Lincoln Perry 02 - Sorrow's Anthem (8 page)

possible. It would be foolish to assume his old bitterness had been
washed clean in twenty-four hours.
“He hung around with a guy named Corbett a lot,” Draper said,
thoughtful as he sipped his beer. “One of Jimmy’s guys.”
I looked at Cancerno, who nodded. His glass was empty and
he’d been looking at his watch.
“Mitch Corbett,” he said. “He was Gradduk’s boss on the work
sites. An old-timer. Mitch is a good guy. Between his opinion and
Scott’s, I actually felt good enough about hiring that son of a bitch
Gradduk that I gave him a raise.”
I took a long drink, letting the cold beer soothe the anger that
had risen with Cancerno’s words, then said, “Would Corbett know
if Ed had a reason to be in that house the day it burned?”
Cancerno nodded. “Probably. If he’d had a legitimate reason,
Mitch would’ve given it to him.”
“I’d like to talk to him, then.”
“To who? Mitch?”
“Yes.”
Cancerno smiled humorlessly. “Me, too, kid.”
I frowned at him, not getting it.
“Corbett hasn’t shown up for work in two days. And the son of
a bitch won’t answer his phone, either.” Cancerno got to his feet.
“Do me a favor, right? You talk to Corbett, you tell him he better
give me a call within the next forty-eight hours if he wants to keep
his job. I don’t have the patience for his shit on top of this deal
with Gradduk.”
Cancerno said something to Draper before he walked toward
the door, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was thinking about
Mitch Corbett with a sense of unease. His boss had delivered the
news of his absence casually enough, as if Corbett had been
known to miss a few days of work before. I didn’t like it, though. It
came too close to everything with Ed.
With Cancerno gone, Draper turned to me. “Sorry about that.
He came down here just ahead of you, wanted to see what I knew
about Ed. He’s pretty angry about it all, and blaming me because I
was the guy who sent Ed to him in the first place.”
“This guy Corbett,” I said, “you think he was pretty tight with
Ed? Might know something about whatever Ed got himself
into?”
Draper shrugged. “Better chance Corbett will know something
than anyone else I can think of.”
“And you don’t think it’s strange the guy’s missing?”
“A little early to say he’s missing, Lincoln. Dude blew off work,
is all.”
I nodded, but by now I was convinced I wanted to look for
Mitch Corbett. When I got up, Draper followed me to the door. “I
appreciate you coming down here,” he said. “I felt bad about the
way things happened out there. We were all friends, once.”
“Yes, we were.” Draper had never been as close to me as he was
to Ed, but we’d spent enough time around each other growing up.
I stepped onto the sidewalk and leaned back, looking up at the old
brick building.
“You going to keep the place going, Scott? It’s the last of the old
neighborhood bars.”
He leaned against the doorframe. “Hell, yeah, I’ll keep it going.
It’s all that’s left of what this neighborhood used to be—a bunch
of Poles and Czechs who worked hard and drank harder. Three
generations in my family, I’m not going to let it go under that
easy.” He gazed up the street. “Clark’s changed, man. Changes
more every year. The Hideaway stays the same.”
A flier stuck to the old wooden door read:
SEE
FOUR
ON
THE
Porch live all summer.
I pointed at it. “What’s Four on the Porch?”
'A band with one good-looking black girl who can sing and
three drunk white guys with no apparent talents,” Draper said.
'They’re fun, though.”
“So even the Hideaway’s not staying entirely the same. Live music
is new.”
Draper gazed at the poster. “Yeah, it is. I’ve got to find some way
to make money, though. Not enough of the old crowd left. Have to
bring people in somehow.” He shifted his eyes to me. “And I guess
you’re doing okay, with both of your businesses going. The gym
and the detective thing.”
“I’m still afloat. That’s all I can ask for. How’d you know about
the gym?”
He stopped looking down the street and met my eyes. “Ed told
me. He kept tabs on you, as they say. Didn’t talk to you, maybe, but
he knew your score.”
I gave that half a nod. “I had that feeling.”

My father’s funeral is on a Tuesday, and it rains. I have the week off
for bereavement leave, but I’ve already decided to go back to work on
Wednesday. Better to keep my mind occupied. 'The turnout is small,
maybe because of the weather, or maybe because my father had been a
fairly quiet man who’d kept to himself. My sister; Jennifer, is there, as
is my father’s sister, his only sibling. Since flying in from New Jersey,
she has spent most of her time telling me how proud of me my father
was, how many times he called her and told her of this pride. I appreciate
her— effort, but it bothers me slightly, because I know she is not being
honest. My father-was proud of me I know this. He would not talk
of his pride, however’—not to my aunt, to me, or to anyone else. It was
not his nature. My successes are my own, and “while he enjoys them, I
know he wouldn’t speak of his pride in them. 'The quality I most
respected—and envied—of the man was his humility.
We stand huddled together near the casket, staying close because it is
hard to hear the voice of the minister over’ the rain pounding on the
umbrellas. I don’t have one, and I’ve declined offers. After five minutes
of it I am thoroughly soaked, my suit saturated, my hair plastered
against my skull. I like the smell of the rain on the earth they 'we dug up
to make room for my father’s bones. It is a fresh smell, one with some
promise to it, and while it seems misplaced in this setting, I am grateful
for it.
“Dear family and friends, please accept my sincere sympathy in
your grief over the passing of Thomas Perry,” the minister says, struggling
to make his voice heard. He is an older man. and he looks frail
and ill. I wonder what it feels like to make a business of funeral
speeches when you’re in such condition.
“Thomas was a devout man, one who knew his maker well during
his time on earth, and I am sure Thomas knows Him even better today, “ he continues. “We are aggrieved that we shall not see him again
in his earthly being, except through the eye of memory. 'Today that memory
brings sadness, because the pain of loss is so near: But I promise
you that sadness will give way to the pleasant remembrance of him as
he was in the fullness of his life, and someday, hopefully soon, the memories
will bring a loving smile in place of an aching soul.”
While he speaks, my eyes wander. I do not wish to stare endlessly at
the casket, and I cannot keep my eyes on the ground, as everyone else is
doing. As I scan the cemetery, I become aware of a figure under a tree
on a hill some fifty yards from us. He is the only person other than me
who does not have an umbrella, but he stands tall, oblivious of the
rain pounding at him. Surely, he cannot hear a word of what is being
said, but he stands there anyhow, removed from the group, but present.
He is a young man, average in height and build, and there is a familiar
quality to him. I look closer, and he lifts his own face and meets my
gaze. It is Ed Gradduk.
Four years have passed since I last spoke to Ed, and then it was in
an interrogation room, him giving me cold eyes while I told him I
couldn’t buy any more time—either he talked or went to jail. He went
to jail. Stayed three years.
I stare in his direction for a while, then look back at the minister,
who is concluding what he had promised would be a brief message. He

said it would be brief because that was the unassuming nature of my
father;
“With sure and certain hope, I commend Thomas Perry s soul to the
merry of God, his creator: May he enjoy forever the company of God together
with his loved ones who preceded him in death,” he says, and I
think of my mother and smile for the first time in several days.
“In your loving kindness, please keep Thomas in your memory, as
he kept you in his heart during his time with you,” the minister concludes.
We file up to the casket then, one at a time, and drop a flower on
its rain-soaked surface. I go last, and when I have laid the carnation
on the casket, I turn my eyes back to the hill in time to see Ed Gradduk
disappear over it, walking away without a word.
I call him that night and leave a message. He doesn’t call back. The
next day I return to work.

CHAPTER
8

“But you say his boss didn’t seem particularly concerned,” Joe said.
I shook my head. “No.” I was back in the office, filling Joe in on
my conversation with Draper and explaining my interest in locating
Mitch Corbett.
“So maybe he’s a guy who’s been known to sleep or drink
through a few workdays in the past.”
“Maybe,” I admitted.
Joe sat behind his desk with his feet propped up on the edge of
it. “And maybe there’s more to it.”
“Either way,” I said, “I’d like to know where he is, because I’d like
to talk to him.”
Joe nodded and swung his feet down from the desk, pulled his
chair closer to the computer, and clicked the mouse a few times, opening up one of our locator databases, probably.
“I know you won’t want to hear it,” he said, “but learning that
Gradduk was working on that house doesn’t do anything to help
his case.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about? It gives him a legitimate
reason to be on the property the day the house burned.”
“Also gives him a reason to choose the house as a good place to
dump a body.”
I hadn’t considered that. He had a point, but I shook my head
anyhow.
“I’m convinced he didn’t burn that house, Joe. The tape would
have been worthless in court with that twenty-minute lapse
between the time he left and the time it went up in flames, and
there’s a reason for that—too much reasonable doubt.”
“So if he didn’t burn the place, why’d he run when the cops
came for him?”

“Panicked,” I said. “That’s my best guess.”
The printer began to hum and he pointed at it. “There’s an address
match for the only Mitchell Corbett I could find in this city.
Says here he is forty-five years old. Looks like he lives just off Fulton
Road.”
“That sounds right,” I said. “Same neighborhood as Ed and
Draper.” It felt as if I should include myself in that sentence, but
several years had passed since I could. It wasn’t just that I’d moved
out of the neighborhood, I also hadn’t so much as stopped by the
Hideaway for a drink or even walked the sidewalks.
Joe got to his feet. “All right. Let’s see what Mr. Corbett has to
say.

The house was a small, one-story structure tucked on the back of
a lot that was large for the neighborhood. Corbett had obviously used some of his trade skills on his home—a new carport and
fresh paint and trim made the tiny house look nicer than its larger
counterparts.
I parked in the driveway, which was empty.
“If the man’s home,” Joe said, “he’s home without a car.” The
street parking in front of the house was also vacant.
“Let’s take a look, anyhow,” I said.
We got out of the car and walked up to the front door. The
mailbox was an old-fashioned style that hung on the wall next to
the door, and as we approached, I could see the lid was held open
about two inches by the large stack of mail that had been jammed
in the small container.

“Nobody’s taken the mail in for days,” I said.
“Three newspapers on the ground.” Joe pointed at the rolled-up
papers that lay in front of the door.
I pulled the storm door open and rapped on the wooden front
door with my knuckles. The sound was loud and hollow. I let the
storm door swing shut and stepped back. We waited. Nobody
came to the door, and no sound came from inside.
“There’s definitely no one home,” Joe said. He was gazing up the
street.
“Let’s walk around back.”
We went to the right and stepped out of the sun and into the
shade of the carport as we moved toward the backyard. Joe
stopped and put his hand on my arm.
“Check out the side door.”
A door led into the house from the carport, and this one didn’t
have a storm door protecting it. It was closed and looked solid
enough to me. For a moment I couldn’t tell what had attracted Joe’s
interest. Then I saw the heavy black scuff beside the knob.
“Looks like somebody kicked it,” he said, stepping closer. He
bent beside the door and ran his fingers along the frame, then
twisted the knob and pushed inward. The door was locked, but it
gave a little and there was the sound of cracking wood. Joe grunted with approval and pointed.
When I leaned in beside him, I saw a split in the doorframe. It
was yielding a bit to Joe’s pressure. A few jagged splinters still
protruded from the frame, indicating the damage was recent.
There was no dead bolt on the door, just a simple but fairly new
spring lock.
“Whoever kicked this door open assumed it’d be easy because
there wasn’t a dead bolt,” Joe said, releasing the knob. “The lock
was stronger than they thought, though. They kicked it harder, and
it opened, but it split the frame.”
“Kick it open,” I said. I was suddenly sure we would find Mitch
Corbett inside, but in no condition to talk.
Joe frowned. “Are you crazy?”
I answered by lifting my own foot and driving my heel into the
center of the door. The crack in the frame widened with a tearing
sound and the door swung open. It hit the wall and bounced back
toward us. Joe put out his palm to stop it from swinging shut. He
stared at me.
“This is not the way I like to do things, Lincoln.”
“Sorry, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
I stepped past him and into the house. The side door led into a
small kitchen that smelled of lemon Pledge. It was clean and tidy,
no dishes stacked on the counter, no bag of chips open on the
table. No body on the floor.
Joe had stepped into the house behind me, his complaints ceasing
for the moment. Together we moved out of the kitchen and
into the adjacent living room. A few issues of Sports Illustrated were on the coffee table, and an empty beer can was on the floor
beside the couch. I picked the can up and studied its top. It was
bone-dry, the contents not recently consumed.
I replaced the can as Joe walked past me, down the narrow hall
that led out of this room. I trailed. He opened a closed door and
stepped into what turned out to be a laundry room. There was
nothing inside but a washer-dryer combination, water heater, a few
mops and brooms, and a cat’s litter box. We moved out of that
room and continued down the hall, past an empty bathroom and
on to another closed door on the right. Joe and I hadn’t spoken
since entering the house, and now he opened this door without a
word and held it while I walked into a small spare bedroom furnished
with a ragged couch and a thrift-shop-quality desk. We left
that room and went on to the last room in the little house, this
door closed, too.
This was the main bedroom, and it, too, held nothing other
than the expected. A small desk was in the corner of the room, and
I pulled a few of the drawers open, but found nothing more interesting
than a videotape for the continuing-education programs at
Cuyahoga Community College.
“Satisfied?” Joe said. “No corpses, no signed confessions of setting
up Ed Gradduk.”
“Also no Mitch Corbett,” I said. “And somebody broke into this
house not long ago.”
“Could have been him, Lincoln. Have you ever locked yourself
out of your apartment?”
“It wasn’t him. And you don’t think so, either.”
“I want to get out of this house,” he said. “Your door-kicking approach
to investigation leaves something to be desired.”
We walked back out the way we’d come in and closed the carport
door behind us. It still locked, but even a slight bit of pressure
would pop it open now. Good thing the owner was a
carpenter.