The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  “Yeah,” it did.

  “And you?” Grace asked. There was shuffling at the other end of the line, one Christina couldn’t decipher even if she’d tried. And so, she didn’t.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you convinced?” Christina drew her bottom lip between her teeth. Instinctively, a voice at the back of her mind rose to Terrence’s defense. No! The voice screamed. Why wouldn’t it? He was her father. He’d been through the wringer in the last few years. He’d buried his son, faced criminal charges, undergone an untidy divorce from his wife, and for the second time in about a decade, he was back on the radar of the authorities during a murder investigation. It almost felt wrong to point a finger at him. And yet, she’d bit back voicing a defense for Terrence. She had to ask herself before lunging into a response; how much did she know of the man she called her father? No, it felt wrong doubting him. But she couldn’t stop. The seed planted much too long ago had begun to grow.

  All those weeks at a time he’d spent with Lawrence wearing their relationship threadbare, had he developed a sense of animosity? And why couldn’t he bring himself to shed more light on the Sustainable Funds Conference he and Lawrence had organized? He’d mentioned something about it going down like a lead balloon. Perceiving things legally, however, she knew the likelihood of his distress provoking an actus reus, and it didn’t sit well with her.

  “I don’t know.” Christina finally said. There was another noise, it sounded like a pan placed over a stove. And then she remembered, she hadn’t had a bite to eat, at least not yet. And all deliberations involving getting up and throwing something together fell flat by the creased paper that sat on her comforter. Christina Gresham was home, but it felt nothing like home. And that piece of paper was the reason she’d lingered at Gresham Square until she no longer could. No, that again was a lie, there were multiple reasons. But it was one of them. Maybe she believed she could forget about the paper she couldn’t bring herself to rip apart. Maybe she believed that with the drama of Lawrence Harrington's gruesome murder, it would slip her mind. It hadn’t. The medical report still glared at her, a scar marked on every inch of her skin, she couldn't escape it. It was in her blood.

  “Lawrence didn’t deserve to die like that. No one deserves to die like that.” Grace lamented.

  “Yeah, no one does.” Christina offered, a single tear rolling down her cheek. She had to admit to herself, it was all but a matter of time. She could ignore the email, the medical report that sat opened, and re-read on her comforter even, but she couldn’t ignore the fact. She had leukemia. It was almost laughable how much effort she'd put in to prevent it. How many lies she'd told herself after her monthly tests.

  She wasn't going to get it.

  She wasn't supposed to get it.

  She was healthy. Did that mean Michel wasn't?

  He hadn't escaped it. He couldn't escape it and neither could she.

  The thought of attending chemotherapy had her stomach churning. She was weak, aching, but nothing compared to the hurt she'd felt watching Michel Gresham wither away each day like grains of dust in a whirlwind. She’d read the report more than once, more than twice, eventually, she’d lost count of how many times she’d forced her eyes to run through each bitter line. It was like a bad poem she couldn’t stop reading. She couldn't say she understood why even after prying herself from the single document, she still always felt lured to it. It was doubt, disbelief. That had to be the reason she’d compulsively reached for the report not too long after returning from Gresham Square. “Do you want to talk about it?” Grace asked into the phone. Christina muffled a cough and said;

  “Huh?”

  “You’re upset. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Christina bit back. “Yes,” She forced and took a breath. “I don't understand...” She started, eyes still latched on the piece of paper on her bed. No, she couldn’t continue. Not yet. Not now, Lawrence Harrington’s murder was a priority over her disease. She would deal with her cancer later. It didn’t work that way, but for one evening, it would. She deserved that at the very least. Everything had begun to seem all too real all too quickly. She cleared her throat, the back of her hand running over her dampened cheeks. She’d been muffling a sob, how would she be of the impression Grace wouldn’t notice? “I just got a bit emotional wondering what if Terrence was blamed for this, for Lawrence’s murder.” And just like that she’d lied knowing very well it was the first in a series of little white lies.

  “Heard from Terrence?” Grace asked, though there was something in her tone that seemed almost, alert; almost like she’d been updated. Christina’s brows creased. She’d pulled her device—now moistened by a layer of sweat from being pressed against her warm skin—closer to her ear.

  “Why what happened?”

  “You remember my fiancé Jacob? He just sent me a text. Terrence has been taken into custody.” Christina squeezed her eyes shut almost hoping that she could disappear and not have to deal with the scattered crumbs of her life.

  Detective Barron Harrington had been on his way to meet with the witness that had claimed to have carried out Terrence Gresham’s request to have the security systems of Gresham Square taken down. Upon reaching 28th precinct, Harrington had been informed of a witness report made over the phone. A man, an electrician by the name of Dryden had requested to meet with Harrington at Greenwich Village. At the time the information had reached Harrington, he’d been by Lieutenant Joseph Watson’s desk.

  “I owe you a beer, Watson.” Harrington had been saying.

  “You owe me more than just a beer, Detective.” Watson jabbed a finger towards Harrington. “I gave Mathews the order to step down from this case. I expect the same amount of professionalism as you would put into any other investigation.” Barron Harrington scuffed. “Remember how you handled the murder of Jess Ryder? I want that man on the job.”

  “Think I’m going to give this any less than my best, Watson?” He was cocky, unnecessarily. “I owe it to my old man.”

  “Don’t let me bring up your record, Harrington.” Barron waved aside Watson’s comment.

  “Look, this case is important to me.”

  “Exactly why I’m at the edge of my seat,” Joseph Watson said. “You have a conflict of interest.” The lieutenant pushed his round wired lenses further up his nose. “Sheriff Robinson’s putting a ton of pressure on me for keeping you front and center on this case.”

  “I know.”

  “Good, now don’t make me regret my decision.” Not too long after that, Joseph Watson’s secretary Lisa Montgomery had poked her head in, quickly informing Harrington about the witness report from Dryden. On his way out, Watson had called over him.

  “I’m going to take you up on that beer offer.” Barron had offered a half-smile on his way out.

  Harrington had been heading south on 7th Avenue, his mind riddled with questions, his chest clustered with guilt. He didn’t feel grief, not yet. He wasn’t willing to let those feelings in. He would swallow them, and even if he’d reach his breaking point, he would choke them down. After the case, he would let them wash over him, drown him if they liked. Though he hadn’t been able to shake the words that nagged at it him insistently; three days, the words said.

  Lawrence Harrington had been dead for three days. That was a long time for a father to lay dead without the knowledge of his son. It was merely an echo from the distance that ran between both men.

  Claire Harrington didn’t have that problem. No, she’d been the younger child, the one closer to Lawrence and Juliana Harrington. Barron was different, not particularly the black sheep, but not exactly the golden-child either. He’d had his life, his passions. He and Lawrence didn’t just click, their interests differed, they’d barely had what to talk about and one day, they just stopped keeping in touch. That is aside from the occasional ‘How are you’s here and there that both men would toss around. Better phrased, neither one of the men found it relevant to share their personal
lives, their accomplishments, their regrets. But that didn’t mean Barron didn’t have a warm spot for Lawrence. The man was after all his father.

  Though as he pulled into Greenwich Village, an artistic neighborhood on the west side of Manhattan, Barron knew the time wasn’t appropriate to lament over the opportunities he’d lost with Lawrence. That time would come, he reminded himself.

  He’d merged onto Greenwich Avenue and forked right, down to Charles Street where he’d pulled to a stop at a cafe, Rosemary Lane cafe. He’d parked his SUV by the front of the brick building. On the outside, it was a rustic themed cafe with windows that beckoned customers. Barron climbed out of his Kia Soul and into the afternoon sun. The weather above was gentle, the sun shying behind a skirt of clouds.

  Into the building, Barron ran his eyes over the welcoming decor of the small shop. It was wooden yet hung warm family portraits about the walls. Barron didn’t know who those people were or what they’d meant to the business, but he’d found his eyes fixed on a family of four; a little boy, a little girl, and their parents. Barron couldn’t remember the last time his family had updated the portrait that sat over their living room door in their family home. There was no reason to. Lawrence would never make it to whatever update they made to that portrait.

  Barron offered a sideways glance towards the counter, meeting with the sweet aroma of ground coffee and glazed doughnuts. He assumed if he’d bothered to step closer to the display he would be enticed by a fresh batch. He withdrew his stare and continued taking in the setting.

  From what Dryden had told Detective Harrington over the phone on the way over, the man had been waiting quite a while, perched by a booth at the farthest end of the petite coffee and pastry shop. Barron headed towards the last booth and said;

  “Dryden North?”

  “Affirmative.” The olive middle-aged man with a balding scalp nodded.

  “Detective Harrington with 28th Precinct.”

  “I think if you were anyone else and you knew my name and profile, I’d be worried.” The man mused, a hand stretched towards the empty spot in the booth. Barron took him up on his invitation.

  “I’m following up on your report. Where you mentioned taking down the security systems in Gresham Square hours before the murder occurred?”

  Dryden drummed his fingers on the table and said;

  “Yes. That day, Terrence had called my company, Dryden Powers. We’re a private company dealing with electrical facilities. And I had worked with Terrence years back in his apartment.” Dryden paused as a lean waitress with skin of silver and gold walked over to their table.

  “I suppose I can take your order now?” She’d been eyeing Dryden as she’d asked her question. Harrington took a peek at her name tag. It read; Melissa Stone.

  “Give us a few more minutes, Mel. The Detective and I are in the middle of something.” Dryden said. Melissa nodded flashing a concerned glance Barron Harrington’s way.

  “Alright, just wave if you need anything.” Dryden nodded, at the same time Barron said;

  “Actually, get me started with a cup of your darkest coffee.” He then returned his attention to Dryden.

  “Could use a kick to my day, apparently, a murder isn’t enough to keep these eyes awake.” Dryden sat unperturbed by Barron’s dark humor. “Anyway, go on, you were talking about how Terrence had you take down the security systems in Gresham Square?”

  “Exactly!” Dryden chimed. “This put me off as you can imagine, Detective. Because when I got there and took a good long look at the cameras he wanted me to take down, there was nothing wrong with them. He’d called me that day saying he needed someone last minute to take them down and replace them. I didn’t think much of it, because he could have wanted to replace them with a more state-of-the-art set of cameras.”

  “And he didn’t hint towards that being the case?” Barron idly reached for the salt shaker, wrapping his fingers around it.

  “I’ve been in this business for nearly a decade and usually when folks call me down for a job, they have me take down and install. It’s a half-off deal at Dryden Powers.” Dryden said. “I tried to tell Gresham, but that man just wanted those cameras out of the way.”

  Barron hummed, his brows creased. He’d given the little shaker in his grip a light twirl, letting Dryden’s words settle in.

  “Now I’m not making him out to be a bad person, he’s a client of mine; a good one for that matter. I just want the police to know what went down that Friday morning.”

  “Was there any mention of a particular day when the cameras were to be replaced?”

  “Detective, if he didn’t take me up on my installation offer, then I think there was no replacement. But to answer your question, he didn’t say anything about that.” Dryden ran a hand over his head gently massaging the balding spot. “And I was just there to do my job, so I took the cameras down and stored them in the storage facility by the employee parking lot, and took off.” By this time, Melissa had returned, placed Barron’s coffee on the table, and vanished.

  “I’ll make a call to have the CSI team take the cameras into evidence.” Barron returned the salt shaker to its rightful position by the pepper and took a long drag from his heated cup of coffee. “And was there a particular way he’d been acting, that day, if you got the chance to see him?” The warm bitter taste ravaged his tongue. He needed it.

  “Oh, I saw him. He mentioned something about a desk importation too! But that part wasn’t mentioned to me, he’d said it over the phone and I couldn’t help but overhear.” Dryden leaned further, his tone dropped. “There was something in that man's eyes that didn’t sit well with me, Detective. Gresham looked mad that afternoon, and I didn’t like it.” Barron took another drag from his coffee.

  “Were you able to get the contact he’d been talking to about this desk?”

  Dryden shook his head. “Unfortunately, No.” He picked up the menu that sat by his fingers and waved Melissa over. She’d taken her time getting to Dryden but when she had he’d informed her that he would be having a tuna sandwich on rye with a diet coke. She hadn’t bothered to write it down merely nodded and returned to her station behind the counter. “When I’d stepped into Gresham’s office,” Dryden continued. “He’d been about finishing the conversation. We talked about taking out the fire alarms, cameras, the weapon sensors, and metal detectors at the entrance doors and instructed my team to begin with the executive floor and the entrance.”

  “Oddly specific request.” Barron pointed out, speaking over Dryden.

  “Exactly! And, Detective, you and I both know that Gresham Square isn’t a small building. It wasn’t looking like a one-day job. So by lunch, my team called it a day, we’d only been able to take down the cameras at the executive floor and the weapon sensors.”

  “Meaning the metal detectors were untouched that day?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “This doesn’t sit well with me,” Barron said, leaning back in the booth. He’d allowed his eyes trail the pedestrians breezing along the street through the window. He’d trailed a proud couple cozying up beneath their colorful flag as they strolled along.

  “Me neither.”

  Barron returned his gaze to Dryden.

  “There’s no reason for those cameras to be taken down so abruptly. They weren’t broken or faulty and met company standard...”

  “If it helps, we never took down the cameras at the entrance.” Dryden offered.

  “Can anyone vouch for the presence of your team at Gresham Square that morning?”

  “Lots of people. An investment company with that kind of history and negative exposure, it would be suspicious if there weren’t people flowing in and out.”

  “Anyone specific?” Barron clarified.

  “The receptionists, the security officials, the doorman...” Dryden rambled.

  “That could help me.” Barron thought of the doorman. “Before I forget, you mentioned something about the cameras at the entrance?”

>   “We never got to them. Also, I know the floor plan of the cameras—the ones we took out and the ones we didn’t—I can email a floor plan? You could get some officers to look into those cameras for anything suspicious?” Dryden offered. Barron smiled.

  “That would be very helpful Mr. North.” Barron rose from his seat, reached into his blazer, and pulled out a contact card. “We’ll keep in touch,” Barron announced. Once the man had collected the card, Barron pulled out a twenty tossing it on the table. “Lunch is on me.” And with that, he’d turned and walked out of the petite cafe.

  Terrence Gresham was hiding something and Barron was going to get to the bottom of it.

  Christina Gresham had been deceived. She’d been acting off the impression that she had it in her to head down to 28thPrecinct where Terrence had been taken. That was yet another lie, a partial one. Because not too long after Grace Gresham had gotten off the phone, Christina had been knocked sideways by a wave of exhaustion that left her curled and asleep for a good six hours. Despite the itch in her initial agenda, she’d thrown on the same pair of shoes from the night before and flung her coat over her shoulders. With her keys jingling between her fingers, she’d headed in the direction of 28th Precinct. She didn’t particularly have a car, so she’d walked; not too long a distance to the train that ran south towards 125th Street. From there a cab had gobbled up the distance to 123rd Street.