The Silent Hour lp-4

by Michael Koryta

  “That might seem like a joke to you,” I said, “but it is not to me. I don’t care where you are, Alexandra, I’ll find you eventually. Anyone can be found.”

  “Ken Merriman already taught me that.” She took my hand again, squeezed it once, and then turned and opened the driver’s door and climbed inside. I waited until she’d started the engine before I left and walked back up the road to my truck. I got inside, started it up, and drove to the highway. I stared at every vehicle that passed and thought, He said all they needed to do was pay attention to a car.

  There was only one possibility coming to my mind, and Mike London had checked it out. The day Ken and I had lunch with him, he told us about a vehicle he’d seen near Bertoli’s murder scene that had belonged to a chop shop affiliated with Dominic Sanabria. What had the owner’s name been? Neloms. Darius Neloms. His alibi checked out solid, though, and the lead dried up. So what could Ken have possibly seen that Mike did not?

  Unless it was a different car entirely. If that was the case, then I was as utterly clueless as I had been before talking to Alexandra.

  I was halfway back to the city when my cell phone rang, and I saw the call was coming from the office. Joe.

  “You’re out there again, aren’t you,” he said when I answered, and then, before I could respond, “LP, you’ve got to let it go. You’ve got to stop.”

  “She came to the house this morning.”

  For a moment I didn’t hear a thing.

  “Tell me it is the truth,” he said, “and that I don’t need to begin searching for the proper institution for you.”

  I told him what had happened. By the time I was done, I was a mile from the office, and he hadn’t spoken for a long time.

  “I let her go,” I said, “and I know you’ll tell me what a terrible mistake that was, but I don’t care. I’ll find her again if I have to.”

  “If you believe what she told you, that’s not the issue of the day,” he said, and something inside me sagged with relief. He agreed with me. Alexandra was no longer the focus.

  “I believe it,” I said, “because I saw her lie today, and, Joseph, she is not good at it.”

  “And the car?” he said. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “Maybe. If I’m wrong, then I’ve got nothing. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  I hung up with him, and five minutes later I was behind my desk. I told Joe what I remembered from Mike London’s investigation, then leaned back with my hands spread.

  “That’s the best I’ve got. Darius Neloms was an associate of Sanabria, but he was far from the inner circle. The guy painted stolen cars and sent them back out the door. It’s not like he was Sanabria’s right-hand man. Even if he was, Ken apparently was questioning whether Sanabria had anything to do with the murder.”

  “He said the car was important. So maybe he found out who else had access to it.”

  “Maybe. If it doesn’t go back to that chop shop, though, then I have no idea what he was talking about. We talked to Mike the day before Ken was killed, so it would have been fresh in his mind, and if he was giving me credit for getting him to the solution, well, that’s the only thing I got him to. Only London mentioned a car.”

  “Well,” Joe said, “I’d say now’s the time to call him.”

  So I called him. Put him on speaker while Joe sat with his chin resting on steepled fingertips and listened. I had not spoken to Mike London since Ken was killed. He’d called after he heard the news, more curious then distressed, and I had never called back.

  I’d already decided I didn’t want anyone but Joe to know that the new information had come from Alexandra, so I skirted that, told Mike only that Ken had evidently mentioned his belief that a car was the key to the case shortly before he was killed.

  “The only car I ever heard mentioned,” I said, “was the one you told us about. It belonged to a guy named Darius Neloms, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Who had an alibi that was—”

  “Airtight. Yes.”

  “There’s no way you could have been wrong on that.”

  Silence. Then, “Brother, you want to check up on me, by all means go ahead. Hell, we probably still have the security tapes buried in some evidence locker. But I’m giving you my word that Darius Neloms was nowhere near Bertoli’s death scene. A car belonging to him was. I did not find out who was driving the car. I tried, and I did not find out.”

  His voice was terse and biting, and Joe raised his eyebrows and gave me a little smile. I was stepping into dangerous turf now, with even a suggestion that Mike might have missed something.

  “That’s good enough for me,” I said, trying to soothe, thinking that while I was still going to need to verify, there was no reason to call him out on it now. “I just don’t know what the hell to do with this, Mike. If Ken was excited about a car, I think it had to be the one you told us about, but where that took him . . .”

  “Like I told you back in the spring, Darius was connected to Sanabria.”

  “Evidently Ken wasn’t sure the murder had anything to do with Sanabria.”

  “Then I quite simply don’t know what to tell you, Lincoln.”

  I rubbed my forehead and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think of the right question—hell, of any question. What could Ken have seen in that car that neither Mike nor I could?

  “You traced the plate, and it ran back to Neloms directly,” I said. “Right?”

  “Right. Wait, no. It was registered to his shop, which doesn’t really make a damn bit of difference. Ultimately still his vehicle. He claimed no idea of who could have driven it, said the keys were inside the shop and maybe somebody took them, then told us the car must have been stolen.”

  “But it had been returned.”

  “Uh-huh. I checked out every employee—most of whom were family or friends of his, cousins or nephews or whatever—and didn’t get anything, but I don’t think whoever was behind the wheel really had much to do with Neloms.”

  “You think they worked for Sananbria.”

  “Right. They had a history together.”

  All of this was recycled, the same damn conversation we’d had six months ago, and all of it pointed back to Sanabria, when Ken’s final words pointed in another direction entirely.

  “Look, Lincoln, I don’t know what else to tell you . . .”

  “It’s fine, Mike. Don’t worry about it. If I think of something else, I’ll call.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  “Mike thinks one of Sanabria’s guys drove the car,” Joe said.

  “Yeah.”

  We sat in silence and thought.

  “This is going to sound crazy,” I said, “but what if Bertoli drove himself there?”

  He frowned. “His ghost got up off the pavement and drove it back? The car was gone after he died, right? That’s why Mike was looking at it as a suspect vehicle.”

  “Right,” I said, “but he had to get there somehow, and whoever killed him would have known that. The guy had just gotten out of prison; it’s unlikely he had his own car. So maybe he borrowed one from this Neloms guy. He drove that car to meet somebody, he got killed, and then someone else—maybe the guy who killed him, maybe not—drove the car back. Having the car gone from the scene is one less thing for the cops to look at, which is what they’d want, and they couldn’t have known . . .”

  My voice trailed off, and Joe said, “Keep going,” but I didn’t answer. The notion of Bertoli as the driver had tripped something in my brain, and I got up and went to the file cabinet and pulled out the sheaf of papers Ken had given me on the case. Copies of everything he’d had, or so he’d told me.

  It took me a while, but I located the paperwork he’d brought into the office on the morning after our first encounter, the morning after my wild drunken dream about Parker Harrison watching me on the roof. Profiles of all the convicts who’d stayed at Whisper Ridge. I flipped through until I found Bertoli. Read the report once
again, the details of his arrest for beating the truck stop manager and stealing his heroin. The police had arrested him within hours. Due to his car.

  39

  __________

  Bertoli used a stolen plate, but it was his own vehicle, an Impala with a custom paint job and chrome rims featuring cutouts in the shape of diamonds.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said, and then, without bothering to say a word to Joe’s questioning glance, I pounded the redial button on the phone and got Mike London back on the line. He sounded weary when he realized it was me.

  “One last question,” I said. “The car you saw that night, it was an Olds Cutlass, not an Impala, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You said it had custom features on it, though”

  “Yeah, all that shit like in a rap video.”

  “This is a long shot, but do you remember the rims?”

  “The rims?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, they were spinners. You know, the kind that rotate when the engine’s on?”

  “Right. You remember whether there were diamond etchings in them? Cutouts in the shape of diamonds?”

  Silence while he thought, then, “Yeah, maybe. Maybe there were. I’m not sure, but I think that sounds right.”

  “All right, Mike. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  I hung up with him again, and then I stood and brought the Bertoli report over to Joe’s desk and dropped it down, waited while he read it.

  “You’re thinking that he got his car worked on down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Makes sense. Of course, we already know Sanabria’s guys and Neloms had an association.”

  “Uh-huh, but read that arrest report again—who was in the vehicle with Bertoli the night he stole the heroin?”

  “Unidentified juvenile.”

  “Right. Name redacted from Ken’s report, because what Ken could access was public record, and the passenger was a minor. There’s an original police report with that kid’s name. I want it.”

  “I’ll call.”

  Unlike me, he wouldn’t use the speakerphone. I heard him say what he wanted and was sure he’d be told to wait for a call back. That’s what it would have taken had I called—and if I didn’t pick the right person to lean on for the favor, the wait might have extended into the next day. Instead, Joe was on hold for what seemed like all of thirty seconds. He murmured a soft thank-you into the phone, scribbled a name onto his notepad, and then hung up and held the pad a few inches from my face.

  Alvin Neloms, black juvenile, sixteen years old.

  “A son, probably,” I said. “Darius has a son.”

  “Check on it.”

  I went back to my computer and ran a database search on Alvin Neloms and pulled up a family history. His father was listed as unknown. His mother had kept her own name, it seemed. According to the family chart the database offered, Darius Neloms was the boy’s uncle, not his father. He was from East Cleveland, was now twenty-nine years old, and had been arrested just one time as an adult, for drug possession, charge dismissed. These were all things Ken could have found in a few minutes of research after he made the connection between the cars.

  “You know anybody with East Cleveland PD?” I asked.

  “Tony Mitchell did some task force stuff with them.”

  “Ask about this kid, would you? I want to know more before we talk to him.”

  “We’re going to talk to him?”

  “Bet your ass, Joseph. We’re getting there. Getting somewhere.”

  So Joe got back on the phone and asked for Tony, and they exchanged cursory greetings while I waited impatiently.

  “Use the damn speaker, Joe.”

  He ignored me, then told Tony he was calling to ask if the name Alvin Neloms meant anything to him. He listened for a while with no change of expression, then said, “Could you repeat that, please?” This time he finally hit the speakerphone button.

  “I said Cash is the worst they’ve got,” Tony said. “One of them, at least. And down there? When I say he’s one of the worst, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Cash?” Joe said.

  “That’s what he goes by, yeah. Comes from an old playground basketball nickname, everybody called him ‘Cash Money’ when he was a kid because he had a jump shot that just did not miss. In another neighborhood, another school, that kid plays college ball and goes to the league. No question. I’ve seen him play plenty. We had surveillance details on Cash for years, and even while waiting to bust his ass, I was impressed by his game. He played it like he loved it, you know? Then he’d go off and kill someone. It’s sad, is what it is.”

  “What exactly is his story?” Joe said.

  “Drugs and blood. He’s top of the food chain out there now. Nobody moves a damn dime bag through East Cleveland that he doesn’t know about.”

  “He’s only been arrested one time? Charge dismissed?”

  “The boy is good, got it? Runs a couple dozen gangbangers and pushers who take his falls for him and isn’t a one of them says a word, because if they do, they just dug a grave that fits them nice and tight. Cash runs shit organized, runs it like the damn Mafia.”

  Joe cocked his head and looked at me. I didn’t say anything, didn’t respond.

  “Unofficial body count credited to Cash Neloms?” Tony said. “Twenty. Maybe twenty-five.”

  My chest muscles suddenly felt cold and constricted.

  “You ever heard of him actually having mob ties?” Joe said.

  “Nope. It’s all his show, Pritchard. His organization. And that shitty side of town drips with his blood.”

  “Supposing we wanted to talk to him—” Joe began.

  “Talk to Cash? On what?”

  “Cold case investigation. Twelve years old.”

  “Twelve years old? Twelve? Sweet mother, Pritchard, I’ll tell you this one time and make it clear as I can—this ain’t a man you talk to. Not a PI. I know you were police for a long time, but you’re a civilian now, and that’s a distinction that means something to Cash. Understand? You walk in that neighborhood asking questions about Cash Neloms, you better be wearing a damn vest and carrying with your finger on the trigger.”

  “I’m advised,” Joe said. “Thanks, Tony.”

  He disconnected, blew out a breath, and said, “Where are we going, Lincoln? Where in the hell are we going?”

  I didn’t know. I stood in silence for a minute, trying to think, but there were too many pieces and too many ways they could fit, and I could not see the whole for the sum of its parts, couldn’t even get close. Eventually I picked up the phone and held it in my hand, thinking of Quinn Graham. I didn’t call, though. I hung up before the dial tone switched over to that rapid off-the-hook beep, and then I lifted the receiver again and called John Dunbar. I used the home number, and he answered.

  “Hey,” I said, “it’s Lincoln Perry. You remember me?”

  “You got something?” he said, and it was incredible how much anticipation was in his voice, how much hope.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I got a question. You have access to phone records from the Cantrell house in the last few months they were there?”

  “I’ve got the actual records. I told you, I kept everything. There’s nothing there. I’ve been over those—”

  “Do me a favor,” I said, “and go find them. Check and see if there was a call to a guy named Alvin Neloms. Or maybe it was to an auto body shop on the east side. Look for either.”

  He set the phone down and disappeared. It was maybe five minutes before he came back, and his voice was lower.

  “There were three calls to a place called Classic Auto Body, on Eddy Road.”

  “Were they all during Bertoli’s stay?” I said. “The last weeks anyone was in that house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang around, Dunbar,” I said. “I’m headed your way.”

  I disconnected then and turned to look at Joe.

  “The problem
with this job,” I said, “is that the guesswork always comes before the facts. I’m pretty sure that system put Ken in his grave.”

  40

  __________

  I had to give John Dunbar credit—he didn’t balk at the idea. In fact, what I saw in his face when I laid it out for him wasn’t denial but shame. He actually seemed to wince when I showed him the police report that mentioned Bertoli’s car at the time of his arrest and explained its similarities to a different car that had been near the death scene.

  “I knew what kind of car he had,” he said. “Of course I knew that, and I knew that’s what got him arrested, but I didn’t consider that it would have any importance beyond that. I didn’t consider it.”

  He bit off that repeated line, angry, self-reproachful—I didn’t consider it. Joe hadn’t said much at all, but he looked at me when Dunbar said that, gave a small nod, showing that he thought it was legitimate.

  “I knew it was Alvin Neloms who was in the car with Bertoli the night he was arrested,” Dunbar said. “Of course I checked that out, of course I knew it, of course I did the same work you just did. Back then he was nothing more than a kid on the corner, someone who watched for police and maybe did a little muling. He was sixteen.”

  “He’s not anymore,” Joe said. “According to what we’ve been told, he’s as close to a drug kingpin as the east side has. It’s gang country out there; you do well to last six months. Neloms being around this many years later, that tells you something.”

  Dunbar’s eyes flicked side to side but held distance, as if he were watching a film.

  “DiPietro was providing some of the east side supply,” he said, speaking slowly. “That was the point, see, that’s when he and Sanabria had their first falling-out. Sanabria didn’t trust drugs, and he certainly didn’t trust blacks. His father was of that old school, racist, and I’m sure that stuck with Dominic. He did not want to be involved with the drug trade on the east side. We knew that, knew it from wiretaps and informants and a hell of a lot of work. We knew that Dominic was furious with DiPietro.”

  He paused and took a breath and then said, “Dominic killed DiPietro,” but his voice had gone soft and he wouldn’t take his eyes off the police report that detailed Bertoli’s car.