The Silent Hour

“We’re going to talk to him?”

“Bet your ass, Joseph. We’re getting there. Getting somewhere.”

So Joe got back on the phone and asked for Tony, and they exchanged cursory greetings while I waited impatiently.

“Use the damn speaker, Joe.”

He ignored me, then told Tony he was calling to ask if the name Alvin Neloms meant anything to him. He listened for a while with no change of expression, then said, “Could you repeat that, please?” This time he finally hit the speakerphone button.

“I said Cash is the worst they’ve got,” Tony said. “One of them, at least. And down there? When I say he’s one of the worst, you know what I’m talking about.”

“Cash?” Joe said.

“That’s what he goes by, yeah. Comes from an old playground basketball nickname, everybody called him ‘Cash Money’ when he was a kid because he had a jump shot that just did not miss. In another neighborhood, another school, that kid plays college ball and goes to the league. No question. I’ve seen him play plenty. We had surveillance details on Cash for years, and even while waiting to bust his ass, I was impressed by his game. He played it like he loved it, you know? Then he’d go off and kill someone. It’s sad, is what it is.”

“What exactly is his story?” Joe said.

“Drugs and blood. He’s top of the food chain out there now. Nobody moves a damn dime bag through East Cleveland that he doesn’t know about.”

“He’s only been arrested one time? Charge dismissed?”

“The boy is good, got it? Runs a couple dozen gangbangers and pushers who take his falls for him and isn’t a one of them says a word, because if they do, they just dug a grave that fits them nice and tight. Cash runs shit organized, runs it like the damn Mafia.”

Joe cocked his head and looked at me. I didn’t say anything, didn’t respond.

“Unofficial body count credited to Cash Neloms?” Tony said. “Twenty. Maybe twenty-five.”

My chest muscles suddenly felt cold and constricted.

“You ever heard of him actually having mob ties?” Joe said.

“Nope. It’s all his show, Pritchard. His organization. And that shitty side of town drips with his blood.”

“Supposing we wanted to talk to him—” Joe began.

“Talk to Cash? On what?”

“Cold case investigation. Twelve years old.”

“Twelve years old? Twelve? Sweet mother, Pritchard, I’ll tell you this one time and make it clear as I can—this ain’t a man you talk to. Not a PI. I know you were police for a long time, but you’re a civilian now, and that’s a distinction that means something to Cash. Understand? You walk in that neighborhood asking questions about Cash Neloms, you better be wearing a damn vest and carrying with your finger on the trigger.”

“I’m advised,” Joe said. “Thanks, Tony.”

He disconnected, blew out a breath, and said, “Where are we going, Lincoln? Where in the hell are we going?”

I didn’t know. I stood in silence for a minute, trying to think, but there were too many pieces and too many ways they could fit, and I could not see the whole for the sum of its parts, couldn’t even get close. Eventually I picked up the phone and held it in my hand, thinking of Quinn Graham. I didn’t call, though. I hung up before the dial tone switched over to that rapid off-the-hook beep, and then I lifted the receiver again and called John Dunbar. I used the home number, and he answered.

“Hey,” I said, “it’s Lincoln Perry. You remember me?”

“You got something?” he said, and it was incredible how much anticipation was in his voice, how much hope.

“Yeah,” I said, “I got a question. You have access to phone records from the Cantrell house in the last few months they were there?”

“I’ve got the actual records. I told you, I kept everything. There’s nothing there. I’ve been over those—”

“Do me a favor,” I said, “and go find them. Check and see if there was a call to a guy named Alvin Neloms. Or maybe it was to an auto body shop on the east side. Look for either.”

He set the phone down and disappeared. It was maybe five minutes before he came back, and his voice was lower.

“There were three calls to a place called Classic Auto Body, on Eddy Road.”

“Were they all during Bertoli’s stay?” I said. “The last weeks anyone was in that house?”

“Yes.”

“Hang around, Dunbar,” I said. “I’m headed your way.”

I disconnected then and turned to look at Joe.

“The problem with this job,” I said, “is that the guesswork always comes before the facts. I’m pretty sure that system put Ken in his grave.”

40

__________

I had to give John Dunbar credit—he didn’t balk at the idea. In fact, what I saw in his face when I laid it out for him wasn’t denial but shame. He actually seemed to wince when I showed him the police report that mentioned Bertoli’s car at the time of his arrest and explained its similarities to a different car that had been near the death scene.

“I knew what kind of car he had,” he said. “Of course I knew that, and I knew that’s what got him arrested, but I didn’t consider that it would have any importance beyond that. I didn’t consider it.”

He bit off that repeated line, angry, self-reproachful—I didn’t consider it. Joe hadn’t said much at all, but he looked at me when Dunbar said that, gave a small nod, showing that he thought it was legitimate.

“I knew it was Alvin Neloms who was in the car with Bertoli the night he was arrested,” Dunbar said. “Of course I checked that out, of course I knew it, of course I did the same work you just did. Back then he was nothing more than a kid on the corner, someone who watched for police and maybe did a little muling. He was sixteen.”

“He’s not anymore,” Joe said. “According to what we’ve been told, he’s as close to a drug kingpin as the east side has. It’s gang country out there; you do well to last six months. Neloms being around this many years later, that tells you something.”

Dunbar’s eyes flicked side to side but held distance, as if he were watching a film.

“DiPietro was providing some of the east side supply,” he said, speaking slowly. “That was the point, see, that’s when he and Sanabria had their first falling-out. Sanabria didn’t trust drugs, and he certainly didn’t trust blacks. His father was of that old school, racist, and I’m sure that stuck with Dominic. He did not want to be involved with the drug trade on the east side. We knew that, knew it from wiretaps and informants and a hell of a lot of work. We knew that Dominic was furious with DiPietro.”

He paused and took a breath and then said, “Dominic killed DiPietro,” but his voice had gone soft and he wouldn’t take his eyes off the police report that detailed Bertoli’s car.

As I watched his face, I felt tinged with sorrow. I was looking at an old cop who’d believed something very deeply and was now considering that it might have been wrong.

“You talked with a cop from East Cleveland,” he said. “Someone who knows about Neloms.”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“Can you call him back?” Dunbar said. “Can you ask him a question?”

“What am I supposed to ask?”

“If he has any idea when Alvin made his move into the power structure. If he has any idea where the supply came from. A small fortune of drugs disappeared when DiPietro got whacked. They never turned up with the