Yes, it was stupid, and Dunbar had known that all along; otherwise he wouldn't have operated without FBI approval, and that made me wonder about both his motivations and his story. I hadn't doubted him at first, not in our initial talk, but at the time I had felt like everything he said was a breakthrough, had been almost overwhelmed by the story he told. Now I looked back on it, playing through the conversation again in my mind, looking for holes, signs of lies.
There were dozens of them. Maybe. Or the whole story could have been entirely truthful. No way to know because every other person who could confirm it was dead or missing, and had been for years.
Except for Parker Harrison.
He was on my mind during our drive back from Murray Hill, and because of that it didn't feel like much of a surprise when I checked the office voice mail and found a message from him.
The request was simple this time, no tips or names or suggestions. Harrison wanted to see me that evening, if possible, and he wanted me to be alone. He didn't leave any other details, just said he'd be home after five and repeated that he wanted it to be only me.
I played the message on speakerphone, so Ken heard it, too.
"Guy doesn't seem to like me, does he—" he said.
"Your client relationship does seem a bit strained."
"Because he knows damn well he's not really a client. The way we tried to play it didn't fool him. Not enough, at least."
"Not at all, would be my guess," I said.
There were no messages from Graham, even though we'd been late getting back from Murray Hill, almost two thirty, and Graham had predicted an arrival time of one. I assumed he would've called if he'd come in early, though; it was too long a drive to give up on us just because nobody was at the office.
I kept staring at the phone, even though the blinking message light was now gone, nobody but Harrison leaving words behind for me. I wished Joe would call, so I could throw all of this at him, let him offer some perspective. It had been a few days since we'd last talked.
"I'll tell you what," Ken said, "the more I think about it, the more I wonder what Harrison did out there. Or what he saw. We're making sense of everything else, slowly but surely. We understand Bertoli's role now, know that they were trying to use him as a witness and it went bad—but Harrison— I can't make sense of him. Not even close."
Nor could I. Or Graham, or Dunbar, or Mike London. A lot of people had considered Harrison, and nobody had made sense of him yet.
While I was staring at the phone and pondering Harrison, there were footsteps on the stairs, and then the door opened without any knock and Quinn Graham entered. He was dressed sharp—black pants with a gold shirt and black-and-gold tie, and when I looked at him I thought of Mike London's warning never to trust a man in a suit and smiled. Most detectives wore suits every day. Only a guy like Mike could distrust the daily wardrobe of his own peers.
"Happy to see me—" Graham said, noting my amused face.
"Sure, Graham. We're elated."
He shook hands with Ken and then took a chair, looked at me, and spread his hands. "Brother, this better be good. I'll tell you something about the drive between my home and here—it ain't pretty. Not gonna be on anyone's scenic route list real soon. I keep making it, though, because of you boys, because of Linc and Kenny. Hope you appreciate that."
"Graham, you'll be thanking us by the time you leave," I said. "We've made some breakthroughs for you, buddy. Big stuff."
"Yeah—" His interest was genuine.
"Yesterday we learned"—I threw in a pause, enjoying the impatience in his eye—"that Salvatore Bertoli was, in fact, placed in the Cantrell home by an FBI agent named John Dunbar."
I said this with heavy drama, straight-faced, as if I really believed he'd be impressed.
"He was believed to be a witness to a killing committed by Dominic Sanabria," I continued after another pause. "Joshua Cantrell was working with Dunbar to extract information from Bertoli. Evidently it did not work well."
Graham stayed silent.
"Pretty big stuff, eh—" I said.
"Right," he said, but the disgust was clear in his voice.
"What's the matter, Graham— You thinking about those hours you wasted on the road—"
"You know all of this is old to me," he said, "yet you made me drive up here."
"I know it's old to you, yes. It wasn't old to us, and it's something we wasted a day on, when you could have told us the same things in about fifteen minutes. So you want to worry about the time you spent driving up here, tough shit, man. You let us walk around like a couple of—"
"I didn't want you walking anywhere, Perry. Don't you get that— I don't know how you found Dunbar, but I wish you hadn't. If you'd have called—"
"I did call. Yesterday morning, after we got Dunbar's name and were standing downtown feeling like hot shit. It's embarrassing to admit now, but that's the truth of it. You got a problem with us talking to Dunbar— Well, you could've prevented that easy enough."
He sighed and leaned forward, then ran a hand along the side of his head and gripped the back of his own neck and squeezed as if he were trying to calm himself down.
"I know you were police, Linc," he said, "but you gotta realize, you are not police anymore. So when you get all fired up over shit you weren't told, slow down and think about the situation from my point of view, which is: I'm not telling anybody a damn thing that I don't have to. Ever. I'm trying to maintain control of my investigation."
It was exactly what I'd expected he'd say, but that didn't mean it pleased me.
"Graham, you asked for our help. Sat right there in that chair and asked for-"
"No, no, no." He looked up, shaking his head. "Didn't ask for anybody's help, Linc. What I asked for, and what I expected to receive, was your cooperation. Big difference, boy. You had access to Harrison, and that's where I wanted your cooperation. What I did not want, at any time, was for you two lo go running around the city interviewing people and knocking on doors and potentially damaging my case. I as good as told you that, too."
"When—"
"I said that I was counting on you to keep him from stepping to trouble." Graham jerked his head at Ken, and I saw a flush of anger—or embarrassment—cross Ken's face. "Now I find out I should've been just as worried about you as him."
He sighed again, shook his head again, and then leaned back and loosened his tie. "Here's what I want out of you two, okay— Communication with Harrison. That's it, and that's all. I don't want you to force the communication, either. I just want to be aware of it. Tape the talks when he initiates them, and that's great. As far as street work goes, I don't want you on this."
"That's not really your call," Ken said.
Graham looked at him with wide, challenging eyes, his index finger still hooked in the knot of his tie. "It's not— You get in the way of a police investigation, and don't think I can shut you down— Boy, you don't even have a client."
"I do now," Ken said.
"Who—"
"Parker Harrison. He retained me through Lincoln. I believe that scenario was your idea, too."
Graham scowled and released his tie after one last angry jerk.
"Hang on a minute," I said as he was getting ready to start in on Ken again. "We can all fight this one out later. Fact is, Ken's got a client, and you gave it to him, Graham. Regardless, I don't think Ken has any desire to hinder what you've done, or what you're trying to do. If we don't know what that is, though, we're bound to cause you some headaches."
"I told you my reasoning."
"Yes, and I understand it, but what I'd like to hear you say is what you actually think of John Dunbar. I'm assuming you know he was retired at the time all this went down—"
Graham gave one last stare to Ken, not ready to let that battle fade so quickly, but then he returned his attention to me.
"Dunbar's straight," he said. "I know it doesn't feel right, but he's straight."
"How can you say that wit
h any confidence when there's nobody around to support his story—"
"Nobody around to contradict it, either, but the fact is the man could not be more cooperative," he said. "The day after we ID'd the body as Joshua Cantrell, I got a call from Dunbar, wanting to fill me in. He initiated the contact. I had no idea who he was at that point, or what his connection was, and I would've wasted a lot of hours developing that. Instead, he drove out to see me, brought boxes of shit out with him, photos and notes that he'd taken. Left it all with me, for my review. If the man's got anything to hide, he's got a strange manner of hiding it. He was calling me a couple times a week for a while, throwing theories and suggestions until I stopped calling him back because he was underfoot so damn much. Hell, it was him that pointed me to Sanabria's phone records, showed he'd been in touch with Harrison."
"Did you make any attempt to verify his version of events—"
"Of course I did, and the man checks out, Linc. You want to do the same, go ahead. He served thirty years in the FBI, thirty strong years, and if you can get anyone to say a bad word about him, it'll be in the way things went with Bertoli."
"Well, I'd imagine. You've got someone murdering an FBI informant that nobody in the FBI knew was an informant, yeah, that's a problem."
"Sure it is. Everyone involved acknowledged that, both at the time and when I got in touch this year. That doesn't make Dunbar corrupt, though."
"What about Mark Ruzity—" I said. "The guy seems to have some anger issues. Put a chisel to my forehead while telling us the case was better off unsolved. Then Dunbar showed us a photo of him with Sanabria just days after the Cantrells vanished. How do you explain that—"
"I can't. You know who took that picture— Dunbar himself. He'd started following Sanabria after he realized Joshua was MIA. Yes, while he was retired. Yes, acting unofficially. I get your problem with that, Linc, I do, but I'm telling you the man is truly trying to help. Without him, we'd never know Ruzity and Sanabria had any association."
"So now you know that they do, but you don't know why."
"Not yet."
"Bertoli was openly connected to Sanabria's circle before he went into prison," I said. "Now we know that both Ruzity and Harrison had contact with him after they came out. What in the hell was going on in that house, Graham—"
"I'm not sure."
"Yet you want our help, and you expect to get it without telling us a damn thing."
Graham lifted his hands, palms out, and made a patting gesture. Soothing. Step back, relax, everybody be happy.
"Look, I understand your irritation, but what we need to make clear is that I can't afford to have you guys in my way. What've you done here, it's no big deal. Talking to Dunbar is nothing, but I can't have you keep after it. Eventually you may talk to the wrong person, maybe before I do, and then we've got a real problem."
"So you're telling us to stop the investigation—" Ken said.
"No, I'm telling you not to harm the real investigation. The one that'll get somebody arrested and convicted if it's done right, and will let 'em walk if it's done wrong. I'm here to see that it's done right."
"Which means—"
"Which means you probably ought to go on back home." He said it gently but met Ken's eyes. "That's no disrespect, Kenny. Okay— The truth of it is, man, there ain't nothing for you to do that the police can't do better."
Ken looked at me, eyes hot, as if he were waiting for me to jump into the fray and argue. When I stayed silent, he turned back to Graham.
"What are the police doing— A few days ago you were in here telling us how overstretched you are. Sounded to me like you needed the help."
"All right," Graham said, still with the temperate touch in his voice, "then why don't you tell me what you're going to do to help—"
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."
* * *
Chapter Twenty-two
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 t
hought 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—"
The Silent Hour Page 16