
story about what we were watching for. We sat there for five hours, him
drinking and talking and pointing at every car that came and went—'is that
them, is that them—'"

    "That's
fantastic," I said. "A cautionary tale."

    We
traded a few more war stories while we waited. Ken asked if I had a
surveillance theme song, and I had to laugh.

    "A
theme song— Are you kidding me— You play the
Mission Impossible
sound
track when you're working—"

    "Everybody
should have a theme song," he said, unbothered, "and, no, mine's not
the
Mission Impossible
sound track. Song's called 'Cold Trail Blues.' By
a guy named Peter Case. Ever heard it—"

    I
shook my head.

    "Thing
speaks to me," he said with a faint grin. "Speaks about the
Cantrells, too. All about some guy searching through the gloom, wondering if
he'll ever find what he's looking for. Thinking it's too late, and he's too far
behind."

    "If
that's your theme song," I said, "it's no damn wonder that you
haven't found Alexandra yet. Encouraging shit."

    His
smile was hollow. "I'll burn you a copy."

    When
Mike finally entered, it was twenty past twelve. He wedged in through the door,
lumbered across the room, extended his hand, and set to work crushing my
fingers. A Mike London handshake was both a greeting and a warning, I always
thought.

    "How
are you, Mike—"

    "Hungry.
I am hungry, Lincoln, my boy." He turned and cast an interrogator's stare
down at Ken. "You're Pennsylvania—"

    "Ken
Merriman."

    "From
Pennsylvania," Mike said, as if that dismissed any need for Ken to have a
name. A location would suffice. He dropped into the chair beside Ken and heaved
his bulk up to the table's edge. I saw Ken trying to slide closer to the wall
to make room for him, and I had to hide a grin.

    "The
way we got to Bertoli," I began, but Mike lifted a hand to silence me.

    "I
need a menu and a waitress. Then you can tell me all that shit."

    We
got him a menu and a waitress, and once the food was ordered he drained his
glass of water as if it were a shot and said, "All right, get to it."

    "Ken
was hired by the parents of Joshua Cantrell a while back," I said. "Do
you remember that story—"

    "Guy
went missing with his wife and was found last winter."

    "That's
him, yeah. We're trying to figure out how he ended up dead and in Pennsylvania,
and where the wife went."

    "We—
How'd you get involved—"

    It
froze me for a moment, and even Ken gave me an odd look, because it shouldn't
have been that difficult a question to answer. Eventually I forced a grin and
said, "Just doing what I do, Mike. Just doing what I do."