The Silent Hour (26 page)

    Again
Ken looked at me. "Detective work, Graham. That's what we're going to
do."

    "And
that means—"

    "Getting
out on the street, talking to witnesses, running down leads," Ken said,
anger in his voice now. He seemed to think Graham was talking down to him,
patronizing, but I didn't read it that way. Graham was trying not to bruise
egos, but the reality was he wanted us out of the way because he didn't think
we could do anything but harm.

    "All
of which I've done, and will continue to do," Graham said. "You'll
end up right where I am now, Kenny—staring down Sanabria and Harrison."

    "So
you're saying this one's unsolvable—" Ken said. "Time to put it under
wraps, nothing left to do—"

    Graham
shook his head. "I intend to solve it. I think we will. We should have lab
results from the body and the grave in a few months, maybe in a few weeks if
we're lucky, and hopefully those will open up some doors. I expect that they
will."

    "So
you want to shut us down," Ken said, "but at the same time you want
us to communicate with Harrison. Well, the communication he wants is about our
progress on the investigation. Going to be pretty difficult to sit around and
chat with him if we're not doing anything."

    Graham's
jaw worked as he looked at Ken.

    "He
makes a fair point," I said. "You can't have it both ways, Graham.
Either we're involved or we're not. You make the call."

    "Okay—you're
out."

    Ken
bristled, but I just nodded. "All right. I guess I better call Harrison,
then, tell him tonight's meeting is off."

    "You
plan a meeting with him—"

    "No.
He called today and requested one. Seems he's got some things on his mind.
Wanted to have a talk."

    Graham
was looking at me as if considering how satisfying it would be to pop my head
right off my neck, but finally he sighed and nodded.

    "Go
talk to him, then. See what he says, get it on tape, and then call me. Do
not,
under any circumstance, talk to anyone else until you've cleared it
with me. Got it—"

    "Got
it."

    "While
I'm here, I want a copy of the tape from your last talk, too."

    "I
burned it onto a CD for you."

    "Good.
At least I'll get something out of this drive." He stood up and reached
for the CD. "You have any idea what Harrison wants—"

    "None,"
I said.

    Graham
slid the CD into his pocket, then looked at both of us silently.

    "Don't
worry, Graham," I said. "You'll learn to love us."

    "That's
what my wife told me when she got a dog—and you know what—"

    "What—"

    "Time
to time, dog still shits on my rug."

    Ken wanted
to ride out to Harrison's house with me, but I didn't like that idea. Harrison
had requested a one-on-one meeting, for whatever reason, and I didn't want to
irritate him by leaving Ken sitting in my car in the parking lot. So instead I
left him sitting at a bar, with Amy for a conversation partner.

    "You're
not real good with the art of relationships," she observed as I drove her
to the Rocky River Brewing Company, a microbrewery that was one of Amy's
favorite drinking venues. "It's not exactly standard for a guy to take his
girlfriend to a bar and drop her off with orders to entertain another
man."

    "I'm
not telling you to sleep with him. Just buy him some drinks, maybe give him a
shoulder rub."

    "Yeah,
it's a stunner that your fiancé ended up with another guy. A true
puzzle."

    By
the time we got there, Ken was already at the bar, halfway through a beer
called the Lakeshore Electric. He stood up when we approached, and I made
introductions, wishing like hell that I could just stay with the two of them
instead of driving off for yet another strange conversation with Parker
Harrison.

    "I'll
head back this way when I'm done with our boy," I said to Ken. "Until
then, watch your ass around Amy. She's a mean drinker."

    By
the time I got to the door, I could already hear her apologizing for me. It's
not an uncommon occurrence.

    Then
it was back to Old Brooklyn, as the twilight settled in warm and still and with
the wet touch of humidity that promised real summer. I kept the windows down and
turned James McMurtry up loud on the stereo and thought that it would be a
perfect night to sit in the outfield, watching one of those spring games that
can't help but be fun because it's too early to feel much concern or
disappointment over your team. Maybe if Harrison didn't want too much of my
time, we could do that. I knew Amy would be up for it, and what else did Ken
have to do—

    By
the time I reached Harrison's apartment, there was nothing left of the sun but
a thin orange line on the horizon, the streetlights were on, and James McMurtry
had just finished explaining why he was tired of walking and wanted to ride.
I'd put the recorder and wire on before I left my apartment, and now I adjusted
my collar and gave one quick look in the mirror to be sure the microphone
wasn't visible. It wasn't. I got out and walked up to Harrison's apartment,
found the window dark. The door opened at my first knock, though, and Harrison
stood in front of me with a dish towel in his hands, his forearms streaked with
moisture. Behind him I could see a light on in the kitchen, the living room
gloomy with nothing but the fading daylight.

    "Lincoln.
Come in."

    I
stepped through the door, and he closed it behind me. Now I wanted a lamp on.

    "You
mind turning on a—"

    "You
both need to stop."

    "What—"

    "You
and Ken Merriman. Tell him to keep the money. Or you keep the money. Either
way, I think you both need to stop. Send him home."

    "Why—"

    He
didn't answer but also didn't look away.

    "Harrison—
What the hell is going on—"

    He
wet his lips. "Lincoln, do you remember what I told you at first— The
reason I wanted to find Alexandra—"

    "You
wanted to be in touch with her."

    "No.
Well, yes, that was part of it, but what I told you I wanted most was—"

    "To
know what happened. To know the story."

    He
nodded. "It's not worth it."

    "Not
worth
what—"

    He
shifted his weight and dropped his eyes for the first time, saw the towel in
his hands, and used it to dry his arms.

    "Harrison,
damn it, tell me what the hell is going on."

    "It's
not worth the potential for harm," he said.

    "Harm
to…"

    "You,
Ken Merriman, anyone else. Everyone else. At the end of the day, Lincoln, I
think I made a mistake. She left because she wanted to leave, and if she hasn't
been back… well, I suppose she wants to stay where she is. Right— Unfound and
unbothered. If that's what Alexandra wants, then I won't fight for something
contrary to it."

    "I'm
still not following this sudden worry about harm."

    "It
doesn't matter if you're following it. The last time we talked, you told me you
didn't want to work for me, so now I'm giving you good news—I don't want you to
work for me, either. Not you, or Merriman, or anybody else."

    What
had changed his mind— Something we'd done that he knew about— Had he seen us
with Graham or Mike London, somehow developed the idea that we were working
with police— Or was it entirely different and unrelated to us—

    "Harrison—"

    "This
isn't a discussion. I appreciate your reconsideration, the way you brought an
investigator to me, but I'm done."

    Now I
was more aware of the recorder and the possibilities that were about to be
terminated when Harrison threw me out. We'd gotten nothing from him. Not a word
that would help the investigation.

    "What
do you know about the Cantrells—" I said, taking a step toward him even
though there wasn't much space between us. "About what happened to
them—"

    "What
I know isn't enough to matter."

    "Bullshit.
I saw your eyes when we mentioned Bertoli's name, Harrison. Why—"

    "Lincoln,
there's nothing I can say."

    "According
to the police, that's always been your response. Nothing to say—but it's a lie,
Harrison, and you know it."

    "You've
talked to the police about me— To Graham—"

    I
hesitated only briefly. "Of course I did. You're a convicted killer, like
it or not, and you wanted me to look into a murder case. Don't you think that
raised some questions in my head—"

    He
stood where he was and looked into my eyes as if he were taking inventory, and
then he reached out with a quick and sure motion and grasped the edge of my
shirt collar, and tugged it back, tearing the first button loose. As he did
that, he ran his other hand down my spine, checking for a wire. I tried to
counter, shoving his hand away and stepping back, but it was too late. His eyes
had found the thin black wire, standing out stark against my white skin.

    "Whose
idea—" he said. "Yours or Graham's—"

    "Mine."
I took a few steps back, feeling exposed now, vulnerable. He hadn't moved
again, but as I stood there in the dark living room facing him I found myself
wishing I had my gun. I hadn't brought it in because Harrison hadn't seemed the
least bit threatening in our previous meetings. Now his stance and his face
made the Glock noticeably absent.

    "Leave,
Lincoln," he said. "Leave, and let it go. Don't let anybody else keep
you involved. Not Graham, not Merriman, not anybody."

    I
waited for a moment, staring back at a face that looked to be caught between
fear and anger, and then I went for the door. Harrison didn't move as I opened
it and stepped out.

    I
stood on the welcome mat in front of his apartment and blew out a trapped
breath and looked down at my shirt, the microphone dangling bare and obvious. I
took it off and untucked my shirt and slid the whole contraption out and kept
it in my hand as I walked to my truck. When I started the engine, the
headlights came on automatically, shining directly into Harrison's windows. The
glass reflected an image of my truck back at me, but beyond that I could see
the shadows of Harrison's apartment, and his silhouette standing directly in
the middle of the room, watching me. He was holding a phone to his ear.

    I called
Graham as I drove away from Harrison's building, got the phone out and dialed
without pause because I knew if I stopped to think about it I'd delay calling
him. He wasn't going to be pleased with this.

    It
took about twenty seconds of conversation before he confirmed that idea,
breaking into a burst of sustained profanity that might have impressed me had I
not been its target. No, he wasn't pleased.

    "Graham,
there's nothing I would have done differently," I said when he finally
paused for a breath.

    "Nothing
you would have done—"

    "No.
There's not. It was nothing I said that convinced him I was wearing a wire; he
was already pretty sure of it. The way he went for my shirt, Graham—he knew I
was wearing one. He was sure he'd find it."

    "Beautiful,
Perry."

    "I
don't know what to say, Graham. Sorry it went like that, but it was your
idea."

    "My
bad idea," he said. "I'll readily admit that. I let you and your
buddy get into this, and I shouldn't have."

    I kept
the phone pressed to my ear as I hammered the accelerator and pulled onto the
interstate, took it up to eighty-five before letting off. It was silent for a
while, Graham's breathing heavy with irritation.