Authors: Michael Koryta
Darius
had looked at the ID and been momentarily frozen. Cash had the advantage of
being forewarned, though, and instead of looking at it he took the wallet right
out of my hand, ignored the PI license entirely, and slipped two of my credit
cards out. Read the name on them, then held one up for me.
"Looks
like you a little confused. Got a couple names, huh—"
I
didn't say anything. He waited for a long time, and then he slid the credit
cards back into the wallet, closed it, and threw it at me. It hit me in the
chest and dropped into my lap. I picked it up and put it back in my pocket,
still silent.
Darius
was standing by the door, the gun held down against his thigh. He was watching
Cash more than me.
"So
what you want, man—" Cash said.
I
didn't answer.
"You
going to speak—"
Again
I was quiet. I sat in my chair and did not take my eyes from his, tried to
ignore the desire to glance over at Darius and make sure that the gun was still
down. I'd see him if he moved. I'd see him.
"Man,
say whatever the fuck you got to say." Cash sounded agitated now.
I
looked back with what I hoped was a steady, calm stare. He gave it almost a
full minute before breaking the silence again.
"All
right, then, get out. Come down here and waste my time, waste my uncle's time—
Get the fuck out."
His
voice was bridling with anger, muscles standing out in his neck. This was what
I wanted. To see him frustrated. I wanted to drive him wild with silence. Have
him unsteady by the time we got to the real talk.
"I'ma
tell you
one
more time—" he began, but this time I spoke.
"I
just have a few questions, Alvin."
"Don't
call me that."
"My
name's Ken Merriman," I said. "I'm a private investigator from Pennsylvania.
I was hired by the parents of a man named Joshua Cantrell. He was murdered a
few years ago. Twelve years ago, actually. Almost thirteen."
He
looked away from me and at Darius, and it took everything I had to keep my hand
still, to keep from reaching for the Beretta. Darius hadn't moved. His gun was
still pointed down.
"Why
you saying you somebody else—" Cash Neloms said. "Come down here and
lie to us, you think that's wise— Think that's a good way to stay alive—"
"You're
right. I was lying. I didn't come to ask questions. I came to give you some
answers, if you wanted them."
"I
don't even know who you are. You don't got no answers I need."
"I
disagree."
Another
look at Darius, and I knew now that this was how it would go. If Cash gave him
the right look, that gun was coming up.
"I
don't know what you been told, what you think," Cash Neloms said.
"I'm
sure
I don't know what kind of fucking fool you are, coming
down here, talking crazy shit like this, but, boy, go on and walk out. Right
now."
"Don't
you even want to know how Cantrell's body ended up in Pennsylvania—" I
said.
That
stopped him. His mouth closed and his eyes went hard and dull, and for a moment
he seemed to have forgotten about Darius in the corner of the room. For a
moment he seemed to have forgotten about everything but me.
"I
thought you'd like to know that much," I said. "As far as Ken
Merriman is concerned, well, I don't need to give you any answers to that one.
You already know them. Same story with Salvatore Bertoli. Cantrell… I thought
you might be curious about that one. Twelve years is a long time to
wonder."
"I
don't know…" It was supposed to be another denial, but he let it die,
wiped a hand over his mouth and stared at me and tried to decide what to say.
It took maybe ten seconds. "All right. I'm not saying I know what you
talking about, but go on and tell it, if that's why you came down here. Go on
and tell it."
"You
know the name Dominic Sanabria—" I said.
"I
might've heard it."
"Yeah,
I thought so. He'd like you to do him a favor. Man like that can be a good
person to do a favor for, you know—"
"I
don't owe him any favors."
"No—
He might argue that."
It
was quiet again for a while.
"Well,"
he said, frustration showing again, "what is it, man— You got to say
it."
"Dominic's
sister has been gone for twelve years. Lot of people looked for her. Police,
family, private detectives, reporters. By this time, it seems like if she had
anything to say to anybody like that, she'd have said it. Don't you
think—"
He
didn't answer.
"I'll
tell you what she told me," I said. "She has a new life now. Doesn't
want to leave it. Doesn't want to come back here, to the questions and the
attention."
"Why
you telling me that—"
"The
favor that Dominic would like you to do," I said, "is pretty simple.
I'll put you in touch with her. Get you a meeting. You explain to her that
Dominic had nothing to do with her husband's death. That's all."
I
expected he might give me disbelief or confusion or anger—anything but
acknowledgment—but instead of speaking, he just looked at me for a long time.
When he broke that silence, it wasn't with an argument. It was a question,
spoken soft and cold.
"Who
are you—"
"You
saw the name."
"Name
don't mean shit to me."
"Here's
all you need to know about me—I came here with an offer from Dominic. You've
heard it. You going to take it—"
All I
wanted now was out. The recorder was running, I had this whole conversation,
and I could set up the meeting with Alexandra. There'd be plenty more than
Alexandra there, more wires and more cops and a pair of handcuffs ready to fit
around Cash Neloms's wrists. I was close now; I just needed to get it done and
get the hell out. I just needed to make it through the door.
"Sure,"
Cash said after a pause. "I'll take it, man."
He
was so casual when he said it, his face so utterly relaxed, that if I hadn't
been reminding myself to be ready to move if he looked at Darius again I
would've died immediately. As it was, I'd been ready for the look, and when he
turned to Darius I was already rising, made it out of my chair before Darius
lifted the gun.
I
reached under my jacket for the Beretta, and I ran straight for Cash and the
swinging door to the garage beyond. I was hoping to get behind him or at least
close enough to him that Darius wouldn't fire, but that was a hopeless idea; it
simply doesn't take that long to lift a gun and pull the trigger.
Darius
fired before I cleared my gun, and the bullet hit me on the right side, hit me
like the thrust of a metal stake that had been forged to a glowing red heat.
The force of it knocked me forward, and his second shot missed high as I fell
into Cash Neloms's legs.
I
didn't hit him hard, or even intentionally—I was just trying to make it to the
door. My weight caught him around the knees, though, and while he didn't go to the
floor he did fall backward into the wall, and for a brief moment we were
entangled. He came off the wall with his hands reaching for my throat, and by
leaning over me like that he blocked any chance of his uncle finishing me off
with another shot. By then I had my gun out, and I twisted as his hands clawed
at my neck. I saw nothing but the metal desk and Darius Neloms's feet and legs
beneath it, but that gave me something to shoot at. I fired once, saw a spray
of red burst out of the back of his calf and heard him scream, and then I
shoved through Cash Neloms's legs and toward the swinging door that led to the
garage. He slammed a punch into the back of my neck and tore at my hand as I
went by, and the Beretta came loose and hit the floor. It spun away from me,
back toward the desk, but I ignored it and kept scrambling forward. Then I was
out of the office and onto the cold concrete floor of the garage. I kicked the
swinging door backward as I went, heard it hit something, and then another shot
was fired and I felt a second searing pain burn across my thigh.
It
was dark in the garage, the doors down and the light off, and I rolled away and
hit something that fell all around me, didn't realize until I touched one of
them that I'd knocked over a stack of hubcaps. I pulled myself back with my
hands, got my torso into an upright position, legs stretched out in front of
me, and then I reached behind my back and removed the Glock from its holster. I
was slow getting it out, but when Cash Neloms stepped through the door and into
the garage, with a gun in his hand, he turned to the left first, reaching for
the light switch, thinking that I was now unarmed.
I
lifted the Glock and fired twice.
When he
dropped, he went backward into the door and it swung open and his head and
shoulders fell into the office, nothing of him left visible in the garage but
his legs. They moved for a few seconds, heels scraping on the concrete, trying
to get upright, and then they went still and it was quiet.
I sat
in the pile of hubcaps with the Glock still pointed at the door and waited for
Darius. It was hard to hold the gun up now, and the door seemed to be dancing
in front of me, waving and undulating and blending with the shadows. I heard
motion and fired again before realizing it had been the front door. Darius had
just left the office and gone outside. He'd be coming around from a different
direction, entering through a different door. I had no idea which way to look.
It was his garage. He knew the layout and I did not and it was becoming hard to
sit upright and hard to see.
The
Glock dropped to my lap, not a mental decision but a physical one, my body
giving out, and I twisted onto my side and reached into my pocket for my cell
phone. It took two tries to get it out of my pocket. My fingers were slick with
warm wet blood.
I got
the phone out and open and then I dialed and spoke into it. I could not
remember the address where I was, or even the road. All I could tell them was
that I'd been shot and Darius was coming back for me. Several times, I said
that I did not know what door he would use. That I would not be ready for him
when he came.
The
phone slid out of my fingers then and bounced off the concrete floor. I could
not make myself reach for it even though it was close. There was blood in my
mouth now and a terrible high hum in my ears and I could not reach for the
phone or lift the gun.
I
never heard the sirens.
The
paramedics found the recorder and gave it to the police. When they listened to
that and heard what Joe had to say it wasn't hard to piece together what had
happened. That was good, because I wasn't in any condition to talk.
By
the time I got out of surgery, the first media report had leaked, and Alvin
"Cash" Neloms was being identified as the alleged killer of Joshua
Cantrell. Mike London and John Dunbar were called into the investigation. Quinn
Graham drove in from Pennsylvania. The tape was solid, but there was no
confession. They needed more. It was Graham who suggested they focus on Ken
Merriman, the freshest case and the one that had the best potential for
evidence. They found a variety of weapons while searching the properties
affiliated with Cash and Darius Neloms, including a handgun and ammunition that
were probable matches for Ken's shooting. They would later be proved conclusive
matches.
All
my concern over Darius Neloms and his unknown path of reentry into the garage
turned out to be unnecessary—he'd tried to leave when he saw his nephew fall
dead through the door into the office. Dragged his wounded leg along with him
and went out and got into his Cadillac and drove away. About two minutes and
ten blocks away, he passed out from pain and blood loss and drove up onto the
sidewalk and into a telephone pole. They arrested him when he got out of
surgery.
By
the time the paramedics found me, I was unconscious and in shock. They didn't
get me stabilized until I was at MetroHealth's trauma center, the same hospital
that had saved Joe. In fact, I had the same surgeon, a Dr. Crandall, who was
one of the specialists on gunshot wounds. My surgery was about six hours
shorter than Joe's, though. Something he could hold over my head.