Authors: Michael Koryta
"Of
course we did. True to form, he had an alibi seven layers deep. Actually,
calling it an alibi wouldn't be fair. He didn't kill Bertoli personally—I'm
fairly certain of that—but he had it done. I am even
more
certain of
that."
"Then
who got the call—" I said, thinking Harrison or Ruzity. "Who carried
out the orders—"
"That
one, I cannot answer. Only one person alive can. Sanabria himself—and good luck
getting him to tell you."
"Two
people," I said.
"Pardon—"
"Sanabria
could answer it, and so could the person he used. That's who we're looking
for."
"I'm
not going to be much more help with that," Dunbar said. "You should
talk to the detective who got the Cantrell case in Pennsylvania. Graham."
I
raised my eyebrows. "You know Graham—"
"Not
well. I've had this same conversation with him, that's all." Then, seeing
the rise of anger in my face, he said, "Surely you didn't think you were
the first people to make these connections—"
"Not
anymore," I said. Part of me was embarrassed for being naive enough to
believe just that, but more of me was pissed off at Graham. I'd told him I'd
help provided I was given the real score, understood the situation as well as
he did. The lying prick had promised me that was the case.
"You're
sure Sanabria killed Joshua Cantrell, or had him killed," Ken said to
Dunbar.
"That's
right."
"Well,
what about Alexandra—" I said. "Do you really think he murdered his
own sister, or do you think she's still alive somewhere—"
"That,"
John Dunbar said, "is the one question I've been wondering about for the
past twelve years."
I
never knew my mother, but I know plenty of her expressions. She died when I was
three, hit by a drunk driver at noon on a Sunday. She'd just left church; he'd
just left a tip for the waitress who delivered his fifth Bloody Mary.
Ordinarily, we'd have all been in the car together, but my sister and I were
sick, sharing some sort of virus, and my father stayed home to watch us. Mom
decided to go by herself. Every now and then, generally when my mind's immersed
in something, I'll have a sudden sense that I can remember her voice, that I
can
hear
the way she spoke. Then my conscious brain shifts over to try
to trap it and it's gone. Just that quick. I'll hear her cadence perfectly in
some secret lobe of memory, try to focus on it, and scare it off. She's in
there somewhere, though. I know that she is.
While
the voice eludes me, the expressions do not. My father recalled them often when
I was growing up, and in a way that's how she came to exist for me:
Your
mother always said…
One
favorite phrase, evidently, was head-spinner. As in,
How was your day— Well,
it was a head-spinner.
It was how she referred to those days when things
came too fast, too unexpected, too complicated.
My
day— One hell of a head-spinner.
We'd
gone out that morning thinking that Mark Ruzity might be able to give us some
insight into the Cantrells. Instead, he'd given us John Dunbar, which at the
time had felt like a significant breakthrough. Felt even more like that when
Dunbar poured himself a Scotch and settled in to explain how he'd gotten Joshua
Cantrell killed. Then he'd delivered the capstone:
Talk to Detective Graham;
of course he already knows this.
A
head-spinner.
Had
we gained anything— As I sat on the roof watching the sun fade and streetlamps
come on and waiting for Amy to arrive, I tried to determine that, and couldn't.
A hell of a lot of information had come our way, and that felt like progress.
The realization that Graham already had the information, though… yeah, that
pretty well killed the sense of progress.
A
head-spinner. You bet your ass.
I'd
dropped Ken at his hotel and left him on his own for the night. Inhospitable,
maybe, but I felt a strong need to be away from him and Graham and Dunbar and
anyone else who'd ever heard of the Cantrells. We'd meet again in the morning,
and then we'd see where it stood. Graham was the one who could tell us that. He
hadn't answered when I called him, so I left a message informing him we'd made
a major break and he needed to drive up the next morning to discuss it. Since
then, he'd called five times and I hadn't answered or called him back. He
probably wanted to avoid the trip, and I wanted him to make it. The son of a
bitch could explain his lies in person.
Couldn't
be mad at him for lying, though. That's what Joe would tell me. I was a
civilian, Graham was a cop. Why would he tell me everything he knew— When had I
ever done that for a civilian— It was a game, all of it was, and Graham was
playing one version with me while I played another with Harrison. I wondered
who in the hell kept track of the big board, though.
It
was full night when Amy finally arrived, and we sat together as the temperature
dropped. No radio tonight, no baseball game. Just talk, lots of it, the two of
us tossing questions but no answers.
"You
know who I feel sorry for—" Amy said after one long lull. She was curled
up tight in her chair, sleeves pulled down over her hands, clearly freezing but
not willing to speak of going inside until I did.
"Lincoln
Perry, for getting sucked into this nightmare—"
"No,
you're doing a good enough job of feeling sorry for Lincoln Perry
tonight."
"This
is why I gave up being single. Support like that."
"Stop.
You know it's true. I've never seen anyone get as melodramatic over anything as
you do when you've been lied to."
I
smiled. "It's my subtle way of ensuring you always tell me the
truth."
"Subtle,
sure. Now, can I say who I feel sorry for— Alexandra. I mean, step back and
think about it. This woman comes from a family that should have its own HBO
series, she somehow emerges sane and motivated to help people, and when she
tries to do that her husband turns against her, tries to betray her brother, and
gets himself killed. All of this just to hurt her."
"Her
brother talked about her as if she's alive," I said. "If that's true,
how does he know it— And if that's true, how much does she understand—"
Amy
tried to nod but lost it in midshiver as the wind picked up. I got to my feet,
pulled her up and toward me, and wrapped my arms around her and rubbed her
back. She was shaking against me.
"You
look like you're ready to go in," I said.
"Only
if you are."
I
laughed. "Okay,
that's
support."
I
turned, ready to move for the stairs, but she stopped me.
"Imagine
what that would feel like," she said, her voice muffled against my chest.
"Imagine
what—"
"If
she is alive, and she does understand. If she knows that her brother killed her
husband, and if she knows why it happened."
I
didn't answer, just took her hand and guided her toward the steps. The wind was
blowing harder now, and I was feeling the cold, too.
Graham
rose to the bait. When I finally played his messages the next morning, he
cursed me for not returning his calls, then said he'd be up, though not until
afternoon. He sounded curious, and I was glad. We didn't have a damn thing that
was new to him, but if he wanted to jerk me around, I was happy to return the
favor.
Ken
came into the office ten minutes after I did, with a cup of coffee in each hand
and a stack of papers held between his chin and his chest. He swung the door
shut with his foot, set one cup down in front of me, and then lifted his chin,
spilling the papers across my desk.
"Thanks."
"No
problem."
I
took a drink of the coffee and waved at the papers he'd dumped on the desk.
"So what's all this—"
"When
do you think that first bust with Dunbar and Sanabria went down—" he said.
"The one that got screwed up by the informant and the motel room—"
"A
while ago. He was talking about using a pager."
"Try
twenty years."
"Twenty—"
"I
was surprised, too. Dunbar talked about it like it had been a few years, right—
Not twenty of them."
"I
don't suppose it changes anything," I said, gathering the pages into a
stack and pulling them toward me. "How'd you find that out—"
"Library.
They've got good newspaper archives."
"You
went last night—" Now I felt guilty about blowing him off, spending the
night with Amy while he was working.
"What
else am I going to do— Can only watch so much ESPN."
He'd
apparently printed out every article mentioning Sanabria or Dunbar or Bertoli,
and it amounted to quite a collection. I flipped through them, skimming most,
reading a few completely. Dunbar's account seemed accurate enough.
"Dunbar's
been around for a long time," I said, looking at the dates on the articles
that referenced him. They started in the late seventies.
"Yeah,
he has. Tell you something else that stood out to me from those
articles—Bertoli's death was ruled an accident. We already knew that, but
reading it again made me think about how firm Dunbar was on the idea that the
guy was murdered. He was white on rice with that, you know— Which makes me
wonder—if there was an FBI agent involved who knew all the background, and
believed Bertoli was murdered, then why rule it an accident and close the door
to an investigation— Why weren't the cops out looking for the Cantrells years
ago as witnesses for the Bertoli case— Joshua Cantrell's parents told me that
the police brushed off the idea of a crime. How could they do that, if what
Dunbar told us is true—"
"All
good questions," I said. "Bertoli died in Cleveland, didn't he—"
"Yes.
Warehouse district, down by the river."
"So
it was Cleveland police jurisdiction. Who had the case—"
"His
name is in there."
I
found the article and read through it, and nodded as soon as I got to the lead investigator's
name—Mike London. I knew he'd take my call.
"How
about we get you some answers to those questions while we wait on Graham's
arrival, Kenny boy—"
"Sounds
good, Linc. Sounds good."
Mike
London always reminded me of a circus bear—enormous and threatening, but a
crowd-pleaser at heart. He was one of the better-known wise- asses in a
department full of them, but he was a good detective, too. Didn't have the sort
of mind that Joe or some of the others had, that gift for problem solving, but
he compensated with a good eye for detail and a dogged work ethic. Give Mike
thirty leads at the start of the day, and he wasn't going home until he'd tried
all of them, and a few others generated along the way. That effort was what
kept him in favor with the brass despite his sense of humor, which superiors
never found quite as hilarious as the rest of the department did.
He
was out on the east side when I called, interviewing witnesses to a drive-by
shooting that had missed the intended target and wounded a sixteen-year-old kid
on Euclid Avenue the previous week, and said he'd give us some time provided I
bought him lunch. Mike's appetite had been the stuff of department lore for
years, so that was no small concession.
"Bertoli,"
he said when I agreed. "That's an old one, Lincoln. Old and cold."
"I
know it. Just want to see what you remember about it."
"What
I remember is that I did a bunch of interviews out Murray Hill way, because
that's where his family was. Say, you know what Murray Hill makes me think
of—"
"Food—"
"Hell,
boy, you always were a good detective. Now, you want to ask me some questions,
you can feed me out there at Murray Hill. That little Italian place."