The Silent Hour

26

__________

I went to the office, walked upstairs, and logged on to the computer. For a moment I stared at the phone, thinking of calling Amy. The last time I’d talked to her had been after the police released me and before I’d gone to Mill Stream Run to see the place where Ken’s body had been found. She’d been awake then, and I had a feeling she’d be awake now.

I also knew what she’d tell me. She’d tell me to go home, tell me to wait on the police, tell me to do anything but drive out to see Dominic Sanabria. I left the phone untouched while I ran a database search for his address.

A few minutes later, back in my truck with a printed-out map of Sanabria’s neighborhood in Shaker Heights beside me, I reached over to the glove compartment, opened it, and took out my gun. It felt good in my hand. Too good. I sat there for a while, caressing the stock with my thumb, and pleasure spread through me and filled my brain and circled around my heart. When I put the gun back, I made sure I locked the glove compartment. Wouldn’t want the wrong person getting in there. The sort of person who would use a weapon without need, who’d pull the trigger for reasons of rage and vengeance rather than self-defense. No, I didn’t want anybody like that getting ahold of my gun.

It was a slow drive out to Shaker Heights, fighting the build of rush-hour traffic. The house turned out to be in a gated community, which gave me a few seconds of pause, sitting just outside the main drive with my truck idling while I wondered how to get through. I decided it was always a better bet to try the straightforward approach first, so I pulled up to the gate and put my window down and told the kid in the security uniform that I was here to see Dominic Sanabria. I doubted Sanabria had many house calls at eight in the morning, but you never know.

The kid nodded at my request, asked for my name, and then waved me ahead, but he was looking at me strangely as he put the gate up. I kept my eyes in the mirror as I pulled forward and saw that he reached for the phone even before the gate was down. Standard procedure, or was this something he’d worked out with Sanabria, always to call if somebody showed up? Most of the gated communities I’d been through wouldn’t let you pass until it had been cleared by the resident. I’d expected him to call before he let me through, not after.

That curiosity stayed with me as I followed the curving road to the right, past dozens of ostentatious homes that all looked generally alike. A few people were out on the sidewalks, walking small dogs that yipped hysterically at my truck. Sprinklers hissed here and there in the perfect lawns, and every car I saw was high-end, lots of Lexus and Mercedes SUVs, one Jaguar sedan. It was a place where most people went off to work each day in law firms or brokerage houses, maybe showing commercial real estate. Sanabria was probably their favorite neighbor. Nothing made better conversation at a cocktail party than saying you had a mob player living in your gated community.

According to my map, Sanabria’s house was four right turns—or right curves, really—from the gatehouse, and I made it through all of them before I finally understood why the kid had waved me in and then picked up the phone. The police were waiting.

There was a single cruiser parked on the street across from Sanabria’s house, and even before I slowed my truck they hit the lights without turning the siren on. Yeah, they had a description of my vehicle.

I brought my truck to a stop facing the cruiser, and both doors opened and two police in uniform got out. The one behind the wheel was a woman, tall, close to six feet, and her partner was a young guy with a ruddy, freckled face. He hung back while she approached, and when I started to put the window down she shook her head and motioned with her hand.

“Step out, please.”

I took a deep breath, put the truck in park, and got out, giving the cruiser another look as I did. Shaker Heights Police Department. All right, they hadn’t come here from Harrison’s. They’d been sent to wait for me.

“There’s no problem,” I said as I got out. “I just came here to talk to him.”

The cop smiled. She was young, couldn’t be thirty yet, but she had cool, no-bullshit eyes.

“I’m sure that’s the case,” she said, “but we got a call from Cleveland city, said they didn’t want you talking to him, Mr. Perry. Said they want to talk to you, and then they’ll talk to him.”

“I’ve got every right to knock on the man’s door.”

She shook her head. “I’m going to have to bring you in to talk to city, Mr. Perry. They have a complaint. Woman says you assaulted her neighbor.”

“I didn’t assault anyone.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Still, like I said, they have the complaint.”

“They sent you out here?”

“That’s right. They said you threatened Mr. Sanabria.”

I started to object again, started to say I’d never threatened anyone, but the energy went out of me then, and I sighed and nodded.

“Call them,” I said. “Tell them I’ll come in to talk. You don’t need to take me.”

She frowned. “I was asked—”

“To arrest me, or to keep me from bothering Sanabria? Doesn’t look like you’re arresting me.”

“No.”

“Then tell them I’ll come in. Tell them I’m cooperative and I’ll come in.”

She studied me for a moment, then shot her partner a glance and nodded. “Okay. Do me a favor and go wait in your truck. Let me see what they say.”

I turned back to my truck, and my eyes passed over it and went up to the house, and I saw for the first time that Dominic Sanabria was standing in front of the door. He hadn’t been there when I pulled up, must have come outside when he saw the police lights go on, but now he was standing on his front step wearing workout pants and a fleece jacket, holding a cup of coffee in his hand. I stopped short when I saw him, and when he realized he had my attention he lifted the cup of coffee at me and nodded his head. A neighborly greeting. I was too far away to see if he was smiling, but I imagined he was.

“Mr. Perry?” There was a warning in the female cop’s voice, and when I looked at her I saw that she was watching Sanabria, too. “Get in the vehicle, please.”

For a moment I didn’t move, and then she spoke in a gentler tone. “I know who he is, Mr. Perry. I don’t know the details of your situation, but I know who he is. All the same, though, I need you to get in the vehicle.”

I nodded without speaking, and I got into the truck, and while I waited on her to come back I did not let myself look at Sanabria. Or at my glove compartment.