"Lincoln Perry, technical adviser—" She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that'll go well."
"What are you saying—"
"You know, I'm sorry. The more I think about it, the better it sounds. Instead of getting yourself arrested, like normal, you can get him arrested."
"It's not a long walk home to your apartment. I'd be happy to throw you down to the sidewalk so you can get a faster start."
"Ha, ha." She stretched out in the chair, put her feet up. "I'm not saying you should pass on this, Lincoln, but you can imagine what's going through my head, too. Sanabria already came to your home once."
The implication was heavy, an unspoken reminder of a day when a man I'd angered had come to her home instead of mine. It was a memory that chased me through my days, that could bring me up short with a grimace of agony seemingly out of nowhere, striking my heart like a sudden and unexpected muscle cramp. The possibilities of what might have happened loomed even larger than the pain of what had happened. I'd been in this business for far too long to keep such images at bay; I knew what the world could do, knew the savagery and senselessness of it all too well. It was this that had invaded my mind when Dominic Sanabria came to my apartment, and now she was remembering the same incident and worrying about me. I thought of him again, and of a body laid in a Shawnee grave in Pennsylvania. I thought of those things, and I looked at Amy, and I felt afraid.
"What—" she said. She was watching my face, and a frown had gathered on her own as she studied me.
"I can stay out of it," I said. "I should. It's the right thing for you."
For me—
I nodded.
"That can't be the issue, Lincoln. It needs to be the right thing for you."
"No," I said. "Not anymore. We're together, right— So we make decisions that are the best for both of us. That's the whole point."
She shook her head. "I don't want to let myself be shoved around by fear, Lincoln. It was hard for a while, after what happened. It still is, sometimes, but I'm trying not to let that dictate my life. If you start doing the opposite, you're going to scare me more. Can you understand that— I need support, not protection. There's a difference."
It was quiet for a while, and then I said, "I'm sorry."
"For—"
"For leading the sort of life that makes things like that go through your head."
"Hey, my fault, right— Nobody forced me to date a detective."
"You got a profession you'd prefer— Something safer— Sexier—"
She cocked her head to the side. "Now, that's a good question. What would the ideal profession for a romantic partner be— Hmm… do you have one—"
"Reporter, of course."
"Coward. Try again."
"Singer. Jazz or blues, or maybe a country-rock style. Someone with the right voice, you know, kind of smoky and sultry. Bit of an attitude when she's onstage, nice long legs—"
"Pig."
"What—"
"I ask about the ideal profession and you start describing the physical features of another woman."
"I was trying to play along."
"Try harder next time. Or smarter, at least." She laced her hands behind her head, smiled. "You know what I'd choose— A carpenter. Strong and capable, right— Handy."
"Hey, I replaced that shelf at your apartment."
She lifted her head and stared at me. "The shelf you broke—"
"Well, be that as it may, I also hung the new one—"
"How many trips to the hardware store did that take you—"
"Just because I didn't have all the materials at first—"
"You tried to put it up without using a level, Lincoln. It wasn't a shelf, it was a ramp."
"I corrected that."
"In a mere five hours. Yeah, stick to detecting, buddy. Even if it gets you into trouble."
I leaned forward and turned the volume on the radio down, a serious concession with two on and two out. "Think about another writer approaching you to guide them through a story, Amy, and then tell me what you'd say. Somebody in your business comes to you for help, you try to do it if you can. At least that's the way I've always operated. He put his ego on the shelf and came asking for help."
"Do you trust him—" she asked.
I hesitated, which is never a good sign when offered in response to a question of trust, but then nodded. "He checks out."
"I didn't ask if he checked out. I asked if you trust him."
"Yes." I nodded again. "So far, I haven't seen anything that warns me not to. The way he showed up after a call from Sanabria, I guess, but since then, in the conversations we've had… he seems genuine."
"Same thing you said about Parker Harrison at first."
That stopped me. I gave her a grudging nod.
"Maybe it is, but Ken doesn't share Harrison's history. Besides, I've been in his position, okay— In two regards. Once when Karen left"—Amy made the face one should expect when he mentions his ex—"and once with this sort of case, dealing with a client who came to me hoping I could explain what happened to his family. I remember the way that felt, the sort of burden John Weston handed over to me."
"As I recall, it didn't feel much better when you handed the answers back over to him."
I was quiet, and Amy reached out and laid her hand on my arm.
"I get what you're saying, Lincoln. I do. If you think you can help him and you want to try, then it's a simple choice."
"I really don't know how much of a choice it is. Ken's asked me to get involved. Graham probably will."
I was passing the blame off to every external party, but the truth was it came down to my decision, and I couldn't fully explain the motivation to her. Couldn't explain that when Ken had smiled at me and said, "This is what you are," it had felt less like he was trying to coerce me and more like he was defining me. While his definition was accurate, I didn't know how much I liked it.
This is what you are.
"All of it's irrelevant," I said.
"What do you mean—"
"The idea that I had some sort of choice to make about stepping into this. I was already in it, Amy. From the time Harrison sent that first letter. He picked me, and I've been in it ever since."
"Why—" she said. "Why did he pick you—"
The silence built and hung around us, and eventually I reached out and turned the radio back up. We listened until the final out, but I don't think either of us could have told you the details of the game.
* * *
PART TWO
COLD TRAIL BLUES
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
By noon the next day my prediction to Amy was validated. I was involved now—thanks to Ken Merriman's urging and Quinn Graham's approval.
It was Graham who called, but he quickly blamed Ken.
"Your buddy doesn't have the best touch with police," he said. "Calls me up today, says he wishes to inform me that he'll be running his own investigation. Wishes to inform me. No bullshit, that's what he said. Not 'Yo, Detective Graham, I was wondering if I might be able to assist.' Not 'Excuse me, Detective Graham, I understand this is a cold case in another state and you might actually, for once in your career, be in favor of a PI's involvement.' No, Linc, instead he wishes to inform me that he's going out on his own. Whether I approve or not."
"Hmm," I said.
"Hmm— Hmm— Yeah, hmm is right, Linc. That's about what I had to say, too. Might have added a few more colorful terms, I don't recall. Your buddy, though—"
"Don't know that you can really call him my buddy, Graham. I met him two days ago. You two go back much longer than that. I figure, with that history, maybe he's really your buddy."
"Oh, you're not working with him on this— Because he said you were. He said, I believe this is a direct quote—'Perry and I are going to see what we can shake loose.' Shake loose, Linc. You not shaking— He shaking by himself—"
"I said I'd back him up. That's all. You know, give some advice—"
"Oh, some advice. Good, good. That's what I want to hear. You're giving advice to a guy who's never been any closer to a murder case than his TV screen."
"You don't want me to help him, then I'll just explain that and stay the hell out."
"Uh, no. Not at this point. Too late for that. Your buddy, he's in the game now. Already informed me, as I said. And if he's in the game, Linc— You better be, too. Because at least you been around. At least you know what you're doing. I did a little checking on you. Found out, my man Linc, he's a big shot."
"I wouldn't say that."
"Okay, we won't say that. Here's what we will say: I'm counting on you to keep Kenny from hurting this investigation. If he helps it, great, I'll be the first man down to shake his hand—but I am not going to let him hurt it, and I'm counting on you to help."
I rubbed my temples.
"Kenny does bring something to the table," Graham said. "I've got to admit that."
"Yeah—"
"He brings us an excuse to get you back in touch with Harrison. I was worrying on that one while I drove home yesterday. If you blew up on Harrison the way you said, then it'd feel wrong to have you go back, wanting to talk. Don't you think—"
Sure.
"So we needed an excuse to open that door again. Needed one that felt right. I couldn't decide on it yesterday, but then this morning your buddy calls, and while I'm listening to him go on, I thought, yes, sir, this is the ticket. Kenny is the ticket. It'll be easy to sell as the truth, because it is the damn truth. Kenny looked you up, told you he wanted your client's name, and you agreed to give it to him. You might not want to work for Harrison, but he can. There's money in it, right—"
"Yeah." I could hear loud voices in the background, somebody swearing profusely, everybody else cracking up. Cops. Something about it hit a chord of absence that had been quiet for a long time.
"So you two, you're going to go see Harrison," Graham said. "You're going to talk, and you're going to tape."
"A wire—"
"Yeah. I'll get you set up."
"I've got one. Got a couple."
"Good quality or cheap shit—"
"They're good."
"All right. I'm considering you an informant, not a cop, understand— This isn't your investigation, it's mine. What you hear, I hear."
"Tell it to Ken. I'm just an adviser, remember—" Even I wasn't buying that anymore.
"Yeah, my ass. Anyhow, go easy this first time. Feel Harrison out, check his attitude, see what you think."
"You want me to tape everything—"
"Every word, Linc. Every word. Now, you get a good talk going with him, there's a name I'd like you to drop. Bertoli. Salvatore Bertoli."
"He's of interest—"
"Man died at the same time the Cantrells decided to make their exit. Man also used to run with some boys in Youngstown and Cleveland who were close to Dominic. Man's plenty interesting, is what I'm saying."
"Is he tied to Dominic through ten degrees of separation or two—"
"Two would be high, I think. He was definitely in Dominic's circle, though. Definitely."
"Well, that's a hell of an important fact, don't you think— How did he end up with the sister if he's—"
"Just ask Harrison about him. See if he takes you somewhere different than he took me."
"Which was—"
"Nowhere. Now, I don't want you getting too heated with the questioning, Linc. You keep it toned down. We're just feeling our way in the dark here. So you introduce Harrison to Kenny, and if the chance is there, maybe you ask him what he thought of the Italian guy, Salvatore. Whatever, we're treading lightly at the start."
Does it matter how lightly you tread on a land mine— I wondered.
Ken Merriman returned the next afternoon, to a hotel just off 1-71 where he'd reserved a room for a full week. It was called a business suite and consisted of a bedroom, living room, and kitchen jammed into the same space as an ordinary hotel room, and when I made a joke about the place he told me I'd be more impressed by it if I'd seen the apartment he'd been living in since the divorce. I didn't make any more jokes after that.
I'd already located Parker Harrison's address and decided the way to approach him was in person and without warning. His sort of style. Besides, I wanted to see where he lived. There aren't many things that give you a sense of people faster than seeing them at home, in their own environment. Maybe he wouldn't let us in, but it was worth the try.
By the time I picked Ken up I was wearing the wire, just a simple seed mike that clipped to the inside of my collar and connected to a digital recorder fastened on my belt. I had a button-down shirt on, untucked over jeans, and it hung low enough that it covered the recorder even when I lifted my arms over my head.
In addition to the recorder, I had my Glock in its holster at my spine, and the feel of those things, the hard press of the gun and the cool, light touch of the wire running along my back, reminded me what I loved about my job. At some point during that preparation, testing the equipment and putting it on, I began to relish my role. After a few weeks of insisting I wanted no part of it, I was ready to go. A man had been killed and buried in the woods, and for twelve years nobody had answered for it. Whether Parker Harrison had killed him or not, he'd wanted to play games with me, writing his letters and telling his half-truths. Well, all right. If he wanted a game, I was ready to give him one.
The adrenaline was still riding with me when I got to Ken's hotel, and as I stood in his cramped room and explained things to him, he began to grin.
"What—" I said.
"You're fired up, aren't you—"
"Just ready to go. That's all."
"I was expecting more of the whining," he said. "You know, gloom and doom, all the reasons we should be playing chess or knitting or whatever instead of working this case."
I thought about what he'd just said and shook my head. Holy shit, I was turning into my partner. I was turning into Joe.
"You want me to take the gun out, fire a few rounds into the ceiling—" I asked. "Maybe bring along a pump shotgun—"
"It doesn't need to be that exciting."
"All right. Then let's get to work."
Harrison lived in an apartment in Old Brooklyn, not far from what had been Deaconess Hospital when I was a kid. My father was an EMT who'd worked out of Deaconess for a while. It was an area that had gone through plenty of cycles in a fairly short time, hit hard by poverty and crime only to come back a few decades later with skyrocketing house values. Harrison's apartment building wasn't attractive—a two-story brick rectangle with all the aesthetic appeal of a shoe box—but it was clean and bordered on either side by nice homes. There were only ten units in the building, and Harrison's was located at the front, on the ground floor. I had no idea what he did for a living or what he drove, so it was anybody's guess whether he'd be home. One way to find out, and that was a knock at the door.
He didn't answer. Nobody did. It was pushing on toward five, but early enough that most people would still be at work. We got back in my truck and went up to Pearl Road, found a restaurant with a bar, and killed an hour and a few Coronas. At six we returned to the apartment building. There were more cars in the lot, including an older Toyota pickup parked directly in front of Harrison's unit.
I pulled in next to it, cut the engine, and resisted the urge to double-check my recorder on the off chance that Harrison was watching. That's one of the challenges of wearing a wire: You're constantly aware of it, but your goal is to make sure nobody else is. I've found the best approach is to try to let it float at the back of your brain. Don't forget you have the thing on—do that and you're bound to screw up—but don't worry about it, either.
When we reached the door, I could hear music inside the apartment, some soft blues that was turned off as soon as I knocked. A brief pause, Harrison probably taking a look through the peephole, and then the door opened inward and he said, "Don't tell me the check bounced."
It sounded like a joke, but his face held all the humor of a brick wall.
"Didn't even cash it," I said. "Mind if we come in—"
He was wearing jeans and no shirt, and his body was more muscular than I would've guessed. Not cut from working out, but strong and free of fat in the way you can be if you eat right. Something told me Harrison probably ate right. He regarded Ken with a curious but not unfriendly gaze, and then he nodded and stepped back, and we followed him into the apartment.
It wasn't spacious—the rooms were narrow, and the ceilings felt low—but it was clean and laid out with a nice touch, furniture carefully situated to keep the small space from seeming cramped. There was a large piece of art on one wall, an elaborate wood carving in a symbol that meant nothing to me.
Harrison watched me look around and said, "It's not my first choice. I don't like living in apartments. I'd rather have some space, but I can't afford that yet, and the neighborhood here is quiet. Besides, I spend all day outside."
"Do you—" I looked away from the wood carving, back at him. "What is it that you do for a living, Harrison—"
"I'm a groundskeeper. For a cemetery."
"Really—"
He nodded. "It suits me."
Ken said, "How unsettling," in a flat voice that was pure Bogart and would have made me smile anywhere and anytime else. Harrison gave him one quick, hard stare, then returned his attention to me.
"Can I ask—" he began, but I interrupted and pointed at Ken.
"He's the one who wants to talk with you. It wasn't my choice."
His eyes went to Ken and lingered there, studying, but when he spoke again it was still to me.
"If he wants to talk to me, why did he go through you—"
"I'll let him explain that." I walked past Harrison and sat on his couch. He watched me but didn't say anything, and after a short pause Ken sat down, too. Harrison stayed on his feet.
"Well—" he said, speaking directly to Ken this time.
Ken launched into his story, explaining the twelve-year-old case, the way it had eaten at him, how he'd promised Joshua Cantrell's parents he'd deliver an answer. I listened and tried to look bored, a little put out, as I was claiming to be. The seed microphone was cool and firm against my collarbone, but so far it hadn't taken in anything worth hearing, just Ken talking and Harrison staying silent.
The Silent Hour Page 10