by Nenny May
“I can’t be completely off the Harrington case!” Watson shrugged.
“Take it up with Sheriff Robinson.” Barron didn’t want to do that, but he didn’t have a choice. And so, he’d nodded towards Watson and said;
“Fine. I will.” It was better than willingly relinquishing complete authority over Lawrence Harrington’s case. He owed it to Lawrence. It was the least he could do.
He only hoped it wouldn’t cost him his job.
“Christina Gresham?” Asked the strange familiar voice. He’d approached with caution. Almost as if he was frightened of her. If only he knew, even just a little about how her mind had been splintering records and running a mile a minute. She knew him. He wasn’t all that strange to her. She didn’t know him personally. Not exactly. But she’d seen his face before. She hadn’t seen his face at Wellington & Turner… No, she’d seen him around Gresham Square. Yes, Gresham Square, that’s where she knew him from. She didn’t go there all too often to know its employees upon first glance, but when he was one of the grinning-over-paid-receptionists, then she was more likely to remember that face. Jack Patrick was a tall man with eyes of the Hudson river, and skin the Fitzpatrick scale would pen as type three. “I’m Jack, Jack Patrick… I don’t know if you remember me. I worked at Gresham Square,”
Christina blinked, for a moment, startled. He’d written the note? He’d written the note. It made sense. “I remember.” She said. She didn’t remember much, but his face wasn’t strange to her. He wondered whether he’d confessed to Colleen Harlow about what he knew about Lawrence Harrington’s passing. Had he confessed to the District Attorney Harper Berkeley? “It’s nice to see you again, Jack… You wrote the note?” He’d offered her a seat by a bench beneath a broad trunked oak tree. Christina had walked passed that bench, that tree. At the time, before Jack Patrick had arrived, the bench had been occupied by a family of three. She hadn’t paid them much attention. Nothing more than a glance. She’d been tempted to look over her shoulder at them, to scream at the top of her lungs that they reminded her of her family after the death of Michel Gresham. That family had her recalling Olivia Gresham’s attempts to put together the pieces of their family. Her endeavors were glue to the fragments of what was once a portrait of a family. It held it together, but the cracks like scars still ran deep almost testing just how long before the pieces fall apart. Christina had learned at an early age, that sometimes those pieces don’t fit back together. After all a piece of this portrait had been taken out. But was there anything wrong with that? That was a question she didn’t have an answer to. There were too many things to look into before she found an answer to such a question, and she didn’t think she had it in her to pick at old wounds.
Nodding, Christina joined him by the bench. She’d looked onto the expanse of grass and field before her. There were couples walking about below the glare of the woman of the sky, there were children running and screaming and in the distance a dog, wailing.
“I did.” Jack Patrick said. Christina turned to him.
“You know who killed Lawrence Harrington?” He nodded, stopped and shook his head. Her heart galloped in her chest.
“I didn’t see what had happened. It’s nothing crazy like that. No, no…but I have a theory I feel someone would benefit from knowing.” Christina rose a skeptical eyebrow.
The tweeting and chirping of birds bellowing their song and leaping from branch to branch in the broad trunked tree filled Christina Gresham’s ears.
“Why didn’t you go to the police about this?” He squeezed his face and shook his head, slowly.
“It’s an observation. A warning to you, I don’t think the police are going to benefit from this.” He’d looked away from her. She’d followed where he’d looking at, she didn’t know what had stolen his attention. He’d returned it back to her. “Things are not looking to good for Terrence.”
“What do you mean?” Christina leaned forward, her left leg tucked behind her right leg and thighs pressed together.
“Terrence didn’t kill Lawrence, but he’s going to go down for the murder.” She frowned, slightly confused. “The police don’t know where else to turn. He’s their primary suspect and their only lead. They might use something small to bring him as a means to close their case. He already had enough of an involvement, but he didn’t pull the trigger on Lawrence. Someone else did.”
“Who then?” Christina was getting exasperated. Jack Patrick ran his tongue over his bottom lip. His shoulders rose and slumped. “How do you know Lawrence didn’t pull that trigger?”
“I was with Terrence.” He answered easily. “We were discussing my future with Gresham Square. I wanted a raise. And we were at Gresham Square till there about 1:53 A.M. According to the morning news, Lawrence had been shot between 1:25 A.M. to 1:30 A.M.”
“And you can testify that you heard a gunshot?” Jack shook his head. No.
“We’d heard Lawrence scream. We’d heard things fall. We’d dismissed it as he was… coming to terms with being released from the firm.” She wasn’t satisfied. She’d been to Gresham Square, on the way out from Terrence’s office plagued by dull hues, they would have had to pass Lawrence Harrington’s office. How hadn’t they seen the body and reported it? She needed to speak to Terrence. He was the only person that could clarify everything, that could vouch for Jack Patrick’s claims.
“How hadn’t you noticed the body on the way out?”
“The lights to the office had been shut off. It was the dead of the night and the body had slumped behind the newly imported desk.” That desk. Why did she feel the desk had some importance in Lawrence Harrington's death? Who had placed the order for it? She’d heard it mentioned at Gresham Square the night Lawrence’s body had been uncovered.
“Who had placed the order for that desk?” She voiced. He shrugged.
“I had seen men, earlier that day bringing in boxes. I hadn’t left my post at the front desk, and I hadn’t really paid much attention to Lawrence’s office… though Colleen Harlow had. During her break. Long before Lawrence had come back to Gresham Square that evening, Colleen and some colleagues had gathered by the entrance to Lawrence’s office.”
“You think they were talking about the desk?” He nodded.
“They had to. There was too much gossip swirling around the office, it only made sense that they were. There were claims that Lawrence had been let go, some people had sparked rumors of Gresham Square getting a new named partner and… the desk was almost like a confirmation, not to mention the sudden change in the company’s cameras.”
“And Terrence had instituted these changes?” Christina needed to see Terrence. Now more than ever, she needed to speak to her father.
Chapter NINE
Sheriff Robinson hadn’t been at his office, at least that’s what Detective Harrington had been told. He wasn’t too pleased by this. It wasn’t a dead end. It was a temporarily closed road that gave him time to deliberate. What exactly had he prepared to tell the doughy man? Had he intended to waltz into the Sheriff’s office and question the large man’s decisions? Not exactly…Was he going to explain that he had to avenge his father’s death and that was the primary reason why he had to remain at the very least involved with the Harrington case? Was he going to add that however being displeased with Detective Mathews sitting point on the case he’d humbled himself and settled in the position of deputy, a mere partner to the detective on the case? No, he couldn’t say that either. It was unprofessional. Whatever he’d had to say that brought him all the way out of Harlem and towards the Bronx by Morris Avenue, he would have to swallow it. As bitter of an after taste it had, he would have to make do with it. But Goddamnit! He didn’t need to be side lined, not like this.
“Did he say when he was going to be back?” Detective Harrington asked the man at the front desk. The man whose name tag read Harriet glimpsed up from where he’d been occupied with his computer. He wasn’t a snarky man; neither was he a man of many words.
&
nbsp; “He seemed to be in a rush. What’s this concerning?” Harriet’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“A job, particularly mine and where it could be headed.” Barron shoved his hands into his pockets. Harriet shook his head.
“I could pen you down for an appointment for tomorrow?” The following day, did Harrington have anything sketched down for the following day? He couldn’t bring anything to mind aside from maybe paying Juliana and Claire’s neighbor Rosaline a visit. Melancholy was an unwanted guest on his chest. He would be working outside his jurisdiction conducting an interrogation into the woman without the backing of 28th Precinct. Goddamnit! He didn’t need Sheriff Robinson’s intervention. How was he supposed to face another case? How was he supposed to head back to Jeffery’s for yet another suspect profile or head down to a new crime scene as if his father’s investigation wasn’t sitting behind his eyelids whenever they would flutter shut? He needed to put Lawrence’s case behind him and the only way he could do that would be to sit point or at most deputy to the Harrington case. He couldn’t and wouldn’t be picky, not now.
“Tomorrow would be fine. Thanks.” Barron said.
Harriet occupied himself with his keyboard. He would have enough time at night to decide what points he would bring forth. It was better this way, with his position on his father’s case on the line; he didn’t need to barge into the situation.
“Sheriff Robinson has nothing lined up for noon, so… I guess I’ll see you at noon.” Harrington nodded and parted ways with Harriet.
Out into the retreating sun, a soft breeze whipping at his cheeks and exposed ankles, Harrington had his head hung low, hands still jabbed in his pockets, shoulders slightly perked. He could feel the tension that had him captive. It was a pair of strong hands pressed against his back, it was a voice telling him there was nothing he could do, it was a dread that had morphed from the melancholy in his chest. He wasn’t in a haste to climb back into his car and rip into the open road. He’d been driving for too long. From point A to point B. His temper tested by rattled Manhattan road users; many of them, more than he could count, rode the road as if they’d gotten their motor skill online. He’d met too many people in too little time, one face after another, deceived by the belief that one of them would have the answer he so desperately needed. Hoaxed into assuming someone would know what had happened to Lawrence Harrington.
He needed a breather, a time out. Where would he even go if he leaped onto the I-95 S? He pulled out a hand, the one with his watch—It was an old Paiget he’d had for quite a while. Nothing near Lawrence’s standards. Barron didn’t even know if his father’s taste in brands had turned bland in his last years, but the Lawrence he’d known was a man who’d sat in the lap of luxury and nestled at its breast—the time read 5:15 P.M., his work day would be over before he made it back to 28th precinct. He wasn’t going to go back there now.
Heading home didn’t appeal too much to him either. In fact, he was tired of it. He’d day by day since Lawrence’s passing, begun to loathe his old, cold Harlem apartment. This hadn’t been a problem before. With his head buried in the career ground like an Ostrich, Harrington hadn’t particularly noticed how lonely his apartment had grown. It was a mess of papers and old pictures of Lawrence he’d stolen from Juliana and Claire’s apartment. His apartment was a quiet space, a functional space. It was a place to prepare a quick meal, to catch up on sleep if he could manage a wink and it was a restroom. It wasn’t a home. Claire and Juliana had that. They had neighbors that gossiped. Barron seldom heard from his neighbors. Many years with the same man living across the hall and he hadn’t spoken a word to him since the first time he’d moved in after college at California State.
Juliana and Claire had neighbors that gossiped… The same running mouths that had carried details about Lawrence Harrington’s bankrupsy and Juliana Harrington’s affair had to have carried like a current, who she’d had her affair with.
Despite not wanting to, Barron Harrington had found himself behind the wheel, his engine humming to life as he pulled out of the Bronx and onto the I-95 S towards Manhattan Valley. Despite the cluster at W 98th Street by West End Avenue, Harrington had managed to make it in less than half an hour. It wasn’t too late for a visit to the elderly couple. At best they would be settling down for the evening. That didn’t mean he could linger too long outside his childhood apartment building.
He knew the route all too well. This time, he hadn’t been taken aback by the pictures that lined the stairs. He’d headed three doors down from where he’d been raised and he’d knocked gently. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, his palms clammy, Barron Harrington had knocked again. In wait he’d let his eyes amble over three doors down. A soft panic swirled, his eyes retreated. Would Claire or Juliana step out into their hall? What would Juliana have to say after their discussion at the crematorium? Were the pair even home? Barron Harrington never got an answer. He never wanted one to begin with.
Softly, the door drew open with a creek. Rosaline King had been dressed down in a night robe, her hair encased in a bonnet that wailed a bright pink. Come to think of it he couldn’t particularly recall what her hair had looked like during their last conversation. Barron didn’t particularly grow up with too many cartoons being an outdoorsy child but the woman before him resembled Muriel from the Courage the Cowardly Dog animated series. She smiled up at him. “Barron!” She’d called out drawing the door open further and taking a step back for him to join her in her home.
Cinnamon.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. King.” He inched further into her apartment, put at ease by the faded scent of cinnamon that wafted across his nostrils. Her apartment much like what he’d expected boasted of an elderly woman’s touch. Floral furniture had been scattered about, the walls bright beige and the carpet a clean yet tired orange. He didn’t know much about the woman, if she’d had any kids, if they were grown and had their own, if she lived alone or with her husband? These were questions a quick eye sweep across her home couldn’t answer. There weren’t family portraits lying around, there weren’t frames of growing children. There were three pictures up on her wall and only one was a wedding picture.
In black and white the image shrieked a gleaming bride and an ecstatic groom. Nameless faces lined the frame; it was aged, faded and out of date.
“What brings you here at this time?” She tightened her night robe on her body. He took a step further into her home.
At the farthest end of the living room sat an old television on a coffee table turned television stand, and piled next to it were speakers; tall, fat speakers that had been hooked up to an amplifier. He wondered how long it’s been since the couple had used them, or if the building even permitted them to use it. On the wall over it, there’d been a picture of two men; one with his right hand over the other mans shoulder and both grinning at the camera. One of them had to be Morgan King. And the other, Barron recognized easily as Lynch a notable name in the world of investors.
He looked back at the petite old woman. “I think before I get into that, I should start over… I’m Detective Barron Harrington with 28th Precinct and we’re investigating my father’s murder.” Her eyes darted, left then right. She already knew who he was.
“You already know me.” A statement. She answered anyway.
“I know your family… We would talk, about you. And Initially, I wasn’t sure… but then I spoke to your sister after your visit, she confirmed who you were.” Claire had known about his visit… why hadn’t she said anything about it?
“I am here because I have a few questions that couldn’t particularly wait till morning.” Her eyes situated on the kitchen. His didn’t. They’d lingered by a wall safe by the kitchen door, barely concealed by the overgrown potted plant whose leaves rested against the metal door.
“That’s alright Detective, would you like some tea?” She was already on her way to her kitchen, even without an answer from Barron Harrington. What would an elderly couple need a wa
ll-safe for? Money? Didn’t they believe in banks? Documents? There had to be a safer way to store receipts and birth certificates other than a wall safe.
“No thank you, that wouldn’t be necessary.” She’d overlooked his response. This didn’t sit right with him. He followed her, not too close, but he’d lingered by the door to the kitchen. By the wall safe. It didn’t look recently touched, not that he would know. If anything she could have checked on whatever sat inside just before responding to his knocking at her door.
“My father’s death is one many people have been talking about and it’s getting quite hard to tell the truth from the lies, as you can imagine.” She’d reached for a mug from the overhead cabinet, he hadn’t missed the slight gallop in her fingers.
“Lawrence Harrington didn’t deserve to die like that, the poor thing. My condolences, Mr. Harrington.” She was putting in an effort, trying to maintain a steady voice. Harrington had been trained to listen further for little things, to observe the sudden dryness in her throat that had her pausing in the middle of the sentence to swallow. “And, I already told you when you were here last,” She reached for a bag of tea from the rack she’d had on display. “I only know how much he’d suffered in his last days from mail-room gossip… and his funeral had been all over the news and I couldn’t miss it considering this was someone I’d walked by on my way home, someone I spoke to in his apartment.”