The Silent Hour (40 page)

    His
voice was terse and biting, and Joe raised his eyebrows and gave me a little
smile. I was stepping into dangerous turf now, with even a suggestion that Mike
might have missed something.

    "That's
good enough for me," I said, trying to soothe, thinking that while I was
still going to need to verify, there was no reason to call him out on it now.
"I just don't know what the hell to do with this, Mike. If Ken was excited
about a car, I think it had to be the one you told us about, but where that
took him…"

    "Like
I told you back in the spring, Darius was connected to Sanabria."

    "Evidently
Ken wasn't sure the murder had anything to do with Sanabria."

    "Then
I quite simply don't know what to tell you, Lincoln."

    I
rubbed my forehead and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think of the right
question—hell, of
any
question. What could Ken have seen in that car
that neither Mike nor I could—

    "You
traced the plate, and it ran back to Neloms directly," I said.
"Right—"

    "Right.
Wait, no. It was registered to his shop, which doesn't really make a damn bit
of difference. Ultimately still his vehicle. He claimed no idea of who could
have driven it, said the keys were inside the shop and maybe somebody took
them, then told us the car must have been stolen."

    "But
it had been returned."

    "Uh-huh.
I checked out every employee—most of whom were family or friends of his,
cousins or nephews or whatever—and didn't get anything, but I don't think
whoever was behind the wheel really had much to do with Neloms."

    "You
think they worked for Sananbria."

    "Right.
They had a history together."

    All
of this was recycled, the same damn conversation we'd had six months ago, and
all of it pointed back to Sanabria, when Ken's final words pointed in another
direction entirely.

    "Look,
Lincoln, I don't know what else to tell you…"

    "It's
fine, Mike. Don't worry about it. If I think of something else, I'll
call."

    I
thanked him and hung up.

    "Mike
thinks one of Sanabria's guys drove the car," Joe said.

    "Yeah."

    We
sat in silence and thought.

    "This
is going to sound crazy," I said, "but what if Bertoli drove himself
there—"

    He
frowned. "His ghost got up off the pavement and drove it back— The car was
gone after he died, right— That's why Mike was looking at it as a suspect
vehicle."

    "Right,"
I said, "but he had to get there somehow, and whoever killed him would
have known that. The guy had just gotten out of prison; it's unlikely he had
his own car. So maybe he borrowed one from this Neloms guy.

    He
drove that car to meet somebody, he got killed, and then someone else—maybe the
guy who killed him, maybe not—drove the car back. Having the car gone from the
scene is one less thing for the cops to look at, which is what they'd want, and
they couldn't have known…"

    My
voice trailed off, and Joe said, "Keep going," but I didn't answer.
The notion of Bertoli as the driver had tripped something in my brain, and I
got up and went to the file cabinet and pulled out the sheaf of papers Ken had
given me on the case. Copies of everything he'd had, or so he'd told me.

    It
took me a while, but I located the paperwork he'd brought into the office on
the morning after our first encounter, the morning after my wild drunken dream
about Parker Harrison watching me on the roof. Profiles of all the convicts
who'd stayed at Whisper Ridge. I flipped through until I found Bertoli. Read
the report once again, the details of his arrest for beating the truck stop
manager and stealing his heroin. The police had arrested him within hours. Due
to his car.

    Bertoli
used a stolen plate, but it was his own vehicle, an Impala with a custom paint
job and chrome rims featuring cutouts in the shape of diamonds.

    "Son
of a bitch," I said, and then, without bothering to say a word to Joe's
questioning glance, I pounded the redial button on the phone and got Mike
London back on the line. He sounded weary when he realized it was me.

    "One
last question," I said. "The car you saw that night, it was an Olds
Cutlass, not an Impala, right—"

    "Right."

    "You
said it had custom features on it, though"

    "Yeah,
all that shit like in a rap video."

    "This
is a long shot, but do you remember the rims—"

    
"The
rims—"

    "Yeah."

    "Well,
they were spinners. You know, the kind that rotate when the engine's on—"

    "Right.
You remember whether there were diamond etchings in them— Cutouts in the shape
of diamonds—"

    Silence
while he thought, then, "Yeah, maybe. Maybe there were. I'm not sure, but
I think that sounds right."

    "All
right, Mike. Thanks. Thanks a lot."

    I
hung up with him again, and then I stood and brought the Bertoli report over to
Joe's desk and dropped it down, waited while he read it.

    "You're
thinking that he got his car worked on down there—"

    "Yes."

    "Makes
sense. Of course, we already know Sanabria's guys and Neloms had an
association."

    "Uh-huh,
but read that arrest report again—who was in the vehicle with Bertoli the night
he stole the heroin—"

    "Unidentified
juvenile."

    "Right.
Name redacted from Ken's report, because what Ken could access was public
record, and the passenger was a minor. There's an original police report with
that kid's name. I want it."

    "I'll
call."

    Unlike
me, he wouldn't use the speakerphone. I heard him say what he wanted and was
sure he'd be told to wait for a call back. That's what it would have taken had
I called—and if I didn't pick the right person to lean on for the favor, the
wait might have extended into the next day Instead, Joe was on hold for what
seemed like all of thirty seconds. He murmured a soft thank-you into the phone,
scribbled a name onto his notepad, and then hung up and held the pad a few
inches from my face.

    Alvin
Neloms, black juvenile, sixteen years old.

    "A
son, probably," I said. "Darius has a son."

    "Check
on it."

    I
went back to my computer and ran a database search on Alvin Neloms and pulled
up a family history. His father was listed as unknown. His mother had kept her
own name, it seemed. According to the family chart the database offered, Darius
Neloms was the boy's uncle, not his father. He was from East Cleveland, was now
twenty-nine years old, and had been arrested just one time as an adult, for
drug possession, charge dismissed. These were all things Ken could have found
in a few minutes of research after he made the connection between the cars.

    "You
know anybody with East Cleveland PD—" I asked.

    "Tony
Mitchell did some task force stuff with them."

    "Ask
about this kid, would you— I want to know more before we talk to him."

    "We're
going to talk to him—"

    "Bet
your ass, Joseph. We're getting there. Getting
somewhere."

    So
Joe got back on the phone and asked for Tony, and they exchanged cursory
greetings while I waited impatiently.

    "Use
the damn speaker, Joe."

    He
ignored me, then told Tony he was calling to ask if the name Alvin Neloms meant
anything to him. He listened for a while with no change of expression, then
said, "Could you repeat that, please—" This time he finally hit the
speakerphone button.

    "I
said Cash is the worst they've got," Tony said. "One of them, at
least. And down there— When I say he's one of the worst, you know what I'm
talking about."

    "Cash—"
Joe said.

    "That's
what he goes by, yeah. Comes from an old playground basketball nickname,
everybody called him 'Cash Money' when he was a kid because he had a jump shot
that just did not miss. In another neighborhood, another school, that kid plays
college ball and goes to the league. No question. I've seen him play plenty. We
had surveillance details on Cash for years, and even while waiting to bust his
ass, I was impressed by his game. He played it like he loved it, you know— Then
he'd go off and kill someone. It's sad, is what it is."

    "What
exactly is his story—" Joe said.

    "Drugs
and blood. He's top of the food chain out there now. Nobody moves a damn dime
bag through East Cleveland that he doesn't know about."

    "He's
only been arrested one time— Charge dismissed—"

    "The
boy is
good,
got it— Runs a couple dozen gangbangers and pushers who
take his falls for him and isn't a one of them says a word, because if they do,
they just dug a grave that fits them nice and tight. Cash runs shit organized,
runs it like the damn Mafia."

    Joe
cocked his head and looked at me. I didn't say anything, didn't respond.

    "Unofficial
body count credited to Cash Neloms—" Tony said. "Twenty. Maybe
twenty-five."

    My
chest muscles suddenly felt cold and constricted.

    "You
ever heard of him actually having mob ties—" Joe said.

    "Nope.
It's all his show, Pritchard. His organization. And that shitty side of town
drips with his blood."

    "Supposing
we wanted to talk to him—" Joe began.

    "Talk
to
Cash
— On what—"

    "Cold
case investigation. Twelve years old."

    "Twelve
years old—
Twelve—
Sweet mother, Pritchard, I'll tell you this one time
and make it clear as I can—this ain't a man you
talk
to. Not a PI. I
know you were police for a long time, but you're a civilian now, and that's a
distinction that means something to Cash. Understand— You walk in that
neighborhood asking questions about Cash Neloms, you better be wearing a damn
vest and carrying with your finger on the trigger."

    "I'm
advised," Joe said. "Thanks, Tony."

    He
disconnected, blew out a breath, and said, "Where are we going, Lincoln—
Where in the hell are we going—"

    I
didn't know. I stood in silence for a minute, trying to think, but there were
too many pieces and too many ways they could fit, and I could not see the whole
for the sum of its parts, couldn't even get close. Eventually I picked up the
phone and held it in my hand, thinking of Quinn Graham. I didn't call, though.
I hung up before the dial tone switched over to that rapid off-the-hook beep,
and then I lifted the receiver again and called John Dunbar. I used the home
number, and he answered.

    "Hey,"
I said, "it's Lincoln Perry. You remember me—"

    "You
got something—" he said, and it was incredible how much anticipation was
in his voice, how much hope.

    "Yeah,"
I said, "I got a question. You have access to phone records from the Cantrell
house in the last few months they were there—"

    "I've
got the actual records. I told you, I kept everything. There's nothing there.
I've been over those—"

    "Do
me a favor," I said, "and go find them. Check and see if there was a
call to a guy named Alvin Neloms. Or maybe it was to an auto body shop on the
east side. Look for either."

    He
set the phone down and disappeared. It was maybe five minutes before he came
back, and his voice was lower.

    "There
were three calls to a place called Classic Auto Body, on Eddy Road."

    "Were
they all during Bertoli's stay—" I said. "The last weeks anyone was
in that house—"

    "Yes."

    "Hang
around, Dunbar," I said. "I'm headed your way."