The Silent Hour (15 page)

    "Why
do you think it's the truth—"

    "Sometimes
you make decisions, Lincoln, that seem absolutely righteous at the time. Like
there is no other possible option, you know— None. Then the years tick by and
you see the way your decisions affected your family, and you wonder if it was a
selfish choice."

    He
didn't offer any more details, and I didn't ask any more questions. There was a
piano player in the corner of the room—seemed Sokolowski's always had a piano
player—and for a while we just sat and listened to him play "Night
Train" and didn't talk. When the song ended, Ken pushed the knife away.
There was a hard white line down the middle of his thumb.

    "All
right," he said. "You've heard me out, and that's more than I had any
right to ask, but I'll push it a bit more. I've been up-front with you, at the
risk of bruising my ego, and admitted that I've never worked a homicide case. I
know my way around an investigation, and I'm good at it, but I don't have the
experience or the knowledge on a homicide, and you do. You also have some local
credibility, which is going to be important. Those things are why I made the
drive. I can move forward on this without you, and I will if I have to, but I'd
rather have the help. So I'll ask you just once, with no pressure: Would you be
willing to back me up on this—"

    The
piano player was into something upbeat and jazzy now, the sun was coming in
warm through the windows behind him, and it had been many days since Dominic
Sanabria stood in my living room. Easy to feel good about things. This one also
felt like the sort of job that could get you into trouble, though, and
generally you take those only when they're high-paying or personal. I didn't
have that kind of excuse this time.

    "Graham's
assessment didn't exactly encourage me that this is something I want to be
involved in, not even in a backup capacity," I said.

    "You
think he's going to leave you alone now—"

    "I
can make him. Police can solicit informant help, Ken, but they can't force
it."

    He
shrugged.

    It
was quiet, and then he smiled, a cajoling, fraternal grin, and said, "Come
on, Lincoln. This is what you are."

    "Yeah,"
I said, but I couldn't match the smile. "It is."

    "So—"

    "Back
you up. That was what you said, and it's what I'll hold you to. It's your baby,
Ken, but I'll help you in whatever way I can, at least until it seems like
that'll get me killed."

    He
smiled. "Can you ask any more of a man than that—"

    Joe
didn't like it. That was hardly a stunner. He grumbled and grunted and offered
dire predictions and then told me I was an ass for not checking Ken's
background out before agreeing to help him. When I explained that I had, he
just grumbled and grunted some more.

    "You
had one of Ohio's last major mob figures standing in your apartment after one
afternoon of work on the case, LP. That wasn't a clear enough warning sign to
you—"

    "Warning
sign, sure. Stop sign, no."

    "I
knew there was a reason I always drive when I'm with you."

    "Well,
why don't you put that damn Taurus in gear and point it north, come back and
run the show again."

    "In
time," he said. "In time."

    Amy
was a bit more receptive. That, too, wasn't exactly surprising—Amy's curiosity
level can generally override her good judgment, a trait that Joe no longer
shares. Or never shared. As a kid, he probably did background checks on the
neighbors before trick-or-treating at their houses. Still, while Amy was at
least lukewarm to the idea, her normal enthusiasm was tempered, and I
understood that. It hadn't been so long ago that one of my cases invaded her
life in a horrifying way. We rarely spoke of it now, and her typical bravado
remained, but I'd also seen the pepper spray she'd added to her purse, and I'd
heard the new steel security bar fasten behind me each time I left her
apartment. Those were good things, maybe, the sort of precautions that would
have pleased me had I not known that I was the reason for them.

    "It's
a bizarre story, and I can see why you're intrigued, but I also understand what
Joe's telling you about the risks," she said as we sat on my roof that
night, after Ken Merriman left for Pittsburgh. We had the Indians game on the
radio and a bottle of pinot noir within reaching distance. I'd swept up the
broken glass from the previous night. Found plenty of dust on the roof, but
nothing as black as what had come from Parker Harrison's shattered bones, and
no silver coin. Reassuring.

    "I
understand that, too, Amy, but I only agreed to help the guy. Give him some
advice."

    "Lincoln
Perry, technical adviser—" She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that'll go
well."

    "What
are you saying—"

    "You
know, I'm sorry. The more I think about it, the better it sounds. Instead of
getting yourself arrested, like normal, you can get
him
arrested."

    "It's
not a long walk home to your apartment. I'd be happy to throw you down to the
sidewalk so you can get a faster start."

    "Ha,
ha." She stretched out in the chair, put her feet up. "I'm not saying
you should pass on this, Lincoln, but you can imagine what's going through my
head, too. Sanabria already came to your home once."

    The implication
was heavy, an unspoken reminder of a day when a man I'd angered had come to her
home instead of mine. It was a memory that chased me through my days, that
could bring me up short with a grimace of agony seemingly out of nowhere,
striking my heart like a sudden and unexpected muscle cramp. The possibilities
of what
might
have happened loomed even larger than the pain of what had
happened. I'd been in this business for far too long to keep such images at
bay; I knew what the world could do, knew the savagery and senselessness of it
all too well. It was this that had invaded my mind when Dominic Sanabria came
to my apartment, and now she was remembering the same incident and worrying
about me. I thought of him again, and of a body laid in a Shawnee grave in
Pennsylvania. I thought of those things, and I looked at Amy, and I felt
afraid.

    "What—"
she said. She was watching my face, and a frown had gathered on her own as she
studied me.

    "I
can stay out of it," I said. "I should. It's the right thing for
you."

    For
me—

    I
nodded.

    "That
can't be the issue, Lincoln. It needs to be the right thing for
you."

    "No,"
I said. "Not anymore. We're together, right— So we make decisions that are
the best for both of us. That's the whole point."

    She
shook her head. "I don't want to let myself be shoved around by fear,
Lincoln. It was hard for a while, after what happened. It still is, sometimes,
but I'm trying not to let that dictate my life. If you start doing the opposite,
you're going to scare me more. Can you understand that— I need support, not
protection. There's a difference."

    It
was quiet for a while, and then I said, "I'm sorry."

    "For—"

    "For
leading the sort of life that makes things like that go through your
head."

    "Hey,
my fault, right— Nobody forced me to date a detective."

    "You
got a profession you'd prefer— Something safer— Sexier—"

    She
cocked her head to the side. "Now, that's a good question. What would the
ideal profession for a romantic partner be— Hmm… do you have one—"

    "Reporter,
of course."

    "Coward.
Try again."

    "Singer.
Jazz or blues, or maybe a country-rock style. Someone with the right voice, you
know, kind of smoky and sultry. Bit of an attitude when she's onstage, nice
long legs—"

    "Pig."

    "What—"

    "I
ask about the ideal
profession
and you start describing the physical
features of another woman."

    "I
was trying to play along."

    "Try
harder next time. Or smarter, at least." She laced her hands behind her
head, smiled. "You know what I'd choose— A carpenter. Strong and capable,
right— Handy."

    "Hey,
I replaced that shelf at your apartment."

    She
lifted her head and stared at me. "The shelf you broke—"

    "Well,
be that as it may, I also hung the new one—"

    "How
many trips to the hardware store did that take you—"

    "Just
because I didn't have all the materials at first—"

    "You
tried to put it up without using a level, Lincoln. It wasn't a shelf, it was a
ramp."

    "I
corrected that."

    "In
a mere five hours. Yeah, stick to detecting, buddy. Even if it gets you into
trouble."

    I
leaned forward and turned the volume on the radio down, a serious concession
with two on and two out. "Think about another writer approaching you to
guide them through a story, Amy, and then tell me what you'd say. Somebody in
your business comes to you for help, you try to do it if you can. At least
that's the way I've always operated. He put his ego on the shelf and came
asking for help."

    "Do
you trust him—" she asked.

    I hesitated,
which is never a good sign when offered in response to a question of trust, but
then nodded. "He checks out."

    "I
didn't ask if he checked out. I asked if you trust him."

    "Yes."
I nodded again. "So far, I haven't seen anything that warns me not to. The
way he showed up after a call from Sanabria, I guess, but since then, in the
conversations we've had… he seems genuine."

    "Same
thing you said about Parker Harrison at first."

    That
stopped me. I gave her a grudging nod.

    "Maybe
it is, but Ken doesn't share Harrison's history. Besides, I've been in his
position, okay— In two regards. Once when Karen left"—Amy made the face
one should expect when he mentions his ex—"and once with this sort of
case, dealing with a client who came to me hoping I could explain what happened
to his family. I remember the way that felt, the sort of burden John Weston
handed over to me."

    "As
I recall, it didn't feel much better when you handed the answers back over to
him."

    I was
quiet, and Amy reached out and laid her hand on my arm.

    "I
get what you're saying, Lincoln. I do. If you think you can help him and you
want to try, then it's a simple choice."

    "I
really don't know how much of a choice it is. Ken's asked me to get involved.
Graham probably will."

    I was
passing the blame off to every external party, but the truth was it came down
to my decision, and I couldn't fully explain the motivation to her. Couldn't
explain that when Ken had smiled at me and said, "This is what you
are," it had felt less like he was trying to coerce me and more like he
was defining me. While his definition was accurate, I didn't know how much I
liked it.

    This
is what you are.

    "All
of it's irrelevant," I said.

    "What
do you mean—"

    "The
idea that I had some sort of choice to make about stepping into this. I was
already in it, Amy. From the time Harrison sent that first letter. He picked
me, and I've been in it ever since."

    "Why—"
she said. "Why did he pick you—"

    The
silence built and hung around us, and eventually I reached out and turned the
radio back up. We listened until the final out, but I don't think either of us
could have told you the details of the game.

    By
noon the next day my prediction to Amy was validated. I was involved now—thanks
to Ken Merriman's urging and Quinn Graham's approval.