The Silent Hour

17

__________

Rehabilitated?” Ken said as we walked to my truck. “Really?”

“Clean since the day he stepped out of prison, is what you said.”

“It’s the truth. But the man seems to have an edge, doesn’t he?”

“An edge,” I said. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

“He’s the only guy Harrison singled out, the only person he told us not to talk to. I wonder what he—”

“I’ll tell you what we need to be wondering about right now: Dunbar. That’s the name. You didn’t mention him to me before. Have you heard the name?”

“No.”

“Ruzity said he was FBI.”

“As far as I know, the FBI had nothing to do with the case.”

“They shouldn’t have,” I said, “but evidently they did.”

“Think we should track him down?”

“Until I hear otherwise from Graham, yeah. And guess what? Graham still hasn’t called.”

_________

John Dunbar had retired from the Bureau four years earlier, but fortunately for us he hadn’t left the Cleveland area. He was living in Sheffield Lake, a small town west of the city and directly on the shore of Lake Erie. I didn’t know the place well, but I’d been there several times, always to a bar called Risko’s Tavern. My father had been close with the guy who’d owned the place when I was a kid, and he used to make the drive out there on the weekend to sip a few beers, talk, and watch the water. Every now and then they’d have a clambake or a cookout outside, and he’d take me along. All I remembered of the place from those early visits was that they’d had a piranha tank inside and that my father always seemed to be in a hell of a good mood when he was there. The bar had changed hands since then, but I still stopped in occasionally to sit with a few drinks and some memories.

The waterfront property in the town had gone through a dramatic transformation in recent years, rich people buying up the old cottages that had lined the shore and tearing them down, building ostentatious temples of wealth in their place. When we got out there and I realized from the addresses that Dunbar’s property would be on the north side of Lake Road, right on the water, my first thought was one of suspicion—these places were going for several million, so how in the hell did a retired FBI agent afford one? Cop on the take?

Then we found his house and that suspicion faded. It was wedged between two brick behemoths but didn’t fit the mold. A simple home, white siding with blue trim, it had just enough room across the front for a door and two square windows on either side. To say the place was tiny didn’t do it justice—beside those sprawling homes, it looked like something made by Lionel.

What the house lacked in size, it made up for in location, though. The perfectly trimmed lawn ran all the way down to a stone retaining wall at the lakeshore’s edge, and beyond it the tossing, petulant gray water spread as far as you could see. There were some beautiful trees in the front yard, with flowers planted around their bases, but the backyard had been wisely kept free of visual obstructions, letting the lake stand out in all its power. The house was as well cared for as the lawn. When we pulled to a stop behind the carport—there was a Honda Civic parked inside—I could see that all the blue trim was fresh, and the roof looked new.

“Not much house, but I’d take the view,” I said.

“No kidding.” Ken popped open his door, nodding at the Civic. “We’re in luck, too. Looks like somebody’s home.”

We got out of the car and walked up a concrete path to the front door. There were iron railings beside the two steps up to the door, and those, too, were shiny with a fresh coat of black paint. I pulled open the storm door to knock, but the someone was already at the door, swinging it open.

“Can I help you?”

“Mr. Dunbar?”

“That’s right.” He was probably late sixties and seemed more like an engineer or a math teacher than a retired cop. Neatly parted gray hair, slight build, three mechanical pencils and one red pen tucked into the pocket of a starched white shirt that he wore with black suit pants but no jacket or tie, so that it looked like a waiter’s uniform.

“My name’s Lincoln Perry. I’m a PI from Cleveland. Used to be with the department out there.”

“Am I the target of your investigation or a potential source for it?” he said dryly, a hint of humor showing in the eyes.

“With any luck, a source.”

“Come on in.”

We walked inside, and I crossed through the cramped living room to stand at the back window and look out at the lake while Ken introduced himself. Everything in the house spoke of an exceeding level of care, but you could see the age in it, too—old-fashioned doorknobs and hinges, a Formica countertop in the little kitchen beside us.

“Hell of a location,” I said when Dunbar finished addressing Ken and they joined me in the living room.

His smile seemed bitter. “You have no idea how often I’ve heard that in the past few years.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. It is a great spot, but you’ve seen what’s going up around it. Last fall someone offered me three-quarters of a million for the property. You know what my parents paid for it?”

“Fifty?”

He smiled. “Thirty-eight. We lived in Cleveland, and my father wanted a place on the lake for summer, and back then there was nothing out here.”

“You ever consider selling it?” Ken asked. “Money talks, is the rumor.”

“Money screams in your ear. No, I haven’t and I won’t. I’m retired, I live simply, and I cannot imagine being any happier than I am right here.”

Retired, and he was wearing a starched shirt and dress pants in his own home. Yes, the more I saw of him, the more he reminded me of Joe.

“Besides, I enjoy my legend in the neighborhood,” he said. “Would you believe that the garage next door is more than a thousand square feet bigger than my entire house? The garage.”

He laughed and turned away from the window, then went and sat on an overstuffed blue armchair and waved at the matching couch across from it.

“All right, if you’re not here to buy the house, then what is it? One of you from Cleveland and the other from Pennsylvania, this has to be interesting.”

“I’m basically riding shotgun on this one,” I said. “It’s Ken’s case, but I’m helping out with the Ohio end of it. We’re trying to find out what happened to a man named Joshua Cantrell. I don’t know if that name means anything to you.”

Even before I got that last part out, it was clear that the name meant plenty to him. The easygoing look went tense and, maybe, a bit sad.

“Oh, my,” John Dunbar said. “That one.”

“Yes,” I said. “That one.”

He was quiet for a moment, looking at the coffee table. “When you say you want to know what happened to him, you mean why was he killed. You mean, of course, what transpired that led to the man’s body being buried in the woods.”

“Yep,” Ken said. “That’s the gist.”

“Well, you came to the right place,” Dunbar said, and when he looked up at us there was no mistaking it this time—his face held sorrow. “I can tell you who I believe murdered him, but I can’t prove it. What I can prove, though, is who got him killed. There is a difference. Would you like to know who got him killed?”

Ken shot me a quick glance, eyebrows raised, and nodded. “We sure would.”

John Dunbar lifted his hand and gave us a child’s wave, all from the wrist. “Right here,” he said. “I got him killed, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I might pour myself a drink before I tell you the story.”