The Silent Hour lp-4

by Michael Koryta

  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.

  “So when I found out Lincoln had looked into the house, I asked him about it,” Ken was saying. “Wanted to know who his client was, who had an interest in the family.”

  Harrison looked over at me, no trace of emotion showing yet. “You provided that information.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s not confidential?”

  “Usually.”

  He waited for more, but I didn’t say anything. Finally he said, “Why wasn’t it in my case?”

  “You’d already broken my trust, Harrison. I told you that. You sent me out there asking questions like a fool, no idea the man was dead and his sister was related to Dominic Sanabria. You know who showed up at my home the other day? Sanabria. That’s your doing, Harrison. You think I owed you confidentiality after that bullshit?”

  I’d put some heat into the words, but he didn’t change expression or break eye contact. Just listened, gave it a few seconds to make sure I was done, and then turned back to Ken.

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “A job,” Ken said.

  “A job?”

  “Why not? You wanted Lincoln to work for you, right? Well, he backed out. I won’t. I want to see this through, and I need someone to bankroll it, Mr. Harrison. I’m not going to take any more money from the family, and they don’t have any to give me. They’re not well off. They still want to know what happened to their son, though, and supposedly so do you.”

  “What will you do?” Harrison asked. “No offense meant, but if you’ve had twelve years at this . . .”

  I was surprised by the flush that rose into Ken’s cheeks. Either he was a hell of an actor or that sort of remark got to him even when it came from the lead suspect.

  “It wasn’t like I worked at it full-time for twelve years,” he said, his voice measured and tight. “When I got started there was no body, no evidence of a crime. They just went away, that’s all. Went away and didn’t leave a trace. Now there’s a trace.”

  “The buried body,” Harrison said. “That’s your trace?”

  His tone had changed when he said the buried body, dropped and chilled. Ken hesitated, as if he’d heard it, too.

  “Sure,” he said. “That’s one hell of a trace, don’t you think?”

  “The body was found months ago. Has the trace helped you since then?”

  It felt cold in the room now, and there was something in Harrison’s eyes and the set of his jaw that I didn’t like. Ken was sitting forward on the couch, his arms braced on his knees, and I was leaning back, out of his view. Ken shifted his head slightly, as if he wanted to look at me, but then stopped, realizing Harrison would see any exchange between us.

  “Well?” Harrison said. “Has the trace helped you?”

  “Sure,” Ken said.

  “In what way?”

  Again a pause, Ken unsure of himself now, and Harrison repeated his question.

  �
�In what way?”

  “It’s given me some suspects.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Salvatore Bertoli,” Ken said.

  This was no longer going according to script—Graham had asked that we mention Bertoli, not identify him as a suspect—but Harrison’s reaction was worth the gamble. He’d been unusually still, one of those rare people who can stand in front of others without fidgeting or shifting, but now he stepped closer to Ken and took the back of a chair in his hand and gripped it tight.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  This time Ken did look at me, just one quick glance, and then he said, “You’re not my client yet, Mr. Harrison. I’m not going to disclose any of the work I’ve done. You want to hire me, that would change.”

  “I’ll write you a check tonight,” Harrison said, “if you tell me why you said Salvatore’s name.”

  “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “I want to hear them.”

  Ken was in a corner now—he had no reasons for suspecting Bertoli, and no way to avoid answering the question that wouldn’t seem false. He was silent for a minute, weighing his options, and I decided to speak for the first time since he’d gotten started, just to divert the conversation if possible.

  “You worked with him, Harrison,” I said. “So you tell us—what did you think of Salvatore?”

  He frowned and shook his head, then pointed at Ken. “I’d like to know why you think he’s a suspect.”

  “He took a tumble off a warehouse roof the same time they disappeared,” Ken said. “I’ve got a feeling those events weren’t coincidental.”

  It was a cop-out, and not enough to satisfy Harrison. He said, “That’s all? That’s the only reason you called him a suspect?”

  “It’s the only one I’m prepared to share tonight. Now, if you want to write that check . . .”

  “Is he the only suspect?”

  “Everyone’s a—”

  “That’s a silly cliché. Is he your only suspect?” Harrison was leaning forward now, his weight against the back of the chair, cords of muscle tight in his dark arms.

  “He’s a favorite,” Ken said, still dancing, still evading. It wasn’t working well, though. The one thing I was becoming more and more certain about with Harrison was that he could read people, and if Ken kept playing him there was a damn good chance we’d expose too much and learn too little. Every time Harrison looked at me I felt like he was following the wire with his eyes, tracing its path as if my shirt were transparent.

  “He’s a favorite,” Harrison echoed. “Well, who are the others?”

  “Mr. Harrison, do you want me to work for you or not?” Ken said, and I was glad he hadn’t answered the question, that he seemed to want to bring this to an end, probably sensing the same dangers I had.

  “There are some people who would tell you that I was a suspect,” Harrison said.

  Ken didn’t answer.

  “You said you’re from Pennsylvania?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you talked with Detective Graham?”

  Again Ken was quiet.

  “Of course you have,” Harrison said. “That would be a formality. A requirement. Who is his favorite suspect?”

  “I’m not working with him, or for him.”

  “Are you not?” Harrison said, and then he turned and looked at me, as if the question applied to us both.

  “You told me you didn’t kill Cantrell,” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  “So why are you worried, Harrison?”

  His eyes seemed darker now than when we’d walked in. He said, “The evidence can always be twisted, can’t it, Lincoln?”

  “There something specific on your mind when you say that?”

  Harrison looked at me for a long time, and then he let go of the chair and stepped back and turned to Ken. “I’ll think about this.”

  “Well, I’d ask you to think fast,” Ken said. “I’ll leave a card, and if you could decide by—”

  “When I decide, I’ll let Lincoln know. You keep your card.”

  I shook my head. “I’m out, Harrison. If you—”

  “No. When I decide, I’ll let you know. You brought him to me, Lincoln.”

  His eyes were hard on me, still searching, distrustful. I felt a tingle at my collarbone, where the microphone rested, and I wanted to cover it with my hands.

  Ken got to his feet and offered a hand to Harrison, who shook it after a moment’s pause. I stood then, and we moved for the door together. Ken opened it, and I followed him outside, then turned back to face Harrison before closing the door.

  “Hey, Harrison. One last question.”

  He waited.

  “Everybody else came and went from the Cantrells’ in six months. Everybody else worked alone. Why were you there for a year, and why’d you stick when they hired Bertoli?”

  He stood in the doorway, framed by the lighted room behind him.

  “Because she asked me to,” he said eventually.

  “Alexandra?”

  A nod.

  “Why?”

  He stepped out of the apartment, reaching for the door, his hand passing close to my face as he grasped the edge.

  “Because she trusted me, and she was afraid.”

  “Of who? Bertoli? Her brother?”

  He pulled away, and my hand fell from the knob as the door swung shut. A second later the lock turned.

  15

  __________

  It was quiet in the truck as I drove away from Parker Harrison’s apartment. A disconcerted feeling hung in the air between us, and not just from Harrison’s final statement but from the way Ken had handled the interview. He was older than me by several years, but it didn’t feel that way, because he was so damn green. Anytime I’d done an interview with Joe, I could afford to worry about my own end of it, assured that Joe, with thirty years of experience and one hell of an intellect, wasn’t going to say anything that jeopardized us. Ken was a bright guy, certainly, but he didn’t have those thirty years of experience. Didn’t have one, even, not in the way that counted. Working divorce cases and insurance fraud and accident reconstructions didn’t prepare you for a homicide investigation, didn’t prepare you for a back-and-forth with someone like Parker Harrison.

  It wasn’t just Ken’s end of that exchange that left me ill at ease, though. Harrison had taken a different tone than in either of my previous meetings with him, somehow both more guarded and aggressive. He’d seemed . . . cunning. Like he knew not to trust us from the moment we walked through his door, but he also didn’t want to throw us out. Wanted us there, instead, so he could find some things out for himself. I remembered the way he’d looked at me when he asked if we were working for Graham, and once again, even in the truck, miles from him, I felt exposed.

  “You think anything good was accomplished back there?” Ken said at length.

  “We did what Graham asked of us.”

  “I don’t think this was what he had in mind.” Ken’s voice was low, his face turned away from me, to the window. “I screwed it up, didn’t I?”

  “Tough to say.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not. You were sitting there, you know how it went. He didn’t believe a word I was saying.”

  “Didn’t seem to believe much of it,” I conceded, “but maybe we were reading too much into it, too. That’s how it goes on undercover stuff, you’re more sensitive than the target ninety percent of the time.”

  “Maybe,” Ken said, “but that’s sure not how I wanted it to play. Doubt it’s how Graham wanted it to play, either.”

  “No.”

  He was quiet for a while again, then said, “Maybe we could run a few days of surveillance on him. Think that would help?”

  “We’re not going to do that without Graham signing off on it,” I said, “and my guess is he’s not going to.”

  “I might suggest it anyhow.”

  He was playing back to his streng
ths, to what he knew—surveillance. The conversation with Harrison had rattled him more than it had me, even, and that was a bad sign. If he wanted to keep moving on an investigation of this magnitude, he was going to need to come up with some confidence fast.

  “Lincoln?” Ken said, and I realized I’d tuned him out, fallen away into my own thoughts.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What was that last bit?”

  “Asking if we have to sit around and wait for Harrison to contact us again, or if we can move forward on this in some way. I was thinking if we pursued the Bertoli angle, it’d match up with what we told Harrison.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, what do you want to do? That’s what I’m asking. What’s next?”

  “I’ve got to talk to Graham.”

  He fell silent for the first time as I turned off the interstate at the exit for his hotel. We were waiting at a red light just across from the parking lot when he turned to me and said, “Thank you, Lincoln.”

  “For?”

  “For getting me up here, man. For agreeing to take it on. I needed this. I mean, I needed this.”

  He spoke with intensity, but his eyes were sad. I thought his mind was probably on his daughter again, his daughter and his ex-wife and the new stepfather. What was it he’d said that day at Sokolowski’s? Nine times out of ten I conclude that my wife was right to go, and that my daughter’s better off for it. I wondered which one of the ten he was on right now.

  “Maybe tonight wasn’t an impressive audition,” he said, “but I’m not going to worry about it. I’m here to see it through, and I’ll do that.”

  The light changed, and I pulled across the street and into the parking lot, bringing the truck to a stop outside the door closest to his room.

  “I’ll talk to Graham, and give you a call in the morning,” I said.

  “All right.” He opened the door, then paused with one foot on the pavement and one still in the cab. “We’re going to see this thing to the end, Lincoln. Twelve years I’ve been waiting for that.”