Authors: Michael Koryta
"Okay,"
he said finally. "Okay, it's done. It was a bad idea, and it didn't work,
and maybe it did some harm. We can't really tell yet."
"I'm
more interested in what changed his mind."
"What
changed his mind was the fact that he knew you were trying to con him. What
changed his mind was knowing you were taping every conversation."
There
was biting accusation in every word, as if he thought I'd gone into Harrison's
home with a microphone labeled police property in my hand and started asking
him questions about Cantrell's death. I gave it a few beats of silence again,
not wanting to let this turn into a clash of egos.
"I
warned you after our first attempt that I thought he saw through it," I
said. "Back then, you didn't want to believe me. That's fine. What I'm
telling you tonight is, I don't think that's all there was to it. Something
else rattled him."
"That's
terrific, Linc. I'll find out what it was. In the meantime, you—"
"He
called somebody as soon as I left. You might want to check that."
"How
do you know—"
"He
was standing with the phone to his ear when I drove away. Kind of curious who
he felt deserved such an immediate call."
"Could
be somebody called him."
"I
didn't hear the phone ring."
"All
right, look, I'll see about that, but as I was saying,
in the meantime,
you
go find Kenny and you send him home. I want you both off of this, immediately.
Like I said before, I take some of the blame. Maybe it was a bad idea from the
start, but now it's done. I want you and him as far away from this as possible."
"I'm
not sure how easy it'll be to convince Ken."
"It'll
be damn easy when I arrest him for interference. You tell him that, and if he
has a problem with it, you tell him to call me. He doesn't have a client
anymore, and he's not licensed in Ohio. In other words, he's mine, Linc. If I
want to shut him down, I can."
Not
much was said after that. I disconnected, threw the phone onto the floor of the
passenger seat, and drove back to the brewery. It was more crowded than when
I'd left; I had to shoulder past people bottlenecked just inside the doors. Amy
and Ken were where I'd left them, though, fresh pints on the bar in front of
them. They were facing each other, and Ken was grinning at Amy's animated
words.
"Hey,"
she said, turning when she saw Ken's eyes go over her shoulder to me. "I
was just explaining my favorite psychological phenomenon to Ken."
"Which
one is that—"
"The
way the world's most pathologically narcissistic people seem drawn to careers
in newspaper management."
Ken
started to laugh, but then he stopped, eyes still on me, a frown replacing his
smile. "Didn't go well with Harrison—"
I
shook my head and leaned on the bar in between them, gesturing at the bartender
for a beer. "Didn't go well, no."
"What
happened—"
I
told them about it while I drank the beer. When I got to the part about
Harrison finding the wire, Amy sighed and turned away from me, fear disguised
as anger.
"Not
your fault," Ken said, shaking his head. "He didn't have to find the
wire. He already knew."
"That's
exactly what I told Graham."
"Oh,
you already talked to him— What'd he have to say—"
I
took a long drink of my beer, staring up at the TV. Indians had been up one
when I walked in, and now they were down two.
"Well—"
Ken said.
"He
wasn't happy. Spent a while swearing at me and calling me incompetent before he
decided to man up and accept part of the blame, realized it was probably a
silly ploy to try in the first place."
"He
say what comes next—"
"I
assume it'll be back to waiting on the lab work. He seems pretty convinced
that's where any break will come from."
"What
about us—"
I
finished my beer, slid the glass across the bar. "We're done."
"What—"
"He
told me in no uncertain terms that we are to stay away from this."
"That's
not his decision."
I
didn't say anything.
"Is
it—" he said. "Lincoln— You want to let that guy back us off—"
"It's
not that simple, Ken. He can if he wants to. We don't have a client anymore. If
he wants to jump up and down and scream about interference and tampering, he
can do that. I don't think he wants to, but I also don't think he's going to
let us keep digging on this without a fight."
Amy
was quiet, watching us, and I could imagine Ken's expression from the concern
in her eyes. This case mattered to him. I knew that by now; he'd made it damn
clear. Still, I didn't know what else to tell him.
"So
you want to stop—" he said. "This is the end— Go home and forget
about it—"
"I'm
not saying that."
"Yeah,
you're not saying
anything.
What do you think, Lincoln—"
I
drummed my fingers on the bar, not looking at either of them for a minute. The
bartender pointed at my empty glass and gave me a questioning eye, and I nodded
at him. I didn't speak again until the fresh beer was in my hand.
"I
think that you care about this one too much to go home and forget about it—but
I also want to point out that it's been twelve years since they took off, and
six months since his body was found. Plenty of time's already passed, right— So
I don't see the harm, really, in letting it breathe for a few more weeks. Let
Graham get his lab results. On a case this old, the breaks usually do come from
the lab."
"What
if they don't—"
"If
they don't, we figure out how to move forward, yet after talking to Graham
tonight, I think it's a good idea to let it breathe, Ken. At least for a few
weeks. We want to assist the police investigation, not slow it down by fighting
with them."
He
was quiet, clearly unsatisfied. He looked up at Amy as if searching for
support, then flicked his eyes down when he didn't find any there.
"So
I head home," he said.
"I'm
not telling you that. Graham is. Although I think there's probably more smoke than
fire to that. Besides, he's angry."
"You
just said you wanted to let it breathe."
I
shrugged.
"Basically,
Graham wants me out of it. Right—"
"It
wasn't a one-person decree."
He
shook his head. "Maybe not, but I'm the one he doesn't trust in it. What
was it he said today— Something about how he'd essentially asked you to babysit
me, make sure I didn't cause any trouble. That makes sense, too. I can't fault
him for that. You've got the experience on a real investigation. I don't. Hell,
I'm the one who already had a shot at this and couldn't come up with a damn
thing to show for it, right—"
"Nobody
else has, either."
"I
guess I can take comfort in being part of a group failure." He sighed and
rubbed a hand over his eyes. "So what's your take, then— Should I listen
to him and pull off—"
"Let's
figure it out tomorrow. Come to the office in the morning and we'll talk."
He
nodded, but the energy had gone out of the night, all of us quiet now, flat.
"Hey."
I slapped the bar, got both of them to look up. "I think we should tie one
on tonight. Go downtown, hit some bars. Got six innings left to play, we could
even buy some cheap tickets and watch the end of the game. Drink to crazy
graveyard groundskeepers and asshole cops."
"And
pompous, untalented editors," Amy said, lifting her glass, trying to fall
in line with my forced enthusiasm. "I'm game."
Ken
gave an empty smile and shook his head, standing and reaching for his wallet.
"I'm out," he said. "Sorry. Not tonight."
"Oh,
come on," I said. "What else do you have to do—"
"Call
my daughter, for one thing."
"So
call her, and then we'll go out. Show you what this beautiful city of Cleveland
is all about."
"Not
tonight, Lincoln. I think I'll head back to the hotel and go over my case file,
make some notes."
"How
many times have you been over that file— What's going to be gained from one
more look—"
"You
never know. Maybe I'll shake something loose yet. Convince Graham he's making a
mistake." He tossed some money on the bar, then put out his hand.
"We'll talk tomorrow, right—"
"Absolutely,"
I said, shaking his hand, then watching as Amy stood up to do the same.
"Come on down to the office, and we'll get things figured out."
It
didn't feel like enough, though.
Last
words never do.
It
took a while for me to determine anything was wrong. I lingered at the bar with
Amy long after Ken left, and when we finally departed it was for her apartment
and a night that began in the shower and ended in the bedroom. I was aware of
her moving around the next morning but managed to tune it out and return to
sleep, didn't come fully awake until almost nine.
By the
time I returned to my own apartment, showered, shaved, and dressed, it was
nearly ten, and when I finally got to the office I expected Ken might be
waiting. He wasn't, but a voice mail from him was. His voice was hurried,
almost breathless.
Lincoln,
I think we've got something. You got us there, we just needed to see it. Last
night, I finally saw it. I'm telling you, man, I think you got us there. I'm
going to check something out first, though. I don't want to throw this at you
and then have you explain what I'm missing, how crazy it is—but stay tuned.
Stay tuned.
I
called him immediately. Five rings, then voice mail.
"What
in the hell are you talking about—" I said. "Get your ass down here
and tell me what you've got cooking."
I
hung up and sat and stared at the phone, both impatient and irritated. My
excitement was up, certainly—or at least curiosity—but I also didn't like being
shut out so suddenly. He'd come all the way up here to ask for my help,
practically beg for it, and against all better judgment I'd cooperated. Now he
felt like he had a break and he'd gone off to field it solo— It was a greedy
move, and I'd known some other investigators who pulled it when they had a
chance for glory. This case was Ken's baby—he'd been working it for twelve
years, not me—but I still wasn't impressed.
Thirty
minutes passed. I called him again, got voice mail, didn't leave a message.
Waited an hour, called again, left another message, hearing the annoyance in my
own voice and not caring. It wasn't just a greedy move, I'd decided, it was a
damned foolish one. With his total lack of experience on homicide cases, he
could screw this up. Whatever
this
was.
Noon
came and went, and I thought about lunch but didn't go for it, not wanting to
leave the office phone. I was seething over the fact that he'd called the
office line instead of my cell anyhow. He'd wanted to be sure he got a head
start on this thing by himself, which was bullshit. I didn't give a damn who
got the credit, supposing he
had
made a break—though that seemed like
one hell of a long shot to me—but it was my ass that was on the line with
Graham.
At
two o'clock, Graham called. I recognized his number and hesitated before
answering, part of me afraid he was already aware of whatever Ken was
attempting and pissed off about it, another part thinking it was my job to warn
him. Either way, it wasn't a conversation I wanted to have, but I answered.
"I
don't know whether I should give you blame or credit," he said, "but
whatever you did to stir Harrison up, he's in action again. That could be good
or bad."
"What
do you mean, he's in action—"