The Silent Hour (34 page)

    Grace
told him where to find me, and he came and stood quietly beneath the ladder and
watched me paint until I felt his presence and turned and looked down.

    "What
are you doing here—" I said.

    "Wanted
to buy you a beer."

    "I
don't drink in the middle of the day."

    "A
cup of coffee, then."

    "I'm
off caffeine."

    "A
bottle of water."

    He
never blinked, just stood with his hands in his pockets and an even stare on
his face, watching me. I gave it a moment, and then I sighed and came down off
the ladder.

    "Let
me rinse out the brush."

    We
walked up the street to an Irish pub that had gone in on the corner. Neither of
us spoke. Once inside, I went to a table across from the bar and ordered a
beer.

    "Thought
you didn't drink in the middle of the day," Dunbar said.

    I
didn't answer.

    "So
you're not happy to see me," he said. "I get it."

    "I
just don't know why you came. Why you're not willing to make phone calls
instead of personal visits, at least."

    "Tougher
to blow me off in person," he said. It was a line straight out of Joe's
mouth, one of his guiding principles for detective work—you wore out shoe
leather before you burned up the phone lines.

    "I'll
give you that much," I said.

    They
brought my beer, and he asked for a Jameson and water, and we waited while they
poured that and brought it over.

    "I
talked to Graham," he said after taking an experimental sip.

    "As
did I."

    "Pretty
disappointing news."

    "It
was."

    "It'll
go back to where it was twelve years ago now," he said. "Go back to
nobody looking or even thinking about looking. It'll be unsolved, and
forgotten."

    I
drank some beer.

    "Ken
Merriman's case is open," he said. "You talked to anybody on
that—"

    "Not
lately."

    "I
have. I was calling a couple times a week. Guy I've talked to down there got
tired of it, though. Asked me to stop. Said he'd let me know if they got an
update. So in my professional opinion, that one's moving along about as well as
the Cantroll investigation. Which is to say, it's not."

    "That
could be an unfair assessment."

    "You
think—"

    "The
rangers aren't bad at what they do, Dunbar. Give them time."

    "Time."
He nodded and turned the glass with his fingers. "Twelve years of time,
that's what we've had on Cantrell. I don't want to see Ken Merriman's case go
another twelve."

    "I
know it."

    "But
you're not doing anything to help," he said, "and I don't understand
that. Somebody else, sure, they'd feel hopeless and useless and I'd get that. I've
read about you though. I've talked to people. Your reputation as a detective is
extraordinary, Perry. Good instincts, they tell me, good experience, a real
natural—but what people talk about most— It's how damned dogged you've been.
How determined. How relentless."

    I
blew out a breath, looked away.

    "I
see you've closed your office," he said, "and now it's the middle of
the week and you're in the gym, painting. Is that the new you—"

    "What
if it is—"

    "I'd
say that's a shame. I'd say that's as much of a shame as anything I've heard in
a long time, because the world is full of evil, and there aren't enough people
who can do something about it."

    He
paused. "Dominic Sanabria is a killer. He has gone unpunished for that. He
sits around in his fancy house drinking afternoon cocktails and smiling about
it. I cannot let that last."

    When
I didn't answer, a glow of anger came into his face, and he took a deep breath
and looked away, as if he couldn't stand the sight of me.

    "You
remember the kid Sanabria killed, Lamarca—" he said after a while. "I
told you about him. It's the case we had him for at the motel if the son of a
bitch had only rented his own room."

    "I
remember."

    "The
reason he was killed— Sanabria thought the kid was talking to an informant.
Thought
he was. In truth, he wasn't, but that didn't matter to Sanabria.
When Joseph Lamarca's body was found, seven of his fingers were broken.
Smashed. Bone showing."

    It
was quiet. He said, "That's what he did to someone he
thought
betrayed him, Perry. Then Joshua Cantrell. Then Ken Merriman. It all goes back
to the same place, every single one of those bodies goes back to the damned
motel room that he didn't rent. It's about atonement. You bet your ass I'm
looking for it, buddy. You better believe it."

    I
finished my beer, and we sat in silence for a while and watched the TV without
really seeing it. Then I ordered another beer and asked if he wanted a second
whiskey, and he shook his head. Most of his first was still in the glass.

    "I
got upset the last time I talked with you," he said eventually, voice
soft. "I thought you were being a bastard, to be honest. You said some
very cutting things."

    "I
was having a bad day."

    "That
doesn't matter. The things you said were cutting, but I know that's because
they were true. I screwed that situation up, Perry, I screwed it up
bad,
and a man died. A man was murdered, and I have that blood on my hands. Do you
understand that— His blood is on
my
hands."

    His
eyes were red, and his voice sounded thin.

    "I've
got to live with that," he said, "and all I can do, the only way I
know to cope with it, is by looking for atonement. Because while his blood
might be on my hands, I didn't kill him—and if I can see that whoever did kill
him is punished— Perry, that's the closest thing I've got to redemption."

    I'd
lost my taste for the beer now.

    "I
know Joshua Cantrell doesn't mean anything to you," he said, "but Ken
Merriman should. So think of him, and help me. Let's see it through."

    "What
Ken Merriman means to me," I said, "is that it's time for me to walk
away. What you're asking for, I just cannot do. I'm tired of being in the game.
Tired of having to spend my days immersed in some filthy, foolish crime, trying
to determine what son of a bitch killed a good man and dumped his body in a
park where children play. It's not for me anymore. I'm sorry."

    "I
understand that you're tired," he said, "but I'm trying to tell you
that you can't afford to be. Because there are too many people saying they're
tired. The whole world is tired now, the whole damn world doesn't have the
energy to set anything right. We want to wait on somebody else to do it, and
yeah, maybe we believe that it should be done, but we just don't have it in us to
try
anymore. We're a sideline species these days, Perry. We turn the news
on and see some tragedy or crisis and shake our heads and say, 'Boy, hope
somebody gets to that. It is just outrageous that nobody's addressed that one
yet.' Then we put on
American Idol
and go to bed."

    "You
watch
American Idol—"
I said.

    "Don't
be an asshole."

    It
was quiet then, and he waited a while, and eventually I said, "Dunbar,
good luck. Really and truly—good luck—but I'm out."

    His face
fell and he looked away from me. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out
a bill and dropped it on the table. He got to his feet and shook my hand
silently, and then he went to the door and stepped out into the wind, shoulders
hunched and head down and alone.

    I
couldn't sleep the night after Dunbar's visit. I'd worked out for two hours
that afternoon, then gone to the Hideaway and caught up with Scott Draper for a
few beers while we watched the Indians game. They were on a losing streak. I
knew the feeling.

    It
was midnight when I got back to my apartment, and I went right to bed, hoping
that the lingering effects of the alcohol would take care of the rest, put me
to sleep quickly. They didn't. Two hours passed, then three, then four. I
stared at the ceiling, wandered out to the couch, went back to bed, turned the
TV on, turned it off, tried to read, tried to control my breathing, tried damn
near everything I could think of and still couldn't find sleep.

    I
gave up around five, dressed in workout clothes, and went downstairs, thinking
I'd punish my body for refusing sleep by going for yet another run. Break its
will before it broke mine. By the time I got outside, though, I knew I didn't
have it in me. I stretched out in the parking lot in the dark, breathing in the
last cool air of night, another hot and humid day ready to replace it. If not a
run, maybe a drive. That seemed better. I could drive to Edgewater Park before
the traffic started, watch the sun rise over the lake and the city. I hadn't
done that in years. Or maybe go down to the West Side Market, hang around and
watch as the vendors arrived and set up their wares before the doors opened. I
used to do that when I was a patrol officer, come off a night shift and head
down to the market, a place that always felt like a step back in time.

    There
were plenty of possibilities, and they all sounded good. How I found myself in
Old Brooklyn, then, parked across the street from Parker Harrison's apartment
building, I really couldn't say.

    He
left the house just before six, exactly as he had the last time I'd seen him.
He walked out of the apartment, turned and locked the door carefully with his
key, then tested it once to be sure before he headed to his truck. It was a
Chevy S-10, at least fifteen years old, and for a second as he drove out of the
lot he was facing directly toward me. Then he made the turn and pulled away and
I started the Silverado and followed. I wanted to watch him. That was all.
Didn't want another confrontation, didn't want to say a word to him, just
wanted to watch him.

    He
drove to Riverside Cemetery, and I passed the entrance when he turned in,
knowing it was too early in the morning not to attract attention by following
him in. I gave it fifteen minutes, then circled back around and entered the
cemetery, which was one of the city's oldest and largest. It was a beautiful
place, really. More than a hundred acres of rolling green valley and flowering
trees and marble monuments and the dead. There were plenty of them at
Riverside.

    I drove
through the cemetery until I found Harrison's truck, parked in front of the
maintenance building, empty. I'd missed him. I drove back up to the chapel,
where I assumed my truck would be less noticeable, parked, and set out on foot.
It was a huge place, and it would take a while to find him. I had the time.

    I
left the road and walked through the grounds, my shoes soon soaked by the dew.
After a pass along the south side without any luck, I looped around and headed
toward the north, away from the maintenance building. I was not alone in the
cemetery. During the walk I saw two people beside graves, paying early-morning
respects. I thought that it had been a long time since I'd been to see my
mother and father's stones.

    I was
approaching the northeast bend of the road, ready to head west and walk back
toward the entrance, when I heard the buzz of a weed trimmer. A few minutes
later I found Harrison trimming the base of a monument, head bowed.

    For a
moment I just stood there, unsure of what to do. He was at work, and that's all
he'd be doing for the rest of the day. No need to watch him tend the grass and
weeds in a graveyard. If I really wanted to begin surveillance on him, I could
come back in the afternoon, wait for him to get off work, and see where he
went. That was what mattered, surely. This did not.

    I
couldn't leave, though. Now that I'd found him, I wanted to watch just a little
bit longer. Just a few minutes. I retreated across the grounds, looking for
someplace where I could sit unnoticed and keep an eye on him. Sitting was key.
I was suddenly feeling the groggy, mind-numbing weariness of an entirely
sleepless night.