The Silent Hour

28

__________

We left two days later, took a direct flight from Cleveland to Tampa and then rented a car. Even in the airport parking garage, among the shadows of cold concrete, you could feel the intensity of the Florida summer heat, opening your pores and baking into your bones. I put our bags in the trunk of the convertible Amy had insisted we rent—if I’m going to sweat, I might as well get tan—and then tossed the keys to her. I didn’t want to drive. Felt more like riding.

We took I-275 south out of Tampa and drove over the Howard Frankland bridge toward St. Petersburg. A few miles past the bridge, I pointed at a sign indicating “gulf beaches,” and Amy turned off the interstate. Joe was staying in a place called Indian Rocks, one of the hotel-and-condo communities that lined the beach from Clearwater to St. Pete. The last time I’d been on the gulf side of Florida, I was nineteen and on a spring break trip. We’d been much farther south then, too, so none of this was familiar to me. I could understand why Joe had enjoyed it during the winter, but now, with the unrelenting sun and humidity that you felt deep in your chest, enveloping your lungs, his motivation for staying seemed a little less clear. This Gena must be one hell of a woman.

We hit a stoplight just outside of Indian Rocks and watched an obese man with no shirt and blistered red skin walk in front of the car, shouting obscenities into a cell phone and carrying a bright blue drink in a plastic cup. Amy turned to me, her amusement clear despite the sunglasses that shielded her eyes, and said, “Think Joe’s turned into one of those?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Joe had told me to call when we got to the little town, so now I took out my cell phone and called, and he provided directions to the condo that had been his home for the past six months. We drove slowly, searching for the place, a different collection of oceanfront granite and glass everywhere you looked. When I finally saw the sign for Joe’s building, I laughed. Trust him to find this one.

Squatting beneath two of the more extravagant hotels on the beach was a two-story L-shaped building that looked as if it had been built in the late 1950s and tuned up maybe once since then—perhaps after a hurricane. The old-fashioned sign out front boasted of shuffleboard and a weekly potluck.

“Oh, no,” Amy said. “It’s worse than I thought.”

We pulled into the parking lot and got out and stretched, and then Joe appeared, walking toward us with an easier stride than I’d seen from him in a long time, some of his old athlete’s grace coming back.

“Trust LP to wait until it hits ninety-five before he brings you down,” he said, going first to Amy, who hugged him hard. He looked good. Some of his weight was back, and the pallor he’d had when he left Cleveland in December was gone, replaced by a tan that made his gray hair seem almost white. He stepped away from Amy and put out his hand, and I liked the strength I felt in his grip, the steady look in his eyes. It was a far cry from the way he’d looked when he left. These months had been good to him.

He let go of my hand but continued to search my eyes. We’d had a few talks since Ken had been killed, but nothing at length. I’m not a big fan of phone conversations.

“Please tell me you don’t play shuffleboard,” Amy said.

“No. The place is better than it looks, really.”

“What’s the median age of the occupants?”

“There are some kids. One guy just retired from Visa, can’t be more than sixty.”

He led us out of the parking lot and around the building, past a sparkling pool with nobody in the water and up the steps to a corner room with a view of the ocean. Now that we were out of the car, the heat was staggering. Even down here on the water the humidity settled on you like lead. There were maybe fifteen steps going up to the second floor, and I felt each one of them the way I’d feel an entire flight of stairs back home. I’ve never been so happy to hear the grinding of an air conditioner as I was when Joe unlocked the door and let us in.

His room was larger than I would’ve expected, and bright, with all that sun bouncing in off the water, palm trees rustling just outside. Not a bad place to spend a winter. Also, tucked inside here next to the AC unit, probably not a terrible place to spend the summer. Just don’t open that door.

We spent the afternoon in or around his hotel, talking and laughing and generally doing a fine job of pretending this visit was a carefree vacation. He wasn’t fooled, though, but he waited, and so did I. We’d get our chance to talk soon enough, but we needed to be alone for it.

In midafternoon I left them in the room and wandered outside and down to the beach and the blistering heat and called the office to check my messages. Nothing new from Graham or Harrison or anyone else. I had an old saved message, though. I couldn’t stop myself from playing it again.

Lincoln, I think we’ve got something. You got us there, we just needed to see it. Last night, I finally saw it. I’m telling you, man, I think you got us there. I’m going to check something out first, though. I don’t want to throw this at you and then have you explain what I’m missing, how crazy it is—but stay tuned. Stay tuned.

I played it three times, as if listening to it over and over would reveal something I had missed.

You got us there, we just needed to see it.

I’d gotten us nowhere. In the entire course of our investigation, we had interviewed a grand total of three people beyond Harrison: John Dunbar, Mark Ruzity, Mike London. What had he seen? What could he possibly have seen?

It didn’t matter. I told myself that with a silent vigor—it did not matter. I was out of it, and needed to stay out.