big shot.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Okay, we won’t say that. Here’s what we will say: I’m counting on you to keep Kenny from hurting this investigation. If he helps it, great, I’ll be the first man down to shake his hand—but I am not going to let him
I rubbed my temples.
“Kenny does bring something to the table,” Graham said. “I’ve got to admit that.”
“Yeah?”
“He brings us an excuse to get you back in touch with Harrison. I was worrying on that one while I drove home yesterday. If you blew up on Harrison the way you said, then it’d feel wrong to have you go back, wanting to talk. Don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
“So we needed an excuse to open that door again. Needed one that felt right. I couldn’t decide on it yesterday, but then this morning your buddy calls, and while I’m listening to him go on, I thought, yes, sir, this is the ticket. Kenny is the ticket. It’ll be easy to sell as the truth, because it is the damn truth. Kenny looked you up, told you he wanted your client’s name, and you agreed to give it to him. You might not want to work for Harrison, but he can. There’s money in it, right?”
“Yeah.” I could hear loud voices in the background, somebody swearing profusely, everybody else cracking up. Cops. Something about it hit a chord of absence that had been quiet for a long time.
“So you two, you’re going to go see Harrison,” Graham said. “You’re going to talk, and you’re going to tape.”
“A wire?”
“Yeah. I’ll get you set up.”
“I’ve got one. Got a couple.”
“Good quality or cheap shit?”
“They’re good.”
“All right. I’m considering you an informant, not a cop, understand? This isn’t your investigation, it’s mine. What you hear, I hear.”
“Tell it to Ken. I’m just an adviser, remember?” Even I wasn’t buying that anymore.
“Yeah, my ass. Anyhow, go easy this first time. Feel Harrison out, check his attitude, see what you think.”
“You want me to tape everything?”
“Every word, Linc. Every word. Now, you get a good talk going with him, there’s a name I’d like you to drop. Bertoli. Salvatore Bertoli.”
“He’s of interest?”
“Man died at the same time the Cantrells decided to make their exit. Man also used to run with some boys in Youngstown and Cleveland who were close to Dominic. Man’s
“Is he tied to Dominic through ten degrees of separation or two?”
“Two would be high, I think. He was definitely in Dominic’s circle, though. Definitely.”
“Well, that’s a hell of an important fact, don’t you think? How did he end up with the sister if he’s—”
“Just ask Harrison about him. See if he takes you somewhere different than he took me.”
“Which was?”
“Nowhere. Now, I don’t want you getting too heated with the questioning, Linc. You keep it toned down. We’re just feeling our way in the dark here. So you introduce Harrison to Kenny, and if the chance is there, maybe you ask him what he thought of the Italian guy, Salvatore. Whatever, we’re treading lightly at the start.”
Ken Merriman returned the next afternoon, to a hotel just off I-71 where he’d reserved a room for a full week. It was called a business suite and consisted of a bedroom, living room, and kitchen jammed into the same space as an ordinary hotel room, and when I made a joke about the place he told me I’d be more impressed by it if I’d seen the apartment he’d been living in since the divorce. I didn’t make any more jokes after that.
I’d already located Parker Harrison’s address and decided the way to approach him was in person and without warning. His sort of style. Besides, I wanted to see where he lived. There aren’t many things that give you a sense of people faster than seeing them at home, in their own environment. Maybe he wouldn’t let us in, but it was worth the try.
By the time I picked Ken up I was wearing the wire, just a simple seed mike that clipped to the inside of my collar and connected to a digital recorder fastened on my belt. I had a button-down shirt on, untucked over jeans, and it hung low enough that it covered the recorder even when I lifted my arms over my head.
In addition to the recorder, I had my Glock in its holster at my spine, and the feel of those things, the hard press of the gun and the cool, light touch of the wire running along my back, reminded me what I loved about my job. At some point during that preparation, testing the equipment and putting it on, I began to relish my role. After a few weeks of insisting I wanted no part of it, I was ready to go. A man had been killed and buried in the woods, and for twelve years nobody had answered for it. Whether Parker Harrison had killed him or not, he’d wanted to play games with me, writing his letters and telling his half-truths. Well, all right. If he wanted a game, I was ready to give him one.
The adrenaline was still riding with me when I got to Ken’s hotel, and as I stood in his cramped room and explained things to him, he began to grin.
“What?” I said.
“You’re fired up, aren’t you?”
“Just ready to go. That’s all.”
“I was expecting more of the whining,” he said. “You know, gloom and doom, all the reasons we should be playing chess or knitting or whatever instead of working this case.”
I thought about what he’d just said and shook my head. Holy shit, I was turning into my partner. I was turning into Joe.
“You want me to take the gun out, fire a few rounds into the ceiling?” I asked. “Maybe bring along a pump shotgun?”
“It doesn’t need to be that exciting.”
“All right. Then let’s get to work.”
Harrison lived in an apartment in Old Brooklyn, not far from what had been Deaconess Hospital when I was a kid. My father was an EMT who’d worked out of Deaconess for a while. It was an area that had gone through plenty of cycles in a fairly short time, hit hard by poverty and crime only to come back a few decades later with skyrocketing house values. Harrison’s apartment building wasn’t attractive—a two-story brick rectangle with all the aesthetic appeal of a shoe box—but it was clean and bordered on either side by nice homes. There were only ten units in the building, and Harrison’s was located at the front, on the ground floor. I had no idea what he did for a living or what he drove, so it was anybody’s guess whether he’d be home. One way to find out, and that was a knock at the door.
He didn’t answer. Nobody did. It was pushing on toward five, but early enough that most people would still be at work. We got back in my truck and went up to Pearl Road, found a restaurant with a bar, and killed an hour and a few Coronas. At six we returned to the apartment building. There were more cars in the lot, including an older Toyota pickup parked directly in front of Harrison’s unit.
I pulled in next to it, cut the engine, and resisted the urge to double-check my recorder on the off chance that Harrison was watching. That’s one of the challenges of wearing a wire: You’re constantly aware of it, but your goal is to make sure nobody else is. I’ve found the best approach is to try to let it float at the back of your brain. Don’t forget you have the thing on—do that and you’re bound to screw up—but don’t worry about it, either.
When we reached the door, I could hear music inside the apartment, some soft blues that was turned off as soon as I knocked. A brief pause, Harrison probably taking a look through the peephole, and then the door opened inward and he said, “Don’t tell me the check bounced.”
