The Silent Hour by Michael Koryta Page B

other—"
        Ken
took it from there. I watched Graham, and when Ken explained that he'd been
called by Dominic Sanabria, the pencil stopped moving across the pad, and he
lifted his head much slower.
        "Dominic
Sanabria called you three days ago—"
        "That's
right. To ask if Lincoln was—"
        "I've
already heard the reason, Kenny. I'm wishing you might have found that
information worthy of my attention. I believe I asked that you pass such things
along."
        "That
was several months ago," Ken said.
        "I
don't recall putting an expiration date on the request." Graham stared at
Ken for a few seconds, then sighed and looked back at his pad. He took his time
with it, reading through all of the notes, and then he closed the notebook and
set it on the edge of my desk.
        "Was
supposed to have the day off," he said. "I decided, well, go in this
morning, get a few things done, be gone by eleven. Noon at the latest. Now I'm
in Ohio. That's the way the damn days off always seem to go. You think you only
got a few hours, then you're in Ohio."
        "We
could've waited," Ken said.
        "Oh,
no." Graham was shaking his big head. "No, this couldn't have waited.
This, boys, this is important."
        "Ken
told me he had the sense that Harrison was the focus of your
investigation," I said, trying to prompt a little information.
        He
was frowning at his notebook on the desk and spoke again without looking at me.
"If you were with the police, then you understand what a nightmare this
one is, Linc, my friend."
        Apparently
Graham liked to dispense nicknames. Too bad there was nobody in the world who
called me Linc, and I could tell from Ken's face that he didn't go by Kenny,
either.
        "It's
an awfully cold trail," I said.
        "Not
the only problem, Linc. Yes, the trail is cold, but it also starts in
Pennsylvania, beautiful Crawford County, over which I have jurisdiction."
He cocked his head and stared at me. "You know what's in Crawford County—
Woods. You know where I'm from— Philadelphia. Now, the woods are nice, sure,
but I miss sidewalks. Strange damn thing to miss, but it's true. I miss my
sidewalks."
        He
looked from me to Ken and then back as if he were disappointed that we didn't
chime in with our shared love of sidewalks.
        "Now
I work in Crawford County," lie said, "and the wonderful thing about
having a body dug up in the woods in Crawford County is that I get to go to
work. Bad thing is that in this case, all of the work to be done seems to be in
Ohio. That limits me. I've been out here before, spent a few weeks driving back
and forth after the body was ID'd, but it's a pain in the ass. An investigation
that requires I spend time in Ohio when my superiors would like me to be
spending it in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, which does in fact pay my
salary."
        He
sighed again. "And, you're right, the trail is cold. Twelve years cold,
and the people who left it, well, they're a different sort from you and me. A
handful of people who knew them suggested that Joshua might have been suicidal,
that he'd been depressed and secretive toward the end. You know what else those
people had to say— That if Cantrell actually committed suicide it's possible
his wife would have just buried his body, lit a few candles, and marched on. A
different sort, yes, they were. Ah, but the family ties— Oh, the family ties,
boys, they are tremendous. What I've got is a new-age, holistic healer
of a sister to a Mafia hit man. How about that— You ever heard anything
better—"
        He
turned his wide eyes to Ken. "Dominic Sanabria called you."
        "Yes."
        Graham's
head swiveled toward me. "And he visited you."
        "Yes."
        "Keeps
careful tabs, doesn't he—" Graham's eyes were on his notebook again, and
he was frowning, as if he were reading right through the leather cover and
didn't like what he read.
        "Harrison
sent