43
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It was about twenty minutes before Cash arrived, and Darius and I did not speak during the wait. If you’ve ever wondered how long twenty minutes can feel, try spending them in total silence facing a man with a gun.
At some point while we waited, I realized that it was past nine but nobody else had arrived. Then I remembered the extra time that Darius had spent out in the garage before telling me his nephew was on his way. He hadn’t turned the CLOSED sign over until after that. Made some extra calls, maybe, told his employees not to come in? I’d chosen to make my return trip out here in the morning for a reason, thinking the place would be more active, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Of course, the only employees I’d seen here yesterday weren’t exactly the type of guys whose presence would reassure me now. I wondered if much actual work went on down here these days, or if it had become a cover operation for Cash Neloms.
When a car finally pulled in, Darius got to his feet, taking the gun with him, and walked over to unlock the door. He stood beside it and waited, and after a moment the door opened and a slim, athletic-looking black guy stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He looked first at Darius and then turned to me.
“Morning,” I said. “Thanks for making the trip.”
He was the same height as Darius but about eighty pounds lighter, with a shaved head that glowed under the fluorescent lights in the office. The family resemblance was clear. Same skeptical, watchful eyes and hard-line mouth and strong shoulders. What surprised me most was how damn young he still looked. If I’d seen him on a college campus I wouldn’t have even considered that he’d be anything but a student.
“D says you got a question for me?” he said. The words came slow, each one studied on before release.
“That’s right.” I went through the routine again, took the wallet out and opened it to my Ken Merriman ID and passed it over. With Darius, the idea had worked just as I’d hoped, maybe even better than I’d allowed myself to hope. I’d thought that questioning him and his nephew about Ken might not tell me what I wanted to know. They were used to questioning; they would know how to play the game by now. Pretending to be Ken, though, re- creating his visit as near as I could imagine it had taken place, seemed as if it might produce a different response, put a touch of deja vu in the air that would be difficult for even veterans like the Neloms to ignore.
Darius had looked at the ID and been momentarily frozen. Cash had the advantage of being forewarned, though, and instead of looking at it he took the wallet right out of my hand, ignored the PI license entirely, and slipped two of my credit cards out. Read the name on them, then held one up for me.
“Looks like you a little confused. Got a couple names, huh?”
I didn’t say anything. He waited for a long time, and then he slid the credit cards back into the wallet, closed it, and threw it at me. It hit me in the chest and dropped into my lap. I picked it up and put it back in my pocket, still silent.
Darius was standing by the door, the gun held down against his thigh. He was watching Cash more than me.
“So what you want, man?” Cash said.
I didn’t answer.
“You going to speak?”
Again I was quiet. I sat in my chair and did not take my eyes from his, tried to ignore the desire to glance over at Darius and make sure that the gun was still down. I’d see him if he moved. I’d see him.
“Man, say whatever the fuck you got to say.” Cash sounded agitated now.
I looked back with what I hoped was a steady, calm stare. He gave it almost a full minute before breaking the silence again.
“All right, then, get out. Come down here and waste my time, waste my uncle’s time? Get the fuck out.”
His voice was bridling with anger, muscles standing out in his neck. This was what I wanted. To see him frustrated. I wanted to drive him wild with silence. Have him unsteady by the time we got to the real talk.
“I’ma tell you
“I just have a few questions, Alvin.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“My name’s Ken Merriman,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Pennsylvania. I was hired by the parents of a man named Joshua Cantrell. He was murdered a few years ago. Twelve years ago, actually. Almost thirteen.”
He looked away from me and at Darius, and it took everything I had to keep my hand still, to keep from reaching for the Beretta. Darius hadn’t moved. His gun was still pointed down.
“Why you saying you somebody else?” Cash Neloms said. “Come down here and lie to us, you think that’s wise? Think that’s a good way to stay alive?”
“You’re right. I was lying. I didn’t come to ask questions. I came to give you some answers, if you wanted them.”
“I don’t even know who you are. You don’t got no answers I need.”
“I disagree.”
Another look at Darius, and I knew now that this was how it would go. If Cash gave him the right look, that gun was coming up.
“I don’t know what you been told, what you think,” Cash Neloms said. “I’m
“Don’t you even want to know how Cantrell’s body ended up in Pennsylvania?” I said.
That stopped him. His mouth closed and his eyes went hard and dull, and for a moment he seemed to have forgotten about Darius in the corner of the room. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten about everything but me.
“I thought you’d like to know that much,” I said. “As far as Ken Merriman is concerned, well, I don’t need to give you any answers to that one. You already know them. Same story with Salvatore Bertoli. Cantrell . . . I thought you might be curious about that one. Twelve years is a long time to wonder.”
“I don’t know . . .” It was supposed to be another denial, but he let it die, wiped a hand over his mouth and stared at me and tried to decide what to say. It took maybe ten seconds. “All right. I’m not saying I know what you talking about, but go on and tell it, if that’s why you came down here. Go on and tell it.”
“You know the name Dominic Sanabria?” I said.
“I might’ve heard it.”
“Yeah, I thought so. He’d like you to do him a favor. Man like that can be a good person to do a favor for, you know?”
“I don’t owe him any favors.”
“No? He might argue that.”
It was quiet again for a while.
“Well,” he said, frustration showing again, “what is it, man? You got to say it.”
“Dominic’s sister has been gone for twelve years. Lot of people looked for her. Police, family, private detectives, reporters. By this time, it seems like if she had anything to say to anybody like that, she’d have said it. Don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ll tell you what she told me,” I said. “She has a new life now. Doesn’t want to leave it. Doesn’t want to come back here, to the questions and the attention.”
“Why you telling me that?”
“The favor that Dominic would like you to do,” I said, “is pretty simple. I’ll put you in touch with her. Get you a meeting. You explain to her that Dominic had nothing to do with her husband’s death. That’s all.”
I expected he might give me disbelief or confusion or anger—anything but acknowledgment—but instead of speaking, he just looked at me for a long time. When he broke that silence, it wasn’t with an argument. It was a question, spoken soft and cold.
“Who are you?”
