The Silent Hour

22

__________

Ken wanted to ride out to Harrison’s house with me, but I didn’t like that idea. Harrison had requested a one-on-one meeting, for whatever reason, and I didn’t want to irritate him by leaving Ken sitting in my car in the parking lot. So instead I left him sitting at a bar, with Amy for a conversation partner.

“You’re not real good with the art of relationships,” she observed as I drove her to the Rocky River Brewing Company, a microbrewery that was one of Amy’s favorite drinking venues. “It’s not exactly standard for a guy to take his girlfriend to a bar and drop her off with orders to entertain another man.”

“I’m not telling you to sleep with him. Just buy him some drinks, maybe give him a shoulder rub.”

“Yeah, it’s a stunner that your fiancée ended up with another guy. A true puzzle.”

By the time we got there, Ken was already at the bar, halfway through a beer called the Lakeshore Electric. He stood up when we approached, and I made introductions, wishing like hell that I could just stay with the two of them instead of driving off for yet another strange conversation with Parker Harrison.

“I’ll head back this way when I’m done with our boy,” I said to Ken. “Until then, watch your ass around Amy. She’s a mean drinker.”

By the time I got to the door, I could already hear her apologizing for me. It’s not an uncommon occurrence.

Then it was back to Old Brooklyn, as the twilight settled in warm and still and with the wet touch of humidity that promised real summer. I kept the windows down and turned James McMurtry up loud on the stereo and thought that it would be a perfect night to sit in the outfield, watching one of those spring games that can’t help but be fun because it’s too early to feel much concern or disappointment over your team. Maybe if Harrison didn’t want too much of my time, we could do that. I knew Amy would be up for it, and what else did Ken have to do?

By the time I reached Harrison’s apartment, there was nothing left of the sun but a thin orange line on the horizon, the streetlights were on, and James McMurtry had just finished explaining why he was tired of walking and wanted to ride. I’d put the recorder and wire on before I left my apartment, and now I adjusted my collar and gave one quick look in the mirror to be sure the microphone wasn’t visible. It wasn’t. I got out and walked up to Harrison’s apartment, found the window dark. The door opened at my first knock, though, and Harrison stood in front of me with a dish towel in his hands, his forearms streaked with moisture. Behind him I could see a light on in the kitchen, the living room gloomy with nothing but the fading daylight.

“Lincoln. Come in.”

I stepped through the door, and he closed it behind me. Now I wanted a lamp on.

“You mind turning on a—”

“You both need to stop.”

“What?”

“You and Ken Merriman. Tell him to keep the money. Or you keep the money. Either way, I think you both need to stop. Send him home.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer but also didn’t look away.

“Harrison? What the hell is going on?”

He wet his lips. “Lincoln, do you remember what I told you at first? The reason I wanted to find Alexandra?”

“You wanted to be in touch with her.”

“No. Well, yes, that was part of it, but what I told you I wanted most was—”

“To know what happened. To know the story.”

He nodded. “It’s not worth it.”

“Not worth what?”

He shifted his weight and dropped his eyes for the first time, saw the towel in his hands, and used it to dry his arms.

“Harrison, damn it, tell me what the hell is going on.”

“It’s not worth the potential for harm,” he said.

“Harm to . . .”

“You, Ken Merriman, anyone else. Everyone else. At the end of the day, Lincoln, I think I made a mistake. She left because she wanted to leave, and if she hasn’t been back . . . well, I suppose she wants to stay where she is. Right? Unfound and unbothered. If that’s what Alexandra wants, then I won’t fight for something contrary to it.”

“I’m still not following this sudden worry about harm.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re following it. The last time we talked, you told me you didn’t want to work for me, so now I’m giving you good news—I don’t want you to work for me, either. Not you, or Merriman, or anybody else.”

What had changed his mind? Something we’d done that he knew about? Had he seen us with Graham or Mike London, somehow developed the idea that we were working with police? Or was it entirely different and unrelated to us?

“Harrison—”

“This isn’t a discussion. I appreciate your reconsideration, the way you brought an investigator to me, but I’m done.”

Now I was more aware of the recorder and the possibilities that were about to be terminated when Harrison threw me out. We’d gotten nothing from him. Not a word that would help the investigation.

“What do you know about the Cantrells?” I said, taking a step toward him even though there wasn’t much space between us. “About what happened to them?”

“What I know isn’t enough to matter.”

“Bullshit. I saw your eyes when we mentioned Bertoli’s name, Harrison. Why?”

“Lincoln, there’s nothing I can say.”

“According to the police, that’s always been your response. Nothing to say—but it’s a lie, Harrison, and you know it.”

“You’ve talked to the police about me? To Graham?”

I hesitated only briefly. “Of course I did. You’re a convicted killer, like it or not, and you wanted me to look into a murder case. Don’t you think that raised some questions in my head?”

He stood where he was and looked into my eyes as if he were taking inventory, and then he reached out with a quick and sure motion and grasped the edge of my shirt collar, and tugged it back, tearing the first button loose. As he did that, he ran his other hand down my spine, checking for a wire. I tried to counter, shoving his hand away and stepping back, but it was too late. His eyes had found the thin black wire, standing out stark against my white skin.

“Whose idea?” he said. “Yours or Graham’s?”

“Mine.” I took a few steps back, feeling exposed now, vulnerable. He hadn’t moved again, but as I stood there in the dark living room facing him I found myself wishing I had my gun. I hadn’t brought it in because Harrison hadn’t seemed the least bit threatening in our previous meetings. Now his stance and his face made the Glock noticeably absent.

“Leave, Lincoln,” he said. “Leave, and let it go. Don’t let anybody else keep you involved. Not Graham, not Merriman, not anybody.”

I waited for a moment, staring back at a face that looked to be caught between fear and anger, and then I went for the door. Harrison didn’t move as I opened it and stepped out.

I stood on the welcome mat in front of his apartment and blew out a trapped breath and looked down at my shirt, the microphone dangling bare and obvious. I took it off and untucked my shirt and slid the whole contraption out and kept it in my hand as I walked to my truck. When I started the engine, the headlights came on automatically, shining directly into Harrison’s windows. The glass reflected an image of my truck back at me, but beyond that I could see the shadows of Harrison’s apartment, and his silhouette standing directly in the middle of the room, watching me. He was holding a phone to his ear.