The Silent Hour

by Michael Koryta

  He laughed and turned away from the window, then went and sat on an overstuffed blue armchair and waved at the matching couch across from it.

  "All right, if you're not here to buy the house, then what is it— One of you from Cleveland and the other from Pennsylvania, this has to be interesting."

  "I'm basically riding shotgun on this one," I said. "It's Ken's case, but I'm helping out with the Ohio end of it. We're trying to find out what happened to a man named Joshua Cantrell. I don't know if that name means anything to you."

  Even before I got that last part out, it was clear that the name meant plenty to him. The easygoing look went tense and, maybe, a bit sad.

  "Oh, my," John Dunbar said. "That one."

  "Yes," I said. "That one."

  He was quiet for a moment, looking at the coffee table. "When you say you want to know what happened to him, you mean why was he killed. You mean, of course, what transpired that led to the man's body being buried in the woods."

  "Yep," Ken said. "That's the gist."

  "Well, you came to the right place," Dunbar said, and when he looked up at us there was no mistaking it this time—his face held sorrow. "I can tell you who I believe murdered him, but I can't prove it. What I can prove, though, is who got him killed. There is a difference. Would you like to know who got him killed"

  Ken shot me a quick glance, eyebrows raised, and nodded. "We sure would."

  John Dunbar lifted his hand and gave us a child's wave, all from the wrist. "Right here," he said. "I got him killed, gentlemen. If you don't mind, I might pour myself a drink before I tell you the story."

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  He went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard and withdrew a bottle of Scotch that was nearly full. We waited while he opened another cupboard and spent a few seconds scanning the inside before selecting a juice glass. When he twisted the cap off the bottle it made a cracking sound, breaking a seal that had evidently enjoyed plenty of hardening time.

  "Ken Merriman," Dunbar said in a flat voice. "You're the one the Cantrells hired."

  Ken raised his eyebrows. "How do you know that—"

  "I was trying to assist with the investigation. The police side. I knew everyone who was involved, at every level. I never spoke with you because, frankly, I wasn't interested in seeing a PI step into the case. Are you still working for them—"

  "No."

  Dunbar waited, but Ken didn't volunteer a client, so eventually he just nodded and sat down. He took one sip of the whiskey.

  "We found you through a man named Mark Ruzity," I said. "He told us you'd been sending police his way for years."

  "That's right."

  "Why—"

  "Because he knows something that could help," Dunbar said, and then he set the whiskey aside and got up and walked into another room, closing the door behind him. He was gone for maybe five minutes before he came back out and dropped a photograph in my lap.

  Ken moved so he could look over my shoulder, and we studied the picture. It showed Dominic Sanabria and Mark Ruzity standing together on a sidewalk bordered by a wrought-iron fence. They both looked much younger. Ruzity was saying something to Sanabria, speaking directly into his ear. Whispering, perhaps. He had one hand clasped on the back of Sanabria's neck, and Sanabria was leaning forward and listening with intense eyes.

  "They knew one another—" Ken said. "How—"

  "I'm not certain," Dunbar said, "but you'll be interested in the date that photograph was taken. It came a matter of days after the Cantrells disappeared."

  "Why do you have it—" I asked. "What's your connection to their case—"

  "You don't know my personal history with Dominic—" he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

  "John, we really don't know much at all," I said. "We're not as far around the curve as you think. More lucky than good, maybe."

  "Oh, I doubt that. Still, in the interest of having us all caught up, let me explain. I assumed you read some articles about Dominic, the charges he always managed to slide out from under. I had the bastard once. Had him."

  "How so—" Ken said.

  Another drink of Scotch, little more than a sip. He hadn't offered us any, which wasn't a problem but confirmed that he wasn't much of a drinker. This glass was for him while he told his story, and it didn't even cross his mind that anybody else would want a drink in the middle of the day

  "There was a motel out on the east side—a big old place with lots of separate units—that Dominic and his team were using. The owner of the place was a sleaze, and he knew they were dirty, but they paid well and tipped better, and so he kept his eyes wide shut to everything they did. Well, I put some energy into turning him, put some pressure on, and he agreed to cooperate with us. The idea was that he'd be a pretty general snitch. I wasn't asking him to do anything out of line, just tip us to comings and goings. I wanted to do some wiretaps out there—the whole reason they were using the place for meetings was to avoid wiretaps—but they were smart enough to get different units every time, and the judge wouldn't sign off on a warrant for the whole damn place. Even if he had, we couldn't have gotten that much equipment. It just wasn't practical.

  "So instead I'm using the guy as a source of information on movement, nothing more. About a month after I turned him, I get a call from him. A page, actually—back then we were still using pagers. I call him back, and the guy's frantic. Says Sanabria and another guy had just checked into the motel, and that there were blood splatters on Sanabria's shirt and that he looked all disheveled and out of breath, like he'd just come out of a fight or something. They asked for a unit all the way in the back of the place and then pulled the car up right outside the door, and when they go in Sanabria carries a handgun in with him. This is good news, because he's a convicted felon and not allowed to have a handgun."

  This time, Dunbar took more than a sip of the Scotch.

  "I haul ass out to the motel. When I get there, the owner tells me somebody else showed up at the room and then drove away, but the car Sanabria and the other guy came in originally is still parked out front. So I go down there, with the owner, and bang on the door, and this guy named Johnny DiPietro answers. Remember that name. He's the guy that checked into the motel with Sanabria. I badge him and tell him I've got the owner there. I stand there in the door, and I say to the owner—this is your property, and I have consent to search. Right— He says yes. All this, DiPietro hears. So then I turn back to him, and I say, okay, you heard that, now are you going to make trouble— He shakes his head and steps aside, and then I say to him, I repeat it carefully, I say—do I have your permission to search the room, then— He tells me that I do, he tells me this in front of the hotel owner, who has also given consent, and, you know, it's his property anyhow."

  Dunbar paused again. There was a flush building in his face.

  "I search the room and find a gun and a shirt that's soaking in the shower, has blood on it. DiPietro is panicking now, but Sanabria is gone. He left with the other guy. We arrested him eventually, first for the handgun charge, and then later we got his fingerprints off the gun and a ballistic match to the homicide of a kid named Lamarca, who had just been shot that day. After that, we even got a blood match—Lamarca's blood was on Sanabria's shirt. We had that confirmed by the lab. Ballistic and blood evidence tying Sanabria to a homicide, and if nothing else we've got him on the gun charge."

  He paused then, and it was quiet for a moment before Ken said, "So how the hell did he walk—"

  I answered for Dunbar.

  "DiPietro didn't rent the motel room."

  Dunbar raised his eyebrows, then gave a short nod and lifted his glass to me. "Well done, Detective."

  "You had ballistic and blood matches that you got through a good-faith search, though," Ken said, incredulous.

  "He wasn't a cop," I told Dunbar. "Doesn't know the lovely law of the exclusionary rule."

  "Fruit of the poisonous tree," Dunbar said, nodding. "Sanabria, p
iece of shit that he is, is legally entitled to privacy in a motel room that he rented. If he wants to leave a homicide weapon and a bloody shirt in that room, he's allowed to do that in private. It's his reasonable expectation. Fourth Amendment right."

  Ken looked shocked. "You had consent from an occupant and the property owner."

  "I know," Dunbar said. "I thought that would be enough. I really did. I knew there was a chance the owner might not be able to grant consent to a rented room without a warrant—honestly, I wasn't sure about that, which I probably shouldn't admit, but then I'm not a lawyer. That's why I used him to bait DiPietro into opening up, though, because I figured DiPietro had to believe it was the owner's right. What I didn't count on was DiPietro being a visitor and not the registered guest. It was Sanabria's room, legally. That means nobody else could give consent."

  "So he walked—"

  "Yes."

  Dunbar put the glass down on the coffee table. "Well, I suppose you don't care about that. I suppose that's not relevant. What you're interested in, I imagine, is how I happened to get Joshua Cantrell killed."

  He said this through his teeth, eyes still on the glass. Ken and I were silent.

  "So I had Sanabria once and couldn't deliver," Dunbar said. "There's your background. That's all that really need be said. The details, well, the details are mine to worry about, not yours. The point is, we went back after him again. I went back after him. I also went to Joshua Cantrell."

  "As an informant—" I said.

  "That was the original idea. It didn't go well. Not only did he refuse to talk with us about Sanabria, he insisted he didn't know anything about the man. Said he only knew what his wife told him, and that was old news. His impression was that we knew more of the family he'd married into than he did."

  "Did you believe him—"

  "Actually, I did. In any event, it was clear he wasn't going to cooperate, so we didn't waste any time on him. I kept tabs on him, though. Made the occasional call. We did that sort of thing with the idea of keeping the pressure up, both on Cantrell and Sanabria. We wanted Sanabria to know that we were always around, always talking to the people who surrounded him, looking for a chink in the armor."

  "Was Alexandra a part of this—" Ken asked.

  He shook his head. "She wouldn't have anything to do with us. Joshua, though, was almost as scared of us as he was of Sanabria. So while he didn't help, he also didn't refuse to communicate. He was afraid to do that. Now, as I said, we'd check in with him every so often. I caught him alone one day when I came out to their house to show him some photographs. No reason at all that he or Alexandra would be able to ID anyone in the photos, but we wanted to rattle Sanabria's cage a little. He hated it when we talked to his family, but we could pretend it was necessary investigation, not harassment. Truth was, we just wanted him sweating.

  "So this time, Joshua seemed a little different. He looked at the photographs, told me he didn't recognize any of the people in them, which was of course true, but he was cooperative, too, and as I was leaving he made a remark about wishing he could help, and it sounded genuine, and almost angry. We talked for a while, and he told me about the new houseguest they had, a guy who'd done a long stretch for murder. Mark Ruzity."

  "Are you saying he wasn't in favor of the hands-on approach his wife brought to the mission—" I said.

  "I'm saying he was absolutely opposed to it. The phrase he used was 'she's bringing them into our home.' Apparently against his strongest objections."

  "So you made a suggestion," I said. "A pitch. If he was willing to help with Sanabria, why not take advantage of the situation."

  His nod seemed embarrassed. "It was almost a joke. On that day, in that conversation, it really was almost a joke. I mean, it was that ludicrous—place an informant in Sanabria's sister's home and use her husband to work him— Crazy, right—"

  "But he agreed," Ken said.

  "No. He rejected the idea, emphatically, and as time passed, I stopped dropping in on them, refocused in other areas. Then he came back to me. Contacted me by phone and asked if we could meet in person. He seemed very nervous, very agitated. So I drove out to a restaurant in Shaker Heights and met him, and he told me that he'd reconsidered."

  "Why the change of heart—" Ken asked.

  Dunbar frowned. "The motivation, I'm afraid, was anything but noble. What led him to pick up the phone and call was a complete collapse of his marriage, I believe. His wife wasn't aware of it yet, but that's what it was." He cocked his head at us. "What do you know about Joshua—"

  "Quiet, academic sort," Ken said. "Interested in the prison system."

  "Interested," Dunbar said and nodded. "He was interested in it as a student, not as a participant. Here's what I can tell you about Joshua—he was a nervous man, a scared man. Insecure. I believe that played a role when he met Alexandra. He saw her fascination with those issues of rehabilitation and reentry, and he ran with it. She was a beautiful woman, and a rich one, the sort who had never before given him the time of day. What more motivation did he need—

  "Joshua's vision of their married life was that his wife's obsession would pass, or that a few papers, maybe some small donations, would satisfy it. He was wrong. I'm not surprised the final straw came when she began to hire inmates to work for them. As I've said, he was an insecure man. I think those insecurities took his imagination to some wild, dark places."

  He looked directly at me with a sudden, sharp gaze. "Understand this—while I sit here and discuss the man's paranoia, I didn't do anything at that time except feed it. I'm not proud of that, but I won't lie about it, either. He felt betrayed by his wife, pushed aside in favor of murderers and thieves, and he wanted to hurt her. That was the sum of it. He wanted to hurt her, but he didn't know how. What could he do— Leave her— Then he'd lose everything. Have an affair— He was an awkward, introverted man, hardly capable of becoming a crusading Casanova. Withhold his money— He didn't have any. Alexandra was so much stronger than he was in virtually every way a person can have strength. He saw no way to strike back, no way to retaliate for what he viewed as disregard and betrayal. Until he found my card."

  It had started to rain, and the wind was blowing even stronger now. Dunbar turned his head and looked out at the tossing lake.

  "He was going to feed you information about his brother-in-law—" Ken said.

  "I'm sure he would have been happy to do that," Dunbar said, looking back at us, "provided he knew anything, but he didn't. No, he remembered my earlier proposal, the one I'd made as a throwaway line, about seeing that one of the inmates placed in their care was someone who could snitch."

  "Enter Salvatore Bertoli," I said.

  "What did he know—" Ken asked. "What was he supposed to know, at least—"

  "I told you to remember Johnny DiPietro's name from that story about the hotel. Well, Sanabria and he were both partners and rivals. We heard rumors that Sanabria wanted to clip him even before the motel arrest. After the way DiPietro stood pat and didn't talk he eased up on it temporarily, but before long they were at odds again."

  "Over what—"

  "Key issues were drugs and associates. Sanabria was very reluctant to be involved with the drug trade at any level. Had heard too many stories about how it brought down his mob buddies all over the country. DiPietro was all about it. DiPietro was also not only willing to network outside the Italians but enthusiastic about it. Sanabria, being old school, didn't support that or trust it. One of the reasons Sanabria was so furious with DiPietro was his tendency to trust people like Bertoli who committed ignorant, poorly thought-out crimes. He also was at odds with him over his desire to move into the east side drug market, which was generally black territory. Eventually the feud boiled over and Sanabria had him whacked. Bertoli was a witness."

  "How did you know that—"

  "Wiretaps. We got lucky. Almost got lucky, I should say. Caught a conversation between Bertoli and another guy—who's actually in prison now—and Bertoli s
tarted in on DiPietro, saying he knew what happened, but his buddy was smart enough to shut him up and get off the phone. Still, it was clear he'd seen it."

  "You didn't question him—"

  "Of course, but he didn't talk. He was facing prison time on another charge, and we thought we might be able to leverage him then, but…" He shrugged. "Sanabria's not the sort of person you want to snitch on. There was a side element, too. When DiPietro was killed, a significant quantity of heroin and coke disappeared. We had credible information that he'd bought into the supply end of things, that he intended to push his influence into the east side drug trade. This was in direct conflict with what Sanabria wanted, and when the hit was made, the drugs seemed to vanish."

  "Bertoli's other charge was for beating the shit out of the truck stop guy and stealing his drugs," I said. "You think he went after DiPietro's product—"

  "All we're sure of is that the product seemed to disappear from Italian hands. My guess is Sanabria claimed it and got rid of it. Sold it to someone else, outside of his circle, probably. Maybe just destroyed it. He didn't trust drugs."

  "Let me be clear on the time line," Ken said. "DiPietro was killed after Bertoli was arrested and went to jail, but you somehow think he was a witness— That makes no sense."

  "He wasn't in jail yet. He'd been charged, bonded out, and was awaiting trial. Then DiPietro was murdered, Bertoli witnessed it, and we came back at him hard, pushing for him to talk. He panicked and took the plea bargain and did his time. You want to know why— Because he was afraid of Sanabria. He thought going to jail would prove his trustworthiness, prove that he'd kept his mouth shut. He thought, gentlemen, that jail was the safer place to be. As I just said, Sanabria is not the sort of person you want to snitch on."

  "You understood that, but you still decided to try again with Cantrell—" I said. "If Bertoli didn't give Sanabria up to avoid prison, why would he do it after he got out—"