The Silent Hour (47 page)

    It
was late November when I made the drive, and the lake was hard and cold and
whipped into a fury by a strong front out of Canada. Winter on the way, and
with it would go Joe. I hadn't been surprised when he told me he was planning
on another departure in January, but I was surprised to hear it would be back
to Florida, and not Idaho. It seemed Gena was stepping aside from her position
and heading south to join him. I remembered what she'd told me about neither of
them wanting to be selfish, and how the best thing might be to pick a place
that was new to both of them. Florida would be that, and it was also the place
where they'd found each other. Maybe they'd stay. Maybe he'd convince her to
spend some of the year in Cleveland. It was too early to tell.

    
Sheffield Lake was quiet; not so many people interested in
heading to the
lake come November. When I got out of the car and walked to
Dunbar's door, the wind was difficult to move through. It seemed to find the
bullet wounds somehow, slip through them and carry the chill to the rest of my
body.

    Dunbar
was home, and happy to see me. Ushered me in and took my coat and got me
positioned in a chair by the fireplace. It was gas, not wood, but it threw some
heat and made the tiny house seem like the perfect place to sit out a howling
storm.

    "You
better let me get you some coffee," he said. "Maybe put in a touch of
whiskey, too— Just a warmer. Today's a day for it, if ever there was one."

    I
said that sounded fine, and then he went out to the kitchen and fixed the
coffee, and I sat and watched the storm. When he came back we drank the coffee
together, and I listened while he talked about the case, offering updates and
theories and connections I might not have heard.

    Eventually
he burned himself out and set his coffee aside and said, "Well, what
brought you out here on a day like this— I'm sure it wasn't for my coffee."

    "How
sure are you that Alvin Neloms killed Joshua Cantrell—" I said.

    He
blinked. "Quite sure. How could I not be, at this point— I've heard your
tape—he all but confessed. Then Darius provided the details. Why do you… I
mean, you're sure of it, too. Right— You don't think something else—"

    "If
I had to guess," I said, "if I had to put every dime I have down on
one bet, I'd say he did it, yeah."

    "That's
what I thought."

    "I
believe that because of what I saw. Because of how he reacted when I said
Cantrell's name. Sometimes, though, I get things wrong. Sometimes I make an
assumption based upon what I've seen, and it's wrong."

    He
was frowning at me, quiet.

    "So
here's what I have to ask you," I said. "Did you kill Joshua
Cantrell, or did you just leave the ring—"

    I
waited a long time. He did not speak, did not move. Did not look away, either.

    "Probably
wouldn't have bothered me if I hadn't gotten shot," I said. "Or if it
had bothered me, it would have slipped by easier. Since I did get shot, I've
had a lot of time to sit around and think. I thought about the way

    Neloms
had his uncle shoot me, the way he dumped Ken's body, the way he threw Bertoli
off a roof. He was not a man who was interested in subtleties. He was interested
in making people dead and moving on. Didn't care who got arrested for it,
didn't care about framing people."

    I
leaned forward, feeling a tug in my chest but not the radiating pain that had
once been there.

    "Alexandra
thought her brother killed him, or had him killed. She thought that because of
the ring. It's why she left. While I can understand why she thought that, I
can't imagine why in the hell Dominic would have left it. As a message— That
would have served no purpose. She wasn't a mob rival, she was his sister, and
she mattered dearly to him. If he had killed her husband, he wouldn't have left
a calling card."

    Dunbar's
face was still impassive, but his eyes went to the wall above my head.

    "It's
possible that Joshua Cantrell told Bertoli about that ring," I said,
"and that Bertoli told Neloms. Here's the thing, Dunbar: Even if Neloms
were to think it wise to frame someone like Sanabria—and he wouldn't—and even
if he did know about the ring, he wouldn't have known where to find it. Because
Cantrell never wore the thing. I suppose Bertoli could have known, and could
have told Neloms, but I don't think so."

    It
was quiet. Dunbar looked at me for a while, then away.

    "Of
course I didn't kill him," he said.

    "That's
your only denial—"

    He
nodded. "How do you know about the ring—"

    "How,
indeed."

    He
sat back in his chair, blew out a shaking breath.

    "Tell
me what you did," I said.

    He
turned his hands up. "You know what I did."

    "I
know you left the ring. I'd like more details."

    "Joshua
called me and told me that Bertoli was dead and he wanted out. Said they were
leaving the country. I told him that he couldn't do that; he had to be a
witness for the investigation of Bertoli's murder. He hung up on me. So I went
to see him in person, and I found his body."

    His
mouth worked for a bit without any words coming out, and then he said,
"You can't know what I felt then. I can't explain that to you. I knew I
was partially responsible, but I also knew who killed him."

    "You
thought
you knew," I said. "You were wrong."

    That
made his jaw clench, but he nodded. "At the time I was
certain,
and
I thought, no, I will not let this happen again. I will not let Dominic walk
away from this, too."

    "You
knew where Cantrell kept the ring—"

    "It
was in a cabinet just inside the door. He kept it there in case Dominic made a
surprise visit. So he could put it on at the last minute, you know— The ring
was a big deal to Dominic."

    He
said "Dominic" the way most people say "poison."

    "You
had a key—"

    "Door
was unlocked. Open. His feet were still inside the house."

    "So
you went away, and waited for the discovery."

    He
nodded, and there was a tremor in his face, near his left eye. "Waited all
night, and into the next day. Then I couldn't wait any more, and I went back.
He was gone, and the stone was clean. I couldn't believe it. I thought I was
losing my mind."

    "You
didn't call anyone," I said. "With the murder less than two days old,
you did not call anyone."

    "I
had tampered with a homicide scene, and then I had left it."

    "There
was a murder to be solved. You were the only—"

    "J
didn't think it would take twelve years!"
He shouted it at me, and now
his hands were trembling, too.

    I
shook my head in disgust.

    "I
tried to help," he said. "Anybody would tell you that. I tried to
guide things."

    "Guide
things right to Dominic Sanabria. Right to an innocent man."

    "He
is
not
an innocent man!"

    "He
was this time, Dunbar."

    "If
you had known what I knew—"

    "I
did," I said. "Me, and every other detective who's looked at it. We
fell all over ourselves looking at Sanabria and Harrison and all the rest of
them. Shit, there was no shortage of suspects. All of them had been guilty.
None of them were this time. Nobody could ever get it, could ever see the
forest because there were too many damn trees. Until Ken Merriman. He got it.
Then he was murdered, and some of that's on your head, Dunbar."

    "Everything
you just said is true, but it wouldn't necessarily have changed because they
had a corpse. They already had Bertoli's corpse. That didn't help."

    "You're
right," I said. "Why would another crime scene possibly have been a
help— Why would Alexandra's testimony possibly have been a help— You know how
long it took me to get to Neloms after I talked to her— One day. One
day,
you son of a bitch."

    He
said, "When you
talked
to her—"

    "That's
right, Dunbar. She's out there—and she's staying out there. You tell anybody
that I've talked to her, and I'll happily distract them with the rest of this
conversation."

    "I
won't tell anyone," he said. "I just can't believe… I never
knew…"

    "She
ran away. Because of what
you
did, she ran away. It wasn't the murder.
It was the ring and the message that it carried. Remove that, and you might
have had an arrest within a week, might have had twelve fewer years of Alvin
Neloms, might have had Ken Merriman alive."

    My
voice was rising now, and I wanted to hit him, but instead I reached out and
ran my fingers over my shirt, near the scars.

    "I
hope it weighs on you," I said. "I hope that burden is terrible,
Dunbar. It should be."

    "You
hope
it is— You don't know—"

    "I
don't know much of anything," I said. "I just do a lot of
hoping."

    I got
to my feet and went to the door, walked back out into the cold wind.

    That
night I took Joe and Amy out for dinner at Sokolowski's. I hadn't been there
since that lunch with Ken at the end of the spring. It was edging toward winter
now, and the view of the city's lights was hampered by rain-streaked windows.
It was still beautiful, though. You just had to look harder.

    I
told them about my visit to John Dunbar. Joe's initial response was for a call
to action—he wanted police, prosecutors, punishment.

    "He's
an old man now," I said. "A retired and highly regarded FBI agent.
You think they'll ever actually let him get to a trial— For a charge of
tampering with a crime scene, one that can no longer be proven—"

    "It
can be testified to."

    "By
Parker Harrison and Alexandra Cantrell. Those are the people who could testify
to it. I ask you this—is it worth it—"

    Joe
didn't answer. Amy said, "No. I don't think that it is."

    "Ken
Merriman's daughter might disagree," Joe said. "As Lincoln pointed
out, Neloms should have been arrested years before he had a chance to kill
Ken."

    "Should
have been," I said. "Might not have been. Anyway, however corrupt
Dunbar's actions, you can be sure he didn't want it to play out like it did.
I've seen that man enough to know he won't be able to find peace with this,
Joe. Alexandra and Parker Harrison have come closer, and they deserve it more.
I suggest we leave them to that."

    "What
about you—" Joe said. "Have you found peace with it yet—"

    "Sure."

    He
and Amy exchanged a look.

    "You
remember the conversation we had in the hospital," I said to Joe.

    "Yes."

    "You
were right, of course. I was trying to make this case my life without letting
it into my life. Maybe that doesn't make sense, but I don't know how else to
phrase it."

    "It
makes sense," he said. "I've seen plenty of police do it."

    "I
have, too. They're the ones who eventually end up divorced and drinking and
angry. You know that."

    He
nodded.

    "So
I see your point, is what I'm trying to say. Still, you have to understand that
I've had trouble dealing with what happened when some of these cases found
their way into my home, Joe. Found their way to Amy, to you."

    "He
understands," Amy said. "As do I. Trust me, as do I."

    "What
are you leading up to—" Joe said. "Are you telling us you want to go
back to PI work, or that you're ready to truly quit—"

    "I'm
telling you I don't have an answer yet. I need some time. There's a part of me
that would like to move on. Maybe the largest part of me."

    "What
would the other part like—" Amy said.