Free The Silent Hour by Michael Koryta Page A

business—"
        "I
got into the business because I got fired, Ken."
        "I
know that. You got canned as a police detective, and you set up shop as a
private detective. Why—"
        "It's
all I was qualified for."
        He
blew out a disgusted breath and looked away from me.
        "I
get your point," I said. "This has more appeal than an insurance
case. If I here's one type of detective I've never trusted, though, it's a
glory hound."
        "That's
not what I'm after, damn it. That's not what I mean at all." He sighed and
ran both hands through his sandy hair. His face had taken on a flush, and his
eyes were beginning to show the booze. "All I'm trying to say is, in
fourteen years I've had just one case that really mattered, and I didn't
accomplish anything on it. Didn't find their son. Now the son has been found,
and he's dead, and I'd like to be able to tell them why."
        I
looked away from him, suddenly wishing I'd let him go for that next round.
        "You've
had cases like this," he said, voice soft. "I've read about you,
Lincoln, I already told you that. You've had cases that mattered. Had cases
that… that people cared about. People other than you, people other than your
clients."
        "Ken,"
I began, but he was still talking.
        "My
daughter—she's fourteen—she's a fan of the police shows. You know, the TV
bullshit, none of it's close to reality, but she enjoys them. There are times…
times when she asks me about my job, and I find myself… not lying maybe, but
I'm spinning it, Lincoln. Trying to make it sound like more than it is. More
than chasing cheating spouses and taking pictures of accident scenes." He
pushed his empty glass away and forced a laugh. "I've had one too many if
I'm telling you this."
        I
didn't say anything.
        "You
don't have kids," he said.
        "No."
        He nodded.
"You don't have kids, you've never been divorced. You haven't watched some
other guy step into your daughter's life. Some other guy who is a damn doctor, Lincoln. A surgeon. Saving lives, right— That's what he does. I'm
out there taking photos next to a Dumpster, hoping to get a picture of some
loser kissing some tramp, hoping to go back to my client and say, yeah, turns
out your husband is an asshole—can I have my check now— Meanwhile, my daughter,
she's going home to that big house, waiting for her stepfather to drive up in
his Porsche with a story about a liver transplant or some shit."
        His
voice had been rising steadily, closing in on a shout, and he caught it at that
point, paused. The bar had filled in as the night grew later, and there were other
people in the dining room. I had my back to them, but I could feel the stares.
We sat there in silence, though, and once the rest of the room realized
        Ken's
rant had concluded, they lost interest and went back to their own conversations
and drinks.
        "I
know it's petty to care," he said. "I know that, but you try not
caring about something like that. You give that a shot."
        He
reached for his empty glass, wrapped his hand around it, and held it.
        "Ken,"
I said. "This case… nothing good comes out of working it. You do
understand that, don't you—"
        He
shook his head. "No. No, I do not understand that. What I understand is
that the man and his wife went missing, Lincoln, vanished and did not appear
again until his remains were found. So now he's dead, and she's still missing,
and his parents still have no idea what the hell happened. They have no idea
what went wrong in their son's life, how his bones ended up in the woods an
hour's drive from the million-dollar home he left without a word."
        He
looked me in the eye. "I want to tell them what happened. I don't give a
damn if it's the Sanabria family or the Manson family, or who that guy was
married to, I want to be able to go back to those people and tell them, this is
what happened to your