Authors: Michael Koryta
Dunbar put the glass down on the coffee table. "Well, I
suppose you don't
care about that. I suppose that's not relevant. What
you're interested in, I imagine, is how I happened to get Joshua Cantrell
killed."
He
said this through his teeth, eyes still on the glass. Ken and I were silent.
"So
I had Sanabria once and couldn't deliver," Dunbar said. "There's your
background. That's all that really need be said. The details, well, the details
are mine to worry about, not yours. The point is, we went back after him again.
I went back after him. I also went to Joshua Cantrell."
"As
an informant—" I said.
"That
was the original idea. It didn't go well. Not only did he refuse to talk with
us about Sanabria, he insisted he didn't know anything about the man. Said he
only knew what his wife told him, and that was old news. His impression was
that we knew more of the family he'd married into than he did."
"Did
you believe him—"
"Actually,
I did. In any event, it was clear he wasn't going to cooperate, so we didn't
waste any time on him. I kept tabs on him, though. Made the occasional call. We
did that sort of thing with the idea of keeping the pressure up, both on
Cantrell and Sanabria. We wanted Sanabria to know that we were always around,
always talking to the people who surrounded him, looking for a chink in the
armor."
"Was
Alexandra a part of this—" Ken asked.
He
shook his head. "She wouldn't have anything to do with us. Joshua, though,
was almost as scared of us as he was of Sanabria. So while he didn't help, he
also didn't refuse to communicate. He was afraid to do that. Now, as I said,
we'd check in with him every so often. I caught him alone one day when I came
out to their house to show him some photographs. No reason at all that he or
Alexandra would be able to ID anyone in the photos, but we wanted to rattle
Sanabria's cage a little. He
hated
it when we talked to his family, but
we could pretend it was necessary investigation, not harassment. Truth was, we
just wanted him sweating.
"So
this time, Joshua seemed a little different. He looked at the photographs, told
me he didn't recognize any of the people in them, which was of course true, but
he was cooperative, too, and as I was leaving he made a remark about wishing he
could
help, and it sounded genuine, and almost angry. We talked for a
while, and he told me about the new houseguest they had, a guy who'd done a
long stretch for murder. Mark Ruzity."
"Are
you saying he wasn't in favor of the hands-on approach his wife brought to the
mission—" I said.
"I'm
saying he was absolutely opposed to it. The phrase he used was 'she's bringing
them into our home.' Apparently against his strongest objections."
"So
you made a suggestion," I said. "A pitch. If he was willing to help
with Sanabria, why not take advantage of the situation."
His
nod seemed embarrassed. "It was almost a joke. On that day, in that
conversation, it really was almost a joke. I mean, it was that ludicrous—place
an informant in Sanabria's sister's home and use her husband to work him—
Crazy, right—"
"But
he agreed," Ken said.
"No.
He rejected the idea, emphatically, and as time passed, I stopped dropping in
on them, refocused in other areas. Then he came back to me. Contacted me by
phone and asked if we could meet in person. He seemed very nervous, very
agitated. So I drove out to a restaurant in Shaker Heights and met him, and he
told me that he'd reconsidered."
"Why
the change of heart—" Ken asked.
Dunbar
frowned. "The motivation, I'm afraid, was anything but noble. What led him
to pick up the phone and call was a complete collapse of his marriage, I
believe. His wife wasn't aware of it yet, but that's what it was." He
cocked his head at us. "What do you know about Joshua—"
"Quiet,
academic sort," Ken said. "Interested in the prison system."
"Interested
,"
Dunbar said and nodded. "He was interested in it as a student, not as a
participant. Here's what I can tell you about Joshua—he was a nervous man, a
scared man. Insecure. I believe that played a role when he met Alexandra. He
saw her fascination with those issues of rehabilitation and reentry, and he ran
with it. She was a beautiful woman, and a rich one, the sort who had never before
given him the time of day. What more motivation did he need—
"Joshua's
vision of their married life was that his wife's obsession would pass, or that
a few papers, maybe some small donations, would satisfy it. He was wrong. I'm
not surprised the final straw came when she began to hire inmates to work for
them. As I've said, he was an insecure man. I think those insecurities took his
imagination to some wild, dark places."
He
looked directly at me with a sudden, sharp gaze. "Understand this—while I
sit here and discuss the man's paranoia, I didn't do anything at that time
except feed it. I'm not proud of that, but I won't lie about it, either. He
felt betrayed by his wife, pushed aside in favor of murderers and thieves, and
he wanted to hurt her. That was the sum of it. He wanted to
hurt
her,
but he didn't know how. What could he do— Leave her— Then he'd lose everything.
Have an affair— He was an awkward, introverted man, hardly capable of becoming
a crusading Casanova. Withhold his money— He didn't have any. Alexandra was so
much stronger than he was in virtually every way a person can have strength. He
saw no way to strike back, no way to retaliate for what he viewed as disregard
and betrayal. Until he found my card."
It
had started to rain, and the wind was blowing even stronger now. Dunbar turned
his head and looked out at the tossing lake.
"He
was going to feed you information about his brother-in-law—" Ken said.
"I'm
sure he would have been happy to do that," Dunbar said, looking back at
us, "provided he knew anything, but he didn't. No, he remembered my
earlier proposal, the one I'd made as a throwaway line, about seeing that one
of the inmates placed in their care was someone who could snitch."
"Enter
Salvatore Bertoli," I said.
"What
did he know—" Ken asked. "What was he supposed to know, at
least—"
"I
told you to remember Johnny DiPietro's name from that story about the hotel.
Well, Sanabria and he were both partners and rivals. We heard rumors that
Sanabria wanted to clip him even before the motel arrest. After the way
DiPietro stood pat and didn't talk he eased up on it temporarily, but before
long they were at odds again."
"Over
what—"
"Key
issues were drugs and associates. Sanabria was very reluctant to be involved
with the drug trade at any level. Had heard too many stories about how it
brought down his mob buddies all over the country. DiPietro was all about it.
DiPietro was also not only willing to network outside the Italians but
enthusiastic about it. Sanabria, being old school, didn't support that or trust
it. One of the reasons Sanabria was so furious with DiPietro was his tendency
to trust people like Bertoli who committed ignorant, poorly thought-out crimes.
He also was at odds with him over his desire to move into the east side drug
market, which was generally black territory. Eventually the feud boiled over
and Sanabria had him whacked. Bertoli was a witness."
"How
did you know that—"
"Wiretaps.
We got lucky. Almost got lucky, I should say. Caught a conversation between
Bertoli and another guy—who's actually in prison now—and Bertoli started in on
DiPietro, saying he knew what happened, but his buddy was smart enough to shut
him up and get off the phone. Still, it was clear he'd seen it."
"You
didn't question him—"
"Of
course, but he didn't talk. He was facing prison time on another charge, and we
thought we might be able to leverage him then, but…" He shrugged.
"Sanabria's not the sort of person you want to snitch on. There was a side
element, too. When DiPietro was killed, a significant quantity of heroin and
coke disappeared. We had credible information that he'd bought into the supply
end of things, that he intended to push his influence into the east side drug
trade. This was in direct conflict with what Sanabria wanted, and when the hit
was made, the drugs seemed to vanish."
"Bertoli's
other charge was for beating the shit out of the truck stop guy and stealing
his drugs," I said. "You think he went after DiPietro's
product—"
"All
we're sure of is that the product seemed to disappear from Italian hands. My
guess is Sanabria claimed it and got rid of it. Sold it to someone else,
outside of his circle, probably. Maybe just destroyed it. He didn't trust
drugs."
"Let
me be clear on the time line," Ken said. "DiPietro was killed
after
Bertoli was arrested and went to jail, but you somehow think he was a
witness— That makes no sense."
"He
wasn't in jail yet. He'd been charged, bonded out, and was awaiting trial. Then
DiPietro was murdered, Bertoli witnessed it, and we came back at him hard,
pushing for him to talk. He panicked and took the plea bargain and did his
time. You want to know why— Because he was afraid of Sanabria. He thought going
to jail would prove his trustworthiness, prove that he'd kept his mouth shut.
He thought, gentlemen, that jail was the safer place to be. As I just said,
Sanabria is not the sort of person you want to snitch on."
"You
understood that, but you still decided to try again with Cantrell—" I
said. "If Bertoli didn't give Sanabria up to avoid prison, why would he do
it after he got out—"
"I
should have turned him away—" Dunbar snapped. "A potential source of
Cantrell's level comes to me and offers to help and I should have turned him
away— That's what you think—"
I
waited a few seconds, wanting to diffuse the tension, and then spoke as gently
as I could. "I'm not second-guessing you. I'm just trying to conceive of
the situation—all of them living in that house, working against one another.
You turned it into a damned gothic mansion, Dunbar. How surprised could you
have been when it imploded—"
"Sanabria
had been a target of our investigation for years.
Years.
We'd had him
once, and he slipped out, and we were determined to have him again and make it
stick."
How'd
that work for you—
I wanted to ask, but neither Ken nor I spoke, and for a
long time all you could hear was the wind.
"I
don't feel like that was the end of your story," Ken said eventually.
"You told us you got him killed. Who killed him, and why—"
"Sanabria,
of course. For the obvious reason. Can I prove that— No. If I could have, that
bastard would be in prison where he belongs. So, yes, what you're thinking is
right—I screwed up again, and he laughed his way through it again."
"That's
not what I was thinking," Ken said.
"Well,
it should be. It damn well should be."
"How
did it happen—" I said. "Did you have no idea things were going wrong
until they disappeared, or…"
"I
had an idea, but it all went to hell pretty fast. Joshua Cantrell was clumsy in
his attempts with Bertoli, displayed his true intentions too early and
awkwardly, and Bertoli took off. Moved out of the house. Joshua called to
notify me of that, and I thought, well, there's another missed opportunity.
That's all that I thought. That we'd taken another swing, hadn't made contact,
but no big deal. Then a week later Bertoli was dead. As soon as I found out
about that, I went looking for Joshua. He and his wife were gone."
"How
are you so sure it was Sanabria, then—" Ken said.
Dunbar
frowned. "Did you miss the summary your partner gave— That bit about the
gothic mansion— To use his word, it imploded. It surely did. Think about it—we
were attempting to get information about Sanabria, we panicked Bertoli, and
then he was killed and the Cantrells vanished. Where do you think the blame
rests—"
Ken
didn't answer. Dunbar stared at him for a moment, and then he said softly,
"That's a poor question. The blame, as I've already told you, rests here.
Rests with me. But the bloodshed, Mr. Merriman— That's not my doing. That's
Dominic Sanabria."
"You
must have questioned him," I said. "Tried to connect him to Bertoli's
death."