The Silent Hour

39

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Bertoli used a stolen plate, but it was his own vehicle, an Impala with a custom paint job and chrome rims featuring cutouts in the shape of diamonds.

“Son of a bitch,” I said, and then, without bothering to say a word to Joe’s questioning glance, I pounded the redial button on the phone and got Mike London back on the line. He sounded weary when he realized it was me.

“One last question,” I said. “The car you saw that night, it was an Olds Cutlass, not an Impala, right?”

“Right.”

“You said it had custom features on it, though”

“Yeah, all that shit like in a rap video.”

“This is a long shot, but do you remember the rims?”

“The rims?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they were spinners. You know, the kind that rotate when the engine’s on?”

“Right. You remember whether there were diamond etchings in them? Cutouts in the shape of diamonds?”

Silence while he thought, then, “Yeah, maybe. Maybe there were. I’m not sure, but I think that sounds right.”

“All right, Mike. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

I hung up with him again, and then I stood and brought the Bertoli report over to Joe’s desk and dropped it down, waited while he read it.

“You’re thinking that he got his car worked on down there?”

“Yes.”

“Makes sense. Of course, we already know Sanabria’s guys and Neloms had an association.”

“Uh-huh, but read that arrest report again—who was in the vehicle with Bertoli the night he stole the heroin?”

“Unidentified juvenile.”

“Right. Name redacted from Ken’s report, because what Ken could access was public record, and the passenger was a minor. There’s an original police report with that kid’s name. I want it.”

“I’ll call.”

Unlike me, he wouldn’t use the speakerphone. I heard him say what he wanted and was sure he’d be told to wait for a call back. That’s what it would have taken had I called—and if I didn’t pick the right person to lean on for the favor, the wait might have extended into the next day. Instead, Joe was on hold for what seemed like all of thirty seconds. He murmured a soft thank-you into the phone, scribbled a name onto his notepad, and then hung up and held the pad a few inches from my face.

Alvin Neloms, black juvenile, sixteen years old.

“A son, probably,” I said. “Darius has a son.”

“Check on it.”

I went back to my computer and ran a database search on Alvin Neloms and pulled up a family history. His father was listed as unknown. His mother had kept her own name, it seemed. According to the family chart the database offered, Darius Neloms was the boy’s uncle, not his father. He was from East Cleveland, was now twenty-nine years old, and had been arrested just one time as an adult, for drug possession, charge dismissed. These were all things Ken could have found in a few minutes of research after he made the connection between the cars.

“You know anybody with East Cleveland PD?” I asked.

“Tony Mitchell did some task force stuff with them.”

“Ask about this kid, would you? I want to know more before we talk to him.”

“We’re going to talk to him?”

“Bet your ass, Joseph. We’re getting there. Getting somewhere.”

So Joe got back on the phone and asked for Tony, and they exchanged cursory greetings while I waited impatiently.

“Use the damn speaker, Joe.”

He ignored me, then told Tony he was calling to ask if the name Alvin Neloms meant anything to him. He listened for a while with no change of expression, then said, “Could you repeat that, please?” This time he finally hit the speakerphone button.

“I said Cash is the worst they’ve got,” Tony said. “One of them, at least. And down there? When I say he’s one of the worst, you know what I’m talking about.”

“Cash?” Joe said.

“That’s what he goes by, yeah. Comes from an old playground basketball nickname, everybody called him ‘Cash Money’ when he was a kid because he had a jump shot that just did not miss. In another neighborhood, another school, that kid plays college ball and goes to the league. No question. I’ve seen him play plenty. We had surveillance details on Cash for years, and even while waiting to bust his ass, I was impressed by his game. He played it like he loved it, you know? Then he’d go off and kill someone. It’s sad, is what it is.”

“What exactly is his story?” Joe said.

“Drugs and blood. He’s top of the food chain out there now. Nobody moves a damn dime bag through East Cleveland that he doesn’t know about.”

“He’s only been arrested one time? Charge dismissed?”

“The boy is good, got it? Runs a couple dozen gangbangers and pushers who take his falls for him and isn’t a one of them says a word, because if they do, they just dug a grave that fits them nice and tight. Cash runs shit organized, runs it like the damn Mafia.”

Joe cocked his head and looked at me. I didn’t say anything, didn’t respond.

“Unofficial body count credited to Cash Neloms?” Tony said. “Twenty. Maybe twenty-five.”

My chest muscles suddenly felt cold and constricted.

“You ever heard of him actually having mob ties?” Joe said.

“Nope. It’s all his show, Pritchard. His organization. And that shitty side of town drips with his blood.”

“Supposing we wanted to talk to him—” Joe began.

“Talk to Cash? On what?”

“Cold case investigation. Twelve years old.”

“Twelve years old? Twelve? Sweet mother, Pritchard, I’ll tell you this one time and make it clear as I can—this ain’t a man you talk to. Not a PI. I know you were police for a long time, but you’re a civilian now, and that’s a distinction that means something to Cash. Understand? You walk in that neighborhood asking questions about Cash Neloms, you better be wearing a damn vest and carrying with your finger on the trigger.”

“I’m advised,” Joe said. “Thanks, Tony.”

He disconnected, blew out a breath, and said, “Where are we going, Lincoln? Where in the hell are we going?”

I didn’t know. I stood in silence for a minute, trying to think, but there were too many pieces and too many ways they could fit, and I could not see the whole for the sum of its parts, couldn’t even get close. Eventually I picked up the phone and held it in my hand, thinking of Quinn Graham. I didn’t call, though. I hung up before the dial tone switched over to that rapid off-the-hook beep, and then I lifted the receiver again and called John Dunbar. I used the home number, and he answered.

“Hey,” I said, “it’s Lincoln Perry. You remember me?”

“You got something?” he said, and it was incredible how much anticipation was in his voice, how much hope.

“Yeah,” I said, “I got a question. You have access to phone records from the Cantrell house in the last few months they were there?”

“I’ve got the actual records. I told you, I kept everything. There’s nothing there. I’ve been over those—”

“Do me a favor,” I said, “and go find them. Check and see if there was a call to a guy named Alvin Neloms. Or maybe it was to an auto body shop on the east side. Look for either.”

He set the phone down and disappeared. It was maybe five minutes before he came back, and his voice was lower.

“There were three calls to a place called Classic Auto Body, on Eddy Road.”

“Were they all during Bertoli’s stay?” I said. “The last weeks anyone was in that house?”

“Yes.”

“Hang around, Dunbar,” I said. “I’m headed your way.”

I disconnected then and turned to look at Joe.

“The problem with this job,” I said, “is that the guesswork always comes before the facts. I’m pretty sure that system put Ken in his grave.”