The Silent Hour

16

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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.

“Dude can shred a guitar,” the kid behind the counter informed us from behind his protective layer of piercings. “I mean just melt the amp, really. But he won’t play with anybody else now. Only solo. Calls himself El Caballo Loco.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction, and then said, “It means the crazy horse. Badass, right?”

Badass, we agreed. Now where can we find him?

“He’s a stone carver, man. Works with a guy named Ben down on Forty-eighth. Does all sorts of cool shit. You should see some of the gravestones.”

“Gravestones?”

“Yeah, awesome, right? Like I said, he’s pretty badass.”

He didn’t have an address for the carving shop, but he gave us a close enough description. Ken and I didn’t speak until we were back in my truck.

“So he carves the gravestones,” Ken said, “and Harrison keeps them clean? That’s the idea? A pair of murderers making a living in the cemetery business?”

“Steady work,” I said. “They’re never going to run out of clients. Hell, they’ve helped produce some.”

The carving shop—Strawn Stoneworks—occupied the bottom floor of a three-story brick building near the old stockyard district. Nobody answered our knock, but there were lights on in the back, and the door was unlocked. We went in.

The front of the room was scattered with samples of carvings laid out on old wooden tables—a fireplace mantel, a small gargoyle, and a handful of headstones. There was a narrow corridor separating this room from the next, and at the opposite end fluorescent lights glowed and a steady tapping sound could be heard. Metal on stone.

I led the way down the hall, and we came out in a workshop that smelled of sweat and dust. There were pieces of stone on the floor and on heavy-duty steel shelves, and tools littered the rest of the space—grinders and hammers and racks of chisels, an air compressor with hoses draped around it. A man was working with his back to us, chipping away at a piece of marble with a hammer and chisel. I was just opening my mouth to speak when he turned and said, “The hell you think you’re doing?”

He was of average height, wiry in a hard way, with gray hair and a goatee. He wore an earring, and there were thin lines of sweat snaking down his forehead.

“Hey, sorry, there wasn’t anybody out front,” I said.

“Strawn left for a while. Said he was getting lunch, but he’s probably buying comic books. That’s what he does at lunch.” He wiped sweat away with the back of his hand. “Anyhow, he’s the owner; he’s the one you talk to. Not me. And nobody comes back into the workshop.”

“We’re not looking for Strawn,” I said. “We’re looking for Mark Ruzity.”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you—” I began, but then he cut me off.

“Maybe I wasn’t clear. Nobody comes into the workshop.” He cocked his head and stared us down, first me, then Ken. “Lot of tools back here. People wander in, they could get hurt.”

It didn’t feel like a public safety announcement.

“Mark,” I said, “wouldn’t it be easier to answer five minutes of questions?”

“Would be easiest to throw your asses out. Nobody—”

“Comes into the workshop. We get it. But if you throw us out now, we’ll just have to go back to your place on Denison and wait around. What’s the point?”

His eyes flickered and went dark when I said that. Didn’t like it that we knew where he lived.

“Okay,” he said. “I can tell you what I’ve told every other cop: I’m clean. Haven’t killed anyone in a while. If you’re asking about something that went down in the neighborhood, you’re asking the wrong man. I’m not involved, and I don’t drop dimes.”

“It’s not about the neighborhood,” Ken said. “It’s about Alexandra and Joshua Cantrell.”

Ruzity seemed to draw in air without taking a breath. Just absorbed it, sucked it right out of the dust-filled room until the walls felt tight around us. He didn’t speak, but he looked at Ken in a way that made me wish I were wearing a gun. There were pneumatic hammers on a table beside him, but he was using hand tools, a hammer in his right and a carbide chisel in his left. He turned the chisel in his fingers now. It looked natural in his hand. Familiar.

“I suspect the time has come,” he said, “for us to share some names. You already know mine. What are yours?”

We told him. Names and occupation. He kept rotating the chisel. It had a flared point, ridged with small, sharp teeth. Sweat had slipped behind his glasses and found his eyes, and he blinked it away without dropping his stare.

“Private investigators,” he said. “Then police didn’t send you. So who did? Dunbar?”

I could feel Ken’s who’s Dunbar? question on the way, could also feel the price of it if he let it escape his lips, and rushed out my own response first. “What’s your problem with Dunbar?”

Mark Ruzity switched his eyes to me. “My problem? The son of a bitch has spent twelve years harassing me and sending cops my way. You ask what my problem is?”

I shrugged, and he narrowed his gaze. “Dunbar does his own hassling, though. FBI guys don’t hire anybody else to do it for them. So who the hell you working for?”

“If you don’t mind,” Ken said, “maybe you could answer a question or two and then we will. You know, fair trade.”

“Fair trade?” He took a step closer and drew himself up to his full height, and the muscles in his forearms stood out tight around the chisel and the hammer. Then he paused, as if something had interrupted his forthcoming words, and frowned at Ken.

“Merriman,” he said. “That’s your name?”

“Yes.”

“You came around a long time ago,” he said. “Back at the start.”

“You wouldn’t agree to see me,” Ken said.

“No. And I won’t now. You were working for his parents.” His frown deepened. “What in the hell brings you back all these years later?”

“The case remains unsolved, Mark.”

“No shit. You been working it for the whole time?”

“No. I’m back because they found his body. It . . . stimulated my interest.”

Ruzity pulled his head back, stared down at Ken with his eyes thoughtful and his mouth open, as if Ken had just told him a riddle and Ruzity wanted to be damn sure he got the right answer.

“His body,” Ruzity said at length, “doesn’t mean shit to me. Okay? Unless you want me to carve his headstone, it doesn’t mean shit to me. It shouldn’t to you, either.”

“No? Like I said, the crime remains—”

“Unsolved,” he said. “Yeah, I got it. Maybe it’s better that way, too.”

“Think you can explain that remark?” I said, and he ignored me, still focused on Ken.

“His parents hired you again when the body turned up? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“No. I’m not working for them anymore.”

“Bullshit. Or, wait—give a shit. As in: I don’t. Who sent you here is irrelevant. What’s relevant is that you haul your asses out the door and go back to your clients and tell them to stay the hell away from Mark Ruzity.”

“Odd response,” I said, “coming from someone the Cantrells helped. I’d think you would care about seeing Joshua’s death and his wife’s disappearance resolved.”

His head swiveled to me, and I felt a cold tightness along my spine.

“You think you know something about what the Cantrells did for me?” he said. “You think you know a damn thing about that? Let me tell you what they did—showed me that I’m the sort of man who needs his space. Why? To keep from losing a temper that I don’t have real good control over. I’ve controlled it for a while now. Some years, in fact. But it’s a daily chore, and it only works when I keep my space, and other people keep theirs.”

He lifted the chisel, put the tip to my forehead, and then gave it a gentle tap with the hammer. The tiny teeth bit into my skin. Enough that I felt it, but not enough to draw blood. Ken shifted toward us, but Ruzity appeared unconcerned with him.

“Right now?” he said. “You’re in my space, brother.”

He’d lowered the hammer but was still holding the chisel against my forehead. Now he leaned close, so close that his goatee brushed my jaw, and spoke into my ear.

“You want to know what Alexandra Cantrell did for me?” he said. “She taught me how to keep myself from putting that chisel through your brain.”

He popped the chisel free, and I could feel the imprint of the teeth lingering in my skin.

“The door is where you left it,” he said. “Turn your asses around and find it again.”