The Silent Hour

was as well cared for as the lawn. When we pulled to a stop behind the carport—there was a Honda Civic parked inside—I could see that all the blue trim was fresh, and the roof looked new.

“Not much house, but I’d take the view,” I said.

“No kidding.” Ken popped open his door, nodding at the Civic. “We’re in luck, too. Looks like somebody’s home.”

We got out of the car and walked up a concrete path to the front door. There were iron railings beside the two steps up to the door, and those, too, were shiny with a fresh coat of black paint. I pulled open the storm door to knock, but the someone was already at the door, swinging it open.

“Can I help you?”

“Mr. Dunbar?”

“That’s right.” He was probably late sixties and seemed more like an engineer or a math teacher than a retired cop. Neatly parted gray hair, slight build, three mechanical pencils and one red pen tucked into the pocket of a starched white shirt that he wore with black suit pants but no jacket or tie, so that it looked like a waiter’s uniform.

“My name’s Lincoln Perry. I’m a PI from Cleveland. Used to be with the department out there.”

“Am I the target of your investigation or a potential source for it?” he said dryly, a hint of humor showing in the eyes.

“With any luck, a source.”

“Come on in.”

We walked inside, and I crossed through the cramped living room to stand at the back window and look out at the lake while Ken introduced himself. Everything in the house spoke of an exceeding level of care, but you could see the age in it, too—old-fashioned doorknobs and hinges, a Formica countertop in the little kitchen beside us.

“Hell of a location,” I said when Dunbar finished addressing Ken and they joined me in the living room.

His smile seemed bitter. “You have no idea how often I’ve heard that in the past few years.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. It is a great spot, but you’ve seen what’s going up around it. Last fall someone offered me three- quarters of a million for the property. You know what my parents paid for it?”

“Fifty?”

He smiled. “Thirty-eight. We lived in Cleveland, and my father wanted a place on the lake for summer, and back then there was nothing out here.”

“You ever consider selling it?” Ken asked. “Money talks, is the rumor.”

“Money screams in your ear. No, I haven’t and I won’t. I’m retired, I live simply, and I cannot imagine being any happier than I am right here.”

Retired, and he was wearing a starched shirt and dress pants in his own home. Yes, the more I saw of him, the more he reminded me of Joe.

“Besides, I enjoy my legend in the neighborhood,” he said. “Would you believe that the garage next door is more than a thousand square feet bigger than my entire house? The garage.”

He laughed and turned away from the window, then went and sat on an overstuffed blue armchair and waved at the matching couch across from it.

“All right, if you’re not here to buy the house, then what is it? One of you from Cleveland and the other from Pennsylvania, this has to be interesting.”

“I’m basically riding shotgun on this one,” I said. “It’s Ken’s case, but I’m helping out with the Ohio end of it. We’re trying to find out what happened to a man named Joshua Cantrell. I don’t know if that name means anything to you.”

Even before I got that last part out, it was clear that the name meant plenty to him. The easygoing look went tense and, maybe, a bit sad.

“Oh, my,” John Dunbar said. “That one.”

“Yes,” I said. “That one.”

He was quiet for a moment, looking at the coffee table. “When you say you want to know what happened to him, you mean why was he killed. You mean, of course, what transpired that led to the man’s body being buried in the woods.”

“Yep,” Ken said. “That’s the gist.”

“Well, you came to the right place,” Dunbar said, and when he looked up at us there was no mistaking it this time—his face held sorrow. “I can tell you who I believe murdered him, but I can’t prove it. What I can prove, though, is who got him killed. There is a difference. Would you like to know who got him killed?”

Ken shot me a quick glance, eyebrows raised, and nodded. “We sure would.”

John Dunbar lifted his hand and gave us a child’s wave, all from the wrist. “Right here,” he said. “I got him killed, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I might pour myself a drink before I tell you the story.”

18

__________

He went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard and withdrew a bottle of Scotch that was nearly full. We waited while he opened another cupboard and spent a few seconds scanning the inside before selecting a juice glass. When he twisted the cap off the bottle it made a cracking sound, breaking a seal that had evidently enjoyed plenty of hardening time.

“Ken Merriman,” Dunbar said in a flat voice. “You’re the one the Cantrells hired.”

Ken raised his eyebrows. “How do you know that?”

“I was trying to assist with the investigation. The police side. I knew everyone who was involved, at every level. I never spoke with you because, frankly, I wasn’t interested in seeing a PI step into the case. Are you still working for them?”

“No.”

Dunbar waited, but Ken didn’t volunteer a client, so eventually he just nodded and sat down. He took one sip of the whiskey.

“We found you through a man named Mark Ruzity,” I said. “He told us you’d been sending police his way for years.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because he knows something that could help,” Dunbar said, and then he set the whiskey aside and got up and walked into another room, closing the door behind him. He was gone for maybe five minutes before he came back out and dropped a photograph in my lap.

Ken moved so he could look over my shoulder, and we studied the picture. It showed Dominic Sanabria and Mark Ruzity standing together on a sidewalk bordered by a wrought-iron fence. They both looked much younger. Ruzity was saying something to Sanabria, speaking directly into his ear. Whispering, perhaps. He had one hand clasped on the back of Sanabria’s neck, and Sanabria was leaning forward and listening with intense eyes.

“They knew one another?” Ken said. “How?”

“I’m not certain,” Dunbar said, “but you’ll be interested in the date that photograph was taken. It came a matter of days after the Cantrells disappeared.”

“Why do you have it?” I asked. “What’s your connection to their case?”

“You don’t know my personal history with Dominic?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

“John, we really don’t know much at all,” I said. “We’re not as far around the curve as you think. More lucky than good, maybe.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Still, in the interest of having us all caught up, let me explain. I assumed you read some articles about Dominic, the charges he always managed to slide out from under. I had the bastard once.