The Silent Hour by Michael Koryta

up the first
sheet on Bertoli. "Is this accurate— The release date—"
        "Yes."
        I
frowned and lowered the sheet. "Harrison was still there. Is that a
mistake—"
        "No.
Harrison was the first one to stay longer than six months. I have no idea why.
Maybe they thought he wasn't ready to move on. Maybe he was their favorite
felon. I really have no idea. Anyway, he did his six months, stayed on, and
then they brought Bertoli in, and the two of them lived there together briefly.
Then Bertoli was killed, and the Cantrells took off."
        "He
was murdered—"
        "Officially,
no. It's listed as an accidental death. He somehow managed to tumble off the
roof of a six-story building. Oops."
        He
looked at me with a grim smile, and I dropped my eyes and went back to the file
and read the details. Bertoli left the Cantrells abruptly, claiming to his
parole officer that he was taking a job at a restaurant in Murray Hill,
Cleveland's version of Little Italy. He never logged a day of work at the
restaurant, though. A few days after he left Whisper Ridge, Salvatore Bertoli
fell off the roof of an abandoned warehouse he had no reason to be in, and
Joshua and Alexandra Cantrell fell off the face of the earth.
        "If
there's anything related to the Cantrells that feels wrong, it's Bertoli,"
Ken said.
        He was
right. Bertoli felt wrong.
        "So
let me ask you this," Ken said. "If you've got this case, who of that
group interests you the most—"
        "On
the basis of his connection to her brother and his strange demise,
Bertoli," I said. It was as complete a lie as I'd uttered in a
while—Harrison interested me most, of course, but Ken's paperwork history
pointed in a different direction.
        He
nodded. "So it would seem, but the detective I talked with, guy named
Graham, was interested in only one person out of that group: Parker
Harrison."
        I was
really hoping he'd say Ruzity.
        "He
tell you why—" I asked, thinking again of Harrison's letters, how they'd
started just after Joshua Cantrell's bones were found.
        "Nope.
Was looking for information, not giving it out. He didn't ask any specific
questions about what I'd found on the other guys, though. Just Harrison."
        "The
current detective— Guy who's working on the Pennsylvania side, where the body
was found—"
        "That's
right. He was entirely focused on Harrison."
        I
didn't say anything. I'd been holding off on sharing my client's identity with
Ken because it felt like the right thing to do, but how honest was it— If I
didn't trust the guy enough to tell him that, then what in the hell was I doing
offering my help to him— You had to pick a side, sooner or later.
        I was
quiet for a long time, and Ken was watching me with a touch of confusion, as if
he didn't know what I was brooding over.
        "Last
night you wanted to know my client's name," I said.
        Ken
nodded.
        "Parker
Harrison."
        He
leaned forward, eyes wide. "You're shitting me."
        I
shook my head. "He'd written me letters for a few months, asking me to
look into it, explaining his history to me. I threw them all out. Then he
showed up in person and seemed reasonably sane and talked me into it. He didn't
mention that Cantrell's body had been found. Once I learned that, I quit."
"Did he know it had been found—"
        "Yes.
That's what bothered me. It was like he was playing a game." "You think
he could have murdered Cantrell—"
        "I
have no idea, but now you've got a better idea of why I wanted to stay out of
this."
        "Did
you talk to any cops about him—" "No."
        He
said, "Maybe you should. This guy I talked with, Graham." I didn't
answer.
        "You
say he was writing you letters for a few months—." Ken asked.
"Yeah."
        "Sounds
pretty strange to me, Lincoln."
        "He
sent the first one the week Cantrell's body was discovered." Ken