The Silent Hour (18 page)

    "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."

    "Maybe
we will, or maybe we'll still be talking about it, pissed off and annoyed, ten
years from now. That happens sometimes, Ken."

    He
shook his head. "Not this time. No, I've got a feeling about it."

    My
apartment was dark and empty when I came inside, and I felt a surge of
disappointment that Amy wasn't there. No surprise—we hadn't made plans for the
night, and she rarely came by unannounced—but some nights you can't help
wishing that someone were waiting for you, had a light on. Of course, the first
time that happened I'd probably wince at the sight of the light in the window
and think longingly of a quiet, empty, and dark home. What can I say— We
private eyes are dualistic creatures. It's one of our human traits.

    I
wanted to call Amy but figured Graham should come first. Sitting on the couch,
I unbuttoned my shirt, removed the wire, and checked the recorder to see if all
looked right. It did, but I wouldn't be sure until I hooked it up to the
computer, ripped the audio file, and played it back. That would wait until
morning. I found Graham's number and called.

    "I'm
about to get in bed with my wife, Linc. In other words, you best have something
worthwhile to say."

    I
looked at the clock. "It's not even nine, Graham."

    "Said
I was getting into bed with her. Didn't say anything about sleeping."

    "Ah."

    "Yeah,
ah. Now, what do you have—"

    I
took him through it as accurately as I could, albeit with a touch of varnish on
my description of Ken's contributions. It wasn't a heavy enough coat.

    "He
told Harrison that Bertoli was a
suspect—'

    "You
wanted us to drop the name."

    "Drop
the name, not call him a suspect! You think that's one and the same—"

    "The
implication would've been there anyhow."

    He
grumbled at that but let it go. "So Salvatore's name gave Harrison a
little stir, did it—"

    "Felt
that way."

    "Interesting.
What do you think of that bit he said to you at the door—"

    "That
Alexandra asked him to stay because she was afraid— I'm not sure what to think
of it."

    "I'll
ask you this, then—suppose you a woman, and you afraid. A convicted murderer is
who you turn to for help—"

    "Could
be she trusted him."

    "Uh-huh,
even if I buy that, I still go back to the convicted murderer element. She
wants a guy with those credentials around for help, then what do you think she
was afraid of—"

    "Husband,
maybe."

    "Guy's
a scholar, Linc. Weighed maybe a hundred and forty pounds, spent his day stuck
in a book."

    "You've
been around long enough to know that doesn't mean a thing."

    "No,
but if she's afraid of him, why not call her brother—"

    "So
maybe it was the brother she was afraid of."

    "That's
what I like about your mind, Linc. It works just like mine, only slower."

    "That's
a big jump, man, suggesting Dominic would go after his own sister."

    "Who
said anything about going after her— We've got one person confirmed dead, Linc,
and it ain't Alexandra."

    "You
think she was afraid for her husband."

    "Makes
sense, since he turned up dead," Graham said, but then rushed out,
"Look, let's don't get too sidetracked with this. Only reason we're even
talking about it is because of what Harrison said, and I don't know how high
he'd score in truthfulness. What do you think—"

    "About
Harrison—"

    "Yeah.
You were the one sat there and talked with him tonight. Give me your instinct.
You feel he's being straight— That he doesn't know a hell of a lot more about
this than he's saying—"

    I
thought about it, remembering his words, his body language, his eyes.

    "No,"
I said. "I don't trust him."

    "Exactly.
Now, you expect to hear from him— Think he'll take the bait—"

    "Here's
what I expect—if he takes it, he'll do so knowing damn well that it's bait.
He's smart, Graham. He's awfully smart."

    "I'm
not so sure about that," Graham said.

    I
was—And that's why, when I got to the office at eight thirty the next morning
to discover Harrison had left a message three hours earlier, I didn't view it
as any sort of victory.

    He'd
called at five twenty in the morning and prefaced the message with an apology
for the early hour, explaining that he needed to be at work by six.

    I
know this is your office number, though, so I assume it's not a problem. I gave
your offer some consideration, Lincoln, and I've decided to accept. I'll put a
new retainer check in the mail today. For one thousand dollars. If that's not
enough, let me know. The check will be made out to you. If you'd like to pay
Ken Merriman the full sum, that's your decision, but the only way I'll approach
this is with you as a go-between. I think that's fair, seeing how you're the
one who brought him to me. It wouldn't be right for you to be completely
removed from this. I'm not comfortable with that.

    He
paused there, and I could hear his breathing, fast and shallow, in direct
contrast with his patient, careful manner of speaking.

    I
imagine you might be speaking with Detective Graham at some point. Feel free to
give him my regards.

    Another
pause.

    All right,
so, I'll mail the check. Now, I don't mean to tell you how to do your business,
but I suppose since you're working for me, it's fine if I make a request. Leave
Mark Ruzity alone. He shouldn't be of interest to you, and he shouldn't be
bothered. I'd like you to keep your distance from Mark.

    That
was the end of the message. I listened to it a few times before Ken showed up,
and as soon as he sat down I played it again and watched his face darken as
Harrison talked.

    "You
get the sense he may know exactly what we're doing—" he said when the
message was done.

    "I
suggested that to Graham last night."

    "And—"

    "Graham
doesn't agree, or doesn't care. I'm not sure which."

    "What
Harrison said about him… that felt like a message, didn't it— Like he was
telling us—"

    "That
he knows we're doing this at Graham's direction— Yeah."

    "You
talk to Graham since this call—"

    "Tried
and didn't get him. Left a message."

    "Harrison
still seems quite taken with you, Lincoln. Supposedly he just hired me, right—
But he did that through a call to you and a check made out to you. What do you
think of that—"

    I
shook my head. "No idea. Why'd he come to me in the first place— Why keep
writing letters after it was clear I wouldn't respond— Why show up at my office
after months of being ignored—"

    "You
don't like it."

    "Would
you—"

    His
grin slipped back into place. "Shit, he's sending you checks. How bad can
it be—"

    "Yeah,
right."

    "So
what now, we wait on Graham—"

    "Uh-huh,
that's the drill."

    "That
last bit of the message is pretty damn strange," Ken said. "Telling
us to stay away from Ruzity."

    "I
was waiting for you to comment on that."

    "As
far as I knew, the two of them had no relationship. They were with the Cantrells
at different times, and I had no idea their paths would have crossed."

    "Seems
like they did."

    "Yeah.
With Harrison being our client and all, I suppose we have to respect his wishes
and leave Ruzity alone."

    "That
would be the ethical decision, certainly We are in his employ."

    "So
as long as you got that message, we'd be required to keep our distance from
Ruzity."

    "Exactly."

    "Imagine
what might have happened if you didn't come into the office right away,
though."

    I
nodded. "Why, there's a chance we might have blundered our way to Mr.
Ruzity, oblivious to the wishes of our client. In fact, until that message came
through, he
wasn't
our client. He was still considering things."

    "An
excellent point." He flicked his eyes to the phone, and a smile drifted
across his face. "So, let me ask you, Lincoln: When did you play that
message—"

    "It's
tough to recall, Ken. My memory isn't what it used to be. But I can't imagine
it was
before
we looked Ruzity up."

    "Oh,
no," he said. "I can't imagine it was."

    Finding
Mark Ruzity was like looking for a lost dog in a neighborhood overrun by
strays—nobody wanted to help, and nobody understood why in the hell you'd want
to find him in the first place.

    We
started at the pawnshop on Storer Avenue where, according to Ken's notes,
Ruzity worked repairing guitars. The notes were more than a decade old, though,
and the pawnshop was now a vacant building with boarded windows. From there we
went to his house on Denison, found nobody home, and started knocking on doors
to see if anyone could tell us where to find him. Most of the people on the
street seemed to know who he was, but nobody wanted to direct us to him.

    "He's
one of those guys," said a Puerto Rican woman who kept the chain on the
door while she talked to us, "you just keep your distance from him, you
know— He's lived here as long as we have, never caused a problem, but he looks
like he
could,
right— He don't bother nobody, but I sure as shit
wouldn't bother him, either. I don't think you should bother him."

    It
was the same sentiment Harrison had expressed. For a guy who hadn't taken a
fall in fifteen years, Ruzity had one hell of a rep. Ken finally had the
inspiration that got us to him.

    "He's
a musician, right— Is there anyplace in this neighborhood where a musician
would want to go—"

    We
found one: a used instrument store ten blocks from his house. They knew him,
all right.