The Silent Hour (17 page)

    "So
when I found out Lincoln had looked into the house, I asked him about it,"
Ken was saying. "Wanted to know who his client was, who had an interest in
the family."

    Harrison
looked over at me, no trace of emotion showing yet. "You provided that
information."

    I
nodded.

    "That's
not confidential—"

    "Usually."

    He
waited for more, but I didn't say anything. Finally he said, "Why wasn't
it in my case—"

    "You'd
already broken my trust, Harrison. I told you that. You sent me out there
asking questions like a fool, no idea the man was dead and his sister was
related to Dominic Sanabria. You know who showed up at my home the other day—
Sanabria. That's your doing, Harrison. You think I owed you confidentiality
after that bullshit—"

    I'd
put some heat into the words, but he didn't change expression or break eye
contact. Just listened, gave it a few seconds to make sure I was done, and then
turned back to Ken.

    "So
what do you want from me—"

    "A
job," Ken said.

    "A
job—"

    "Why
not— You wanted Lincoln to work for you, right— Well, he backed out. I won't. I
want to see this through, and I need someone to bankroll it,

    Mr.
Harrison. I'm not going to take any more money from the family, and they don't
have any to give me. They're not well off. They still want to know what
happened to their son, though, and supposedly so do you."

    "What
will you do—" Harrison asked. "No offense meant, but if you've had
twelve years at this…"

    I was
surprised by the flush that rose into Ken's cheeks. Either he was a hell of an
actor or that sort of remark got to him even when it came from the lead
suspect.

    "It
wasn't like I worked at it full-time for twelve years," he said, his voice
measured and tight. "When I got started there was no body, no evidence of
a crime. They just went away, that's all. Went away and didn't leave a trace.
Now there's a trace."

    "The
buried body," Harrison said. "That's your trace—"

    His
tone had changed when he said
the buried body,
dropped and chilled. Ken
hesitated, as if he'd heard it, too.

    "Sure,"
he said. "That's one hell of a trace, don't you think—"

    "The
body was found months ago. Has the trace helped you since then—"

    It
felt cold in the room now, and there was something in Harrison's eyes and the
set of his jaw that I didn't like. Ken was sitting forward on the couch, his
arms braced on his knees, and I was leaning back, out of his view. Ken shifted
his head slightly, as if he wanted to look at me, but then stopped, realizing
Harrison would see any exchange between us.

    "Well—"
Harrison said. "Has the trace helped you—"

    "Sure,"
Ken said.

    "In
what way—"

    Again
a pause, Ken unsure of himself now, and Harrison repeated his question.

    "In
what way—"

    "It's
given me some suspects."

    "Really—
Who—"

    "Salvatore
Bertoli," Ken said.

    This was
no longer going according to script—Graham had asked that we mention Bertoli,
not identify him as a suspect—but Harrison's reaction was worth the gamble.
He'd been unusually still, one of those rare people who can stand in front of
others without fidgeting or shifting, but now he stepped closer to Ken and took
the back of a chair in his hand and gripped it tight.

    "Why
do you say that—" he asked.

    This
time Ken did look at me, just one quick glance, and then he said, "You're
not my client yet, Mr. Harrison. I'm not going to disclose any of the work I've
done. You want to hire me, that would change."

    "I'll
write you a check tonight," Harrison said, "if you tell me why you
said Salvatore's name."

    "I've
got my reasons."

    "I
want to hear them."

    Ken
was in a corner now—he had no reasons for suspecting Bertoli, and no way to
avoid answering the question that wouldn't seem false. He was silent for a
minute, weighing his options, and I decided to speak for the first time since
he'd gotten started, just to divert the conversation if possible.

    "You
worked with him, Harrison," I said. "So you tell us—what did you
think of Salvatore—"

    He
frowned and shook his head, then pointed at Ken. "I'd like to know why you
think he's a suspect."

    "He
took a tumble off a warehouse roof the same time they disappeared," Ken
said. "I've got a feeling those events weren't coincidental."

    It
was a cop-out, and not enough to satisfy Harrison. He said, "That's all—
That's the only reason you called him a suspect—"

    "It's
the only one I'm prepared to share tonight. Now, if you want to write that
check…"

    "Is
he the only suspect—"

    "Everyone's
a—

    "That's
a silly cliché. Is he
your only suspect
—" Harrison was
leaning forward now, his weight against the back of the chair, cords of muscle
tight in his dark arms.

    "He's
a favorite," Ken said, still dancing, still evading. It wasn't working
well, though. The one thing I was becoming more and more certain about with
Harrison was that he could read people, and if Ken kept playing him there was a
damn good chance we'd expose too much and learn too little.

    Every
time Harrison looked at me I felt like he was following the wire with his eyes,
tracing its path as if my shirt were transparent.

    "He's
a favorite," Harrison echoed. "Well, who are the others—"

    "Mr.
Harrison, do you want me to work for you or not—" Ken said, and I was glad
he hadn't answered the question, that he seemed to want to bring this to an
end, probably sensing the same dangers I had.

    "There
are some people who would tell you that I was a suspect," Harrison said.

    Ken
didn't answer.

    "You
said you're from Pennsylvania—"

    "That's
right."

    "Have
you talked with Detective Graham—"

    Again
Ken was quiet.

    "Of
course you have," Harrison said. "That would be a formality. A
requirement. Who is his
favorite suspect—"

    "I'm
not working with him, or for him."

    "Are
you not—" Harrison said, and then he turned and looked at me, as if the
question applied to us both.

    "You
told me you didn't kill Cantrell," I said.

    "That's
right."

    "So
why are you worried, Harrison—"

    His
eyes seemed darker now than when we'd walked in. He said, "The evidence
can always be twisted, can't it, Lincoln—"

    "There
something specific on your mind when you say that—"

    Harrison
looked at me for a long time, and then he let go of the chair and stepped back
and turned to Ken. "I'll think about this."

    "Well,
I'd ask you to think fast," Ken said. "I'll leave a card, and if you
could decide by—"

    "When
I decide, I'll let Lincoln know. You keep your card."

    I
shook my head. "I'm out, Harrison. If you—"

    "No.
When I decide, I'll let you know. You brought him to me, Lincoln."

    His
eyes were hard on me, still searching, distrustful. I felt a tingle at my
collarbone, where the microphone rested, and I wanted to cover it with my
hands.

    Ken
got to his feet and offered a hand to Harrison, who shook it after a moment's
pause. I stood then, and we moved for the door together. Ken opened it, and I
followed him outside, then turned back to face Harrison before closing the
door.

    "Hey,
Harrison. One last question."

    He
waited.

    "Everybody
else came and went from the Cantrells' in six months. Everybody else worked
alone. Why were you there for a year, and why'd you stick when they hired
Bertoli—"

    He
stood in the doorway, framed by the lighted room behind him.

    "Because
she asked me to," he said eventually.

    "Alexandra—"

    A
nod.

    "Why—"

    He
stepped out of the apartment, reaching for the door, his hand passing close to
my face as he grasped the edge.

    "Because
she trusted me, and she was afraid."

    "Of
who— Bertoli— Her brother—"

    He
pulled away, and my hand fell from the knob as the door swung shut. A second
later the lock turned.

    It
was quiet in the truck as I drove away from Parker Harrison's apartment. A
disconcerted feeling hung in the air between us, and not just from Harrison's
final statement but from the way Ken had handled the interview. He was older than
me by several years, but it didn't feel that way, because he was so damn green.
Anytime I'd done an interview with Joe, I could afford to worry about my own
end of it, assured that Joe, with thirty years of experience and one hell of an
intellect, wasn't going to say anything that jeopardized us. Ken was a bright
guy, certainly, but he didn't have those thirty years of experience. Didn't
have one, even, not in the way that counted. Working divorce cases and
insurance fraud and accident reconstructions didn't prepare you for a homicide
investigation, didn't prepare you for a back-and-forth with someone like Parker
Harrison.

    It
wasn't just Ken's end of that exchange that left me ill at ease, though.
Harrison had taken a different tone than in either of my previous meetings with
him, somehow both more guarded and aggressive. He'd seemed… cunning. Like he
knew not to trust us from the moment we walked through his door, but he also
didn't want to throw us out. Wanted us there, instead, so he could find some
things out for himself. I remembered the way he'd looked at me when he asked if
we were working for Graham, and once again, even in the truck, miles from him,
I felt exposed.

    "You
think anything good was accomplished back there—" Ken said at length.

    "We
did what Graham asked of us."

    "I
don't think this was what he had in mind." Ken's voice was low, his face
turned away from me, to the window. "I screwed it up, didn't I—"

    "Tough
to say."

    He
shook his head. "No, it's not. You were sitting there, you know how it
went. He didn't believe a word I was saying."

    "Didn't
seem to believe much of it," I conceded, "but maybe we were reading
too much into it, too. That's how it goes on undercover stuff, you're more
sensitive than the target ninety percent of the time."

    "Maybe,"
Ken said, "but that's sure not how I wanted it to play. Doubt it's how
Graham wanted it to play, either."

    "No."

    He
was quiet for a while again, then said, "Maybe we could run a few days of
surveillance on him. Think that would help—"

    "We're
not going to do that without Graham signing off on it," I said, "and
my guess is he's not going to."

    "I
might suggest it anyhow."

    He
was playing back to his strengths, to what he knew—surveillance. The conversation
with Harrison had rattled him more than it had me, even, and that was a bad
sign. If he wanted to keep moving on an investigation of this magnitude, he was
going to need to come up with some confidence fast.

    "Lincoln—"
Ken said, and I realized I'd tuned him out, fallen away into my own thoughts.

    "Sorry,"
I said. "What was that last bit—"

    "Asking
if we have to sit around and wait for Harrison to contact us again, or if we
can move forward on this in some way. I was thinking if we pursued the Bertoli
angle, it'd match up with what we told Harrison."