The Silent Hour (25 page)

    There
were dozens of them. Maybe. Or the whole story could have been entirely
truthful. No way to know because every other person who could confirm it was
dead or missing, and had been for years.

    Except
for Parker Harrison.

    He
was on my mind during our drive back from Murray Hill, and because of that it
didn't feel like much of a surprise when I checked the office voice mail and
found a message from him.

    The request
was simple this time, no tips or names or suggestions. Harrison wanted to see
me that evening, if possible, and he wanted me to be alone. He didn't leave any
other details, just said he'd be home after five and repeated that he wanted it
to be only me.

    I
played the message on speakerphone, so Ken heard it, too.

    "Guy
doesn't seem to like me, does he—" he said.

    "Your
client relationship does seem a bit strained."

    "Because
he knows damn well he's not really a client. The way we tried to play it didn't
fool him. Not enough, at least."

    "Not
at all, would be my guess," I said.

    There
were no messages from Graham, even though we'd been late getting back from
Murray Hill, almost two thirty, and Graham had predicted an arrival time of
one. I assumed he would've called if he'd come in early, though; it was too
long a drive to give up on us just because nobody was at the office.

    I
kept staring at the phone, even though the blinking message light was now gone,
nobody but Harrison leaving words behind for me. I wished Joe would call, so I
could throw all of this at him, let him offer some perspective. It had been a
few days since we'd last talked.

    
"I
'll tell you what," Ken said, "the more I
think about it, the more I wonder what Harrison did out there. Or what he saw.
We're making sense of everything else, slowly but surely. We understand
Bertoli's role now, know that they were trying to use him as a witness and it went
bad—but Harrison— I can't make sense of him. Not even close."

    Nor
could I. Or Graham, or Dunbar, or Mike London. A lot of people had considered
Harrison, and nobody had made sense of him yet.

    While
I was staring at the phone and pondering Harrison, there were footsteps on the
stairs, and then the door opened without any knock and Quinn Graham entered. He
was dressed sharp—black pants with a gold shirt and black-and-gold tie, and
when I looked at him I thought of Mike London's warning never to trust a man in
a suit and smiled. Most detectives wore suits every day. Only a guy like Mike
could distrust the daily wardrobe of his own peers.

    "Happy
to see me—" Graham said, noting my amused face.

    "Sure,
Graham. We're elated."

    He
shook hands with Ken and then took a chair, looked at me, and spread his hands.
"Brother, this better be good. I'll tell you something about the drive
between my home and here—it ain't pretty. Not gonna be on anyone's scenic route
list real soon. I keep making it, though, because of you boys, because of Linc
and Kenny. Hope you appreciate that."

    "Graham,
you'll be thanking us by the time you leave," I said. "We've made
some breakthroughs for you, buddy. Big stuff."

    "Yeah—"
His interest was genuine.

    "Yesterday
we learned"—I threw in a pause, enjoying the impatience in his
eye—"that Salvatore Bertoli was, in fact, placed in the Cantrell home by
an FBI agent named John Dunbar."

    I
said this with heavy drama, straight-faced, as if I really believed he'd be impressed.

    "He
was believed to be a witness to a killing committed by Dominic Sanabria,"
I continued after another pause. "Joshua Cantrell was working with Dunbar
to extract information from Bertoli. Evidently it did not work well."

    Graham
stayed silent.

    "Pretty
big stuff, eh—" I said.

    "Right,"
he said, but the disgust was clear in his voice.

    "What's
the matter, Graham— You thinking about those hours you wasted on the
road—"

    "You
know all of this is old to me," he said, "yet you made me drive up
here."

    "I
know it's old to
you,
yes. It wasn't old to us, and it's something we
wasted a day on, when you could have told us the same things in about fifteen
minutes. So you want to worry about the time you spent driving up here, tough
shit, man. You let us walk around like a couple of—"

    "I
didn't want you walking anywhere, Perry. Don't you get that— I don't know how
you found Dunbar, but I wish you hadn't. If you'd have called—"

    "I
did call. Yesterday morning, after we got Dunbar's name and were standing
downtown feeling like hot shit. It's embarrassing to admit now, but that's the
truth of it. You got a problem with us talking to Dunbar— Well, you could've
prevented that easy enough."

    He
sighed and leaned forward, then ran a hand along the side of his head and
gripped the back of his own neck and squeezed as if he were trying to calm
himself down.

    "I
know you were police, Linc," he said, "but you gotta realize, you are
not
police anymore. So when you get all fired up over shit you weren't
told, slow down and think about the situation from my point of view, which is:
I'm not telling anybody a
damn thing
that I don't have to. Ever. I'm
trying to maintain control of my investigation."

    It
was exactly what I'd expected he'd say, but that didn't mean it pleased me.

    "Graham,
you asked for our help. Sat right there in that chair and asked for-"

    "No,
no, no." He looked up, shaking his head. "Didn't ask for anybody's
help,
Linc. What I asked for, and what I expected to receive, was your
cooperation.
Big difference, boy. You had access to Harrison, and that's
where I wanted your cooperation. What I did
not
want, at any time, was
for you two lo go running around the city interviewing people and knocking on
doors and potentially damaging my case. I as good as told you that, too."

    "When—"

    "I
said that I was counting on you to keep him from stepping to trouble."
Graham jerked his head at Ken, and I saw a flush of anger—or
embarrassment—cross Ken's face. "Now I find out I should've been just as
worried about you as him."

    He
sighed again, shook his head again, and then leaned back and loosened his tie.
"Here's what I want out of you two, okay— Communication with Harrison.
That's it, and that's all. I don't want you to
force
the communication,
either. I just want to be aware of it. Tape the talks when he initiates them,
and that's great. As far as street work goes, I don't want you on this."

    "That's
not really your call," Ken said.

    Graham
looked at him with wide, challenging eyes, his index finger still hooked in the
knot of his tie. "It's not— You get in the way of a police investigation,
and don't think I can shut you down— Boy, you don't even have a client."

    "I
do now," Ken said.

    "Who—"

    "Parker
Harrison. He retained me through Lincoln. I believe that scenario was your
idea, too."

    Graham
scowled and released his tie after one last angry jerk.

    "Hang
on a minute," I said as he was getting ready to start in on Ken again.
"We can all fight this one out later. Fact is, Ken's got a client, and you
gave it to him, Graham. Regardless, I don't think Ken has any desire to hinder
what you've done, or what you're trying to do. If we don't know what that is,
though, we're bound to cause you some headaches."

    "I
told you my reasoning."

    "Yes,
and I understand it, but what I'd like to hear you say is what you actually
think of John Dunbar. I'm assuming you know he was retired at the time all this
went down—"

    Graham
gave one last stare to Ken, not ready to let that battle fade so quickly, but
then he returned his attention to me.

    "Dunbar's
straight," he said. "I know it doesn't feel right, but he's
straight."

    "How
can you say that with any confidence when there's nobody around to support his
story—"

    "Nobody
around to contradict it, either, but the fact is the man could not be more
cooperative," he said. "The day after we ID'd the body as Joshua
Cantrell, I got a call from Dunbar, wanting to fill me in. He initiated the
contact. I had no idea who he was at that point, or what his connection was,
and I would've wasted a lot of hours developing that. Instead, he drove out to
see me, brought boxes of shit out with him, photos and notes that he'd taken.
Left it all with me, for my review. If the man's got anything to hide, he's got
a strange manner of hiding it. He was calling me a couple times a week for a
while, throwing theories and suggestions until I stopped calling him back
because he was underfoot so damn much. Hell, it was him that pointed me to
Sanabria's phone records, showed he'd been in touch with Harrison."

    "Did
you make any attempt to verify his version of events—"

    "Of
course I did, and the man checks out, Linc. You want to do the same, go ahead.
He served thirty years in the FBI, thirty
strong
years, and if you can
get anyone to say a bad word about him, it'll be in the way things went with
Bertoli."

    "Well,
I'd imagine. You've got someone murdering an FBI informant that nobody in the
FBI knew was an informant, yeah, that's a problem."

    "Sure
it is. Everyone involved acknowledged that, both at the time and when I got in
touch this year. That doesn't make Dunbar corrupt, though."

    "What
about Mark Ruzity—" I said. "The guy seems to have some anger issues.
Put a chisel to my forehead while telling us the case was better off unsolved.
Then Dunbar showed us a photo of him with Sanabria just days after the
Cantrells vanished. How do you explain that—"

    "I
can't. You know who took that picture— Dunbar himself. He'd started following
Sanabria after he realized Joshua was MIA. Yes, while he was retired. Yes,
acting unofficially. I get your problem with that, Linc, I do, but I'm telling
you the man is truly trying to help. Without him, we'd never know Ruzity and
Sanabria had any association."

    "So
now you know that they do, but you don't know
why."

    "Not
yet."

    "Bertoli
was openly connected to Sanabria's circle before he went into prison," I
said. "Now we know that both Ruzity and Harrison had contact with him
after they came out. What in the hell was going on in that house, Graham—"

    "I'm
not sure."

    "Yet
you want our help, and you expect to get it without telling us a damn
thing."

    Graham
lifted his hands, palms out, and made a patting gesture. Soothing.
Step
back, relax, everybody be happy.

    "Look,
I understand your irritation, but what we need to make clear is that I can't
afford to have you guys in my way. What've you done here, it's no big deal.
Talking to Dunbar is nothing, but I can't have you keep after it. Eventually
you may talk to the wrong person, maybe before I do, and then we've got a real
problem."

    "So
you're telling us to stop the investigation—" Ken said.

    "No,
I'm telling you not to harm the
real
investigation. The one that'll get
somebody arrested and convicted if it's done right, and will let 'em walk if
it's done wrong. I'm here to see that it's done right."

    "Which
means—"

    "Which
means you probably ought to go on back home." He said it gently but met Ken's
eyes. "That's no disrespect, Kenny. Okay— The truth of it is, man, there
ain't nothing for you to do that the police can't do better."

    Ken
looked at me, eyes hot, as if he were waiting for me to jump into the fray and
argue. When I stayed silent, he turned back to Graham.

    "What
are
the police doing— A few days ago you were in here telling us how
overstretched you are. Sounded to me like you needed the help."

    "All
right," Graham said, still with the temperate touch in his voice,
"then why don't you tell me what you're going to do to help—"