The Silent Hour

by Michael Koryta

  "Man, Darius ain't available."

  "You work with him—"

  "That's right."

  "Then you know how to get in touch with him. Give the man a call."

  While Joe talked, I found myself staring at the man on the stool, that hand resting near his waist. He wasn't looking back at me. He was looking at Joe.

  "He ain't gonna answer," the guy in the sleeveless shirt said.

  "How do you know that—"

  "He busy."

  "How about we call him just the same," Joe said.

  "No," I said, and they both looked at me with surprise. I shook my head. "If he's not around, he's not around. We'll come back."

  He nodded. "You do that, man."

  "Thanks."

  I turned and walked to the truck. I had the door open and was sitting behind the wheel before Joe even moved. He walked over slowly, got inside, and swung the door shut without a word. The guy from the stool got to his feet and came over to stand with the other man at the edge of the garage. They watched as I drove out of the lot.

  "Maybe I misread the situation," Joe said after we were a few blocks away, "but I kind of assumed Darius was inside that office. You know, where the kid poked his head in before he came out to run us off."

  "Could be."

  "Uh-huh. You want to tell me what we're doing driving away, then—"

  "I'm thinking we should pass this off to Graham," I said. "His case, his decisions to make. You saw those diamonds on the rims down here, that's enough, right— Between that and the phone calls, we've got enough. It's time to pass it to him now."

  "That's a pretty different stance from the one you had this afternoon."

  "Had a few hours to think about it."

  "You've done some thinking," he said, "but it's not hours of it that are catching up with you now. It's months."

  We didn't say much on the way back to the office. When we got there all he said was "Let me know if Alexandra calls" before he got into his own car and drove away.

  I went home, too, called Amy and said I'd come over and I had some news, and then took a shower. Before I got into the water I stood at the sink and stared into the mirror for a long time, waiting for the man looking back to tell me what he wanted to do. What he needed to do. Then the steam spread across the glass and he was gone, no answers left behind.

  I did not call Quinn Graham, as I had told Joe I would. I did not call anyone. That night I updated Amy, took her from my conversation with Alexandra Cantrell to my decision at the garage.

  "You're really going to back off, pass it to Graham—" she said. "Then why were you there to begin with— Why spend two weeks watching for Alexandra—"

  "Just to see if he was right. I had to know. That's all. Now I do."

  "If who was right— Ken—"

  I nodded.

  "You said you were angry with him at first," she said. "Hurt and betrayed, because he lied to you."

  "Sure. You think that's abnormal—"

  "No. But you don't seem angry now."

  "I understand why he did it now."

  She nodded. "That makes it easier, doesn't it."

  "Of course."

  "You know you've been lying to me—"

  "What—"

  "For three days you've been lying to me. Said you'd given up on the surveillance, stopped going out there—and, unlike you with Ken, I don't understand why."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't think of it as lying, even though it was. I just knew that you and Joe thought I should quit—"

  "You told us you already had. Back in the summer, it was you who said you were done. Emphatically. Neither of us told you to give up your job, Lincoln, but you did, and then you went back to it in secret. Lying about it. I don't understand."

  I didn't know how to make her understand. I couldn't explain to her that she was one of the reasons I'd had to quit, that Ken's murder had been one that hit too close to home. It could be her next time. Or Joe. My decision at the garage today had been made the moment the guy on the stool had reached under his jacket with his eyes on Joe. I understood some things in that moment, understood just how damn close we were to the one thing I could never allow to happen again. I would not bring those I loved into harm's way again. I couldn't.

  So if I understood that, then why couldn't I stop altogether— Why had I ever gone back to that damned house in the woods with my camera and my binoculars—

  I didn't have an answer for that one. It chilled me, but I didn't. I'd ended up back out there, that was all. The absence of resolution, of truth, had tormented me for too many months. In the end, it won. I was weaker than I'd thought.

  "Let me ask you one more thing, and this time, if you care about me at all, tell me the truth," Amy said. She was speaking very carefully, slowly, as if she needed me to feel the weight of the words. "If you don't tell me the truth, we're done, Lincoln. We will have to be done. Because I can't live with you otherwise."

  "Ask the question," I said.

  "Are you really going to pass this off to Graham, or are you telling one thing to me and foe and planning another—"

  I looked away.

  She said, "Lincoln."

  "I've got something left to do," I said. "That's the truth. It's something I'm going to do alone. Then I will give this to Graham and, yes, step away. I promise you, that is the truth. I've got one thing left to do."

  "What is it—"

  "I'm going to get Graham the tape he wanted me to get from Harrison, only this time I'll get it from the right source. I'm going to get him evidence, Amy, get him a case he can prosecute, a case that will end the right way. I don't want to pass this off to him until I know it's ready for that. I can't stand to let it fall apart the way it did with Dunbar and Mike London and Graham and everyone else. Do you understand that— I can't let it fall apart again."

  She fell asleep around midnight. I sat beside her in the dark, looking at a pale shaft of light across the carpet that I liked to imagine was the moon but was really from a parking lot light pole. She had not pressed me for more details of what I had planned, and I hadn't offered them. It had been a quiet night. We didn't make love or even talk when we turned out the lights and got into bed, but she fell asleep with her hand wrapped tight around my arm.

  After twenty minutes, when her breathing had slowed to the rhythm of true and deep sleep, I got to my feet and found my car keys. She was on her side, face turned into the pillow, and before I left I leaned down and kissed the back of her head, smelled her hair. Then I walked through the dark apartment and opened the door and stepped out into the night. There was no way I could fasten the steel security bar behind me. I regretted that.

  I stopped at a convenience store on Rocky River and bought a large black coffee, then drove home, went upstairs, and found the wire I'd used in the early stages with Parker Harrison. I'd never taken it back to the office. We'd had no use for it anymore.

  I tested it and then put it on, clipping the microphone lower, near the fourth button instead of the first, remembering the way Harrison had torn at my shirt, how completely exposed it had been then. Once the wire was in place, I got my gun case out of the closet and removed the stainless steel Beretta 9 mm. It had been a while since I'd handled that gun, but I had a shoulder holster for it, and I put that on now and slipped the Beretta inside. I put a jacket on over that, leaving it unzipped, and then I put the Glock into its holster, this one secured on my spine. The East Cleveland Ensemble.

  With that preparation complete, I turned off the lights and left the apartment and went to the office. I fired up the computer and then took my PI license out of my wallet and went to the scanner, made a copy of the image and loaded it onto the computer, and made a few changes before printing out a copy. A little trimming work with scissors, a quick pass through the card laminator I'd purchased years ago for just this sort of thing, and then I was done. I tucked the new ID into my wallet in place of the old one, left the office, and drove back to Eddy Road.


  * * *

  Chapter Forty-two

  One version of the neighborhood came to life at dawn, and another went to sleep. It hadn't been a quiet night of surveillance—I'd watched people stumble the sidewalks wrecked out of their minds, seen a fistfight flare and then vanish when a police cruiser drove by, heard the laughter and loud car stereos of those returning from a night at the clubs. That world slid away just before daylight, and then the traffic thickened and stores and businesses opened as the sun rose.

  Classic Auto Body was quiet until almost nine, and then someone drove into the parking lot in a sleek black Cadillac CTS and pulled to a stop just outside of the office window, in an area not marked for parking. The driver's door opened and a large black man stepped out with keys in his hand. He unlocked the office door and disappeared inside.

  I pushed the blackout curtain aside and climbed into the front seat of the truck and then got out and walked to the shop, tested the door and found it unlocked, and stepped inside.

  I'd entered an empty office, but I could hear movement in the garage beyond, someone walking around snapping on light switches. A few seconds passed, and then the door from the garage opened and the Cadillac's driver stepped back into the office and saw me.

  "You need help—" he said, not unfriendly, but not thrilled about seeing me there, either.

  "Got a couple questions about a car you did."

  "Yeah—" He walked around the desk and leaned on its edge, more intrigued now. "Like what you've seen out there, huh—"

  "Oh, absolutely. Absolutely"

  He was nodding along in agreement, confident in his work. "You got something classic you working on, or is it more of just getting it done up right, something newer but just don't have that look, that style—"

  He appeared even bigger indoors than he had outside. Probably six-four and at least two hundred and sixty or seventy pounds, with a block of a head above a football lineman's shoulders. He looked about forty-five and had a pencil-line beard tracing his massive jaw. Wore baggy jeans and a black jacket open over a T-shirt. There was a chain of white gold or platinum with a glittering medallion in the shape of a diamond around his neck, hanging halfway down his chest.

  "I've got some pictures of it," I said, pulling Dunbar's photographs out of my pocket. I nodded at his medallion before I handed them over. "That diamond there, any chance that's, like, your logo—"

  "Yeah, man, like a signature, you know— Every artist puts one on their work." He was smiling at me now. "Keeps people from passing off their shit as mine, too. You got these kids, do something on their own, then they want people to think they spent the money, right— Want them to think they got the money to spend, so they say, oh, I took it down to Darius. But I got those diamonds I do by hand, man, and there ain't any of them going to try putting those on."

  "Brand protection," I said. "Trademark."

  "Yeah, exactly, a trademark." He put his hand out for the photographs. "What is it you've seen around— Which one of em caught your eye—"

  I passed them over. "You probably won't remember this. Did it a long time ago."

  He took the pictures and studied them one at a time. His face changed to a frown, but it wasn't suspicious, not yet. Just thoughtful.

  "Man, you ain't kidding, this is a long time ago. I remember the car, though. This would've been ten years ago at least, got those old dubs on there."

  "You did the work, though—"

  "Oh, yeah. For sure. That's mine."

  "You happen to remember the owner—"

  His mouth twisted, and he hesitated, thinking, trying to remember. It took him a few seconds, but when he got it the frown came back, this time with a different quality, and when he spoke his voice wasn't as relaxed as it had been.

  "It was an Italian kid, I think. Maybe not. I don't know."

  He held the photograph out, and when I didn't take it immediately he gave it a shake to get my attention, as if he were in a hurry to get it out of his hand.

  "I don't even know why that piece of shit grabbed your eye," he said.

  "You don't like it—"

  "You know, I did the work, that's all. People got their own ideas of what looks good, I try to listen. Now what kind of a ride you got— What are we talking about doing—"

  "I'm afraid there's been some confusion," I said. "I'm not here to have a car worked on. I'm here about this car."

  I lifted the photograph and gave it the same little shake he had, but he didn't look, just held my eyes. Now all the good humor was out of his face.

  "You a cop—"

  "Private."

  "It's private whether you a cop—"

  "No. I'm a private detective."

  "Man, I don't got time for this. That car's so old, I don't remember nothing about it, don't know nothing about that Italian kid, all right—"

  "That's fine, Darius. Maybe you could do me a favor, though—"

  He waited, suspicious.

  "Give your nephew a call, get him down here."

  "My family got something to do with you— Man, go on and get out of here. I don't have time—"

  "You got nothing to do with Alvin— With Cash, I mean—"

  He was giving me flat eyes now, a response to police questioning that he'd spent some years perfecting.

  "Maybe you could just give him a message," I said. "Write down my name, tell him that I was down here and that I'd like to speak with him if he gets a chance. That I'd appreciate it if he could give me a call."

  "You want to talk to Cash, find him yourself."

  "Darius…" I spread my hands. "You really want to make this a pain in the ass— All I'm asking is for you to give your nephew my name, tell him I was down here. You do that, and I'm gone."

  He scowled and waved his hand at me, impatient. "All right, leave your damn name and get out."

  "I'm fresh out of cards," I said. "So you'll have to write it down."

  "Man, write it down yourself."

  I ignored him, reached in my back pocket and withdrew my wallet, flicked it open to reveal the investigator's license I'd made, and passed it over. He glanced down at it, but it was a cursory look while he picked up a pad of paper and extended it to me.

  "Write it here," he said.

  I didn't answer, just kept holding the license in front of his face, and this time when his eyes went to it they lingered. He stared at it for several seconds. Too many to be comfortable. Enough to tell me what I needed to know.

  "Like I said, you write it down yourself," he said finally, looking away from the license and back at me. His voice was much softer, his eyes much darker.

  "Okay," I said, and I closed the wallet and put it back in my pocket and then wrote the name from the license in all capital letters across his pad—KEN MERRIMAN.

  He watched me write it and didn't say a word when I dropped the pad on his desk.

  "Are you sure," I said, "that you don't want to give your nephew a call right now—"

  He looked up at me, and his jaw worked as he studied my eyes.

  "It might be a good idea," I said. "Up to you, Darius, but it might be a good idea."

  He didn't take his eyes off me as he withdrew his cell phone from the pocket of his oversized jeans.

  "You wait," he said, and then he stepped out into the garage and closed the door behind him. I felt my breath go out of my lungs when the door closed, and I looked around the office and through the window out onto the street. Nobody in sight. I would be alone with them when Cash came, just as Ken had likely been. I was more prepared than he had been, though. I had my story ready, had the scenario I needed, and now it was just a matter of playing it through, getting the hell out of here, and handing Graham a case that was ready to close. Simple stuff. Simple. I reached inside my jacket and touched the Beretta once, a gentle tap, and then I dropped my hands back to my sides and waited.

  Darius wasn't gone long. Two minutes at most. Then the door opened and he stepped through, face expressionless, eyes flat
again.

  "You in luck," he said. "Cash is in the area."

  "Going to come by—"

  He shook his head, and I saw he had his car keys in hand. "You are. I'm going to take you out to see him."

  "No need for you to do that," I said.

  "Man, I'm helpful like that."

  "You want to leave, fine, but I'll wait for him here."

  He shook his head again. "You want to see Cash, I take you."

  "Maybe you don't understand," I said. "I'm going to wait for him here."

  There was real anger showing in him for the first time now, the sort of look that probably didn't meet with opposition very often. He said, "He's not coming here, and you ain't going to stay on my property."

  I dropped into one of the plastic chairs that lined the wall across from his desk, crossed one ankle over my knee.

  "Try him again, Darius. I think you might be wrong. I think he might be willing to make the trip."

  He hesitated. It wasn't me he was worried about, it was his nephew's response. Eventually he turned and went back into the garage, and this time it was almost ten minutes before he returned.

  "All right," he said. "He's on his way."

  "Terrific," I said.

  "Sure is," Darius said. He crossed the office, reached for the blinds, and twisted the rod until they were closed again, and the street was gone and the office was dark. Then he went to the door and locked it and turned the sign to closed.

  "Sure is," he said again, and he went behind the desk and sat in his chair, opened a drawer, and withdrew a stainless steel Beretta that looked identical to the one I had under my jacket. He placed the gun on the desk without a word, not pointing at me but close to his hand.

  Then we waited.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty-three

  It was about twenty minutes before Cash arrived, and Darius and I did not speak during the wait. If you've ever wondered how long twenty minutes can feel, try spending them in total silence facing a man with a gun.