It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the bar after the bright snow-lit day outside. As soon as they did, I noticed two things. One, the bar was nearly empty, with only a handful of patrons besides us. The location was one that didn’t have the advantage of the holiday shopper traffic. Two, I saw that Sandra Middleton was right. Harrington was easy to recognize by his ball cap and the half-moon-shaped scar on his cheek. Unfortunately, he was seated at the bar, and manning that bar was Oskar Weber, the owner. I tugged my hat down low on my forehead and kept my face down as I followed Carter in.
He made his way to a table not far from where Harrington sat, and I followed and took a chair that put my back to the bar. As I shrugged off my coat and felt along the edges of my hat to make sure my hair was securely tucked inside, Carter asked me what I wanted to drink. I decided to take a cue from the Signoriello brothers and go for an Irish coffee. I reached into my pocket for my wallet, but Carter waved the gesture away.
“Let me treat you for once,” he said.
I listened as he walked up to the bar and placed the order with Oskar.
“Coming right up.” I knew the voice belonged to Oskar, because I’d heard—and tasted—it before. He had a deep, gravelly voice that made my mouth burst with a taste like salty popcorn.
Silence followed, and it took all my willpower not to turn around to see what was happening.
Finally, I heard Oskar say, “What brings you out on a cold day like today?”
“Doing a little research,” Carter said, and I gave Oskar a mental kiss for providing us with the perfect opening. “I’m a writer, true crime stuff.”
“Oh, yeah?” Oskar said. “Good for you.”
Another brief silence followed, and I wondered why Carter wasn’t offering up more information, like the fact that he was working on the Middleton case.
Then I heard a different male voice say, “What kind of true crime stuff are you working on? I know a little bit about a big one that you might be interested in.”
Judging from the fact that the voice came from directly behind me and tasted like a marshmallow, I guessed that it was Harrington who asked the question. I realized then that Carter had been smart to wait and play it cool. His judgment of Harrington was correct. The guy was a publicity hound who couldn’t resist a chance to interject himself into the topic of conversation.
Before Carter could respond, Oskar scoffed a laugh and said, “Yeah, John here fancies himself as some sort of antihero. He thinks he brought down one of Milwaukee’s most infamous all by himself.”
“How’s that?” Carter asked.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of that Ben Middleton guy,” Harrington said in a self-important voice that had me envisioning him puffing out his chest. “You know, the one who offed his rich wife and tried to make like it was a carjacking?”
“Of course,” Carter said. “But that kind of story is as old as the hills. One spouse kills off another for money. I’m looking for the kind of stories that are a bit more off the beaten path or for something with a big twist.”
I wanted to turn around and give Carter a chastising look, convinced he was blowing our opportunity. Several more seconds of pensive silence ticked by while I steamed with impatience.
Then Harrington said, “What if there was a twist to the Middleton story?”
I could barely breathe as I waited to hear Carter’s response. “What kind of twist?” he asked finally.
“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you,” Harrington said cagily.
I heard a little tsk, which I was fairly certain came from Oskar, followed by the sound of drinks being slid across the bar.
“Okay,” Carter said with a hint of suspicion in his voice. “I’ll buy one for my new friend here, too.”
Oskar mumbled, “You’re wasting your money.”
“Well, if nothing else, maybe I can get a plot idea for a novel out of it,” Carter said cheerfully. The sound of another drink sliding followed.
Then Oskar said, “That’ll be eleven-fifty.”
I listened as Carter handed over his money, said, “Keep a fin for yourself,” and then got his change. “What’s your name?” Carter asked.
“John. John Harrington.” He said his full name with a voice laced with innuendo. Clearly, he thought it would mean something to Carter.
“Well, John Harrington, why don’t you come over to my table and tell me about your twist.”
Harrington needed no more encouragement. Seconds later he was settling into the chair on my right with his drink, and I got my first good look at him. He was rail thin, buggy-eyed, and had long, shaggy brown hair. His nose looked like it had been broken a time or two, and his fingernails had dirt caked beneath them. He reeked of booze. He took a big swig of his drink—the smell and the subsequent sound I heard told me it was scotch on the rocks—before setting his glass on the table. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “You look familiar,” he said, scrutinizing my face. “Do I know you?”
Before I could answer, Carter said, “This is Rachel, my assistant.” He set my Irish coffee down in front of me and put his own drink, a screwdriver, in front of his seat. Then he slid his laptop across the table toward me. “She keeps my notes.” Carter was good at distracting Harrington, because he quickly followed this with, “So tell me your story, Mr. John Harrington.”
I opened the laptop, turned it on, and launched the word processing software that was on it as Harrington said, “Don’t you recognize my name?”
Carter squinted and slowly shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
“I was the key witness in that Middleton case. I testified to the fact that I was the guy who sold Ben Middleton the gun he used.”
Carter gave him a skeptical look. “Can’t say I followed that case all that closely,” he said. “But if what you’re telling me is true, why aren’t you in jail?”
“DA worked me a deal,” he said. “No time and the charges dismissed if I told my story.”
Carter nodded thoughtfully. “And what is that story?”
“That a guy I know told me about some rich man who wanted to buy a gun that couldn’t be traced.”
I typed as Harrington spoke, but what came out on the screen was gibberish, because I was busy focusing on the taste triggered by his voice rather than the keys. So far it hadn’t changed.
“And you’re saying you sold this man that gun?”
“I did.”
“Where did you get the gun?”
Harrington shrugged. “If you know the right kind of people, it’s easy to come by.” There was a pompous, swaggering tone to his voice and a matching expression on his face. But the marshmallow taste didn’t change.
“And you sold this gun to Ben Middleton?”
Harrington hesitated, leaned forward, and looked around. “Maybe,” he said in a low voice. With this, the marshmallow flavor of his voice got a bit toasty.
Carter looked over at me with a tired expression. “I don’t have time for games, Mr. Harrington. Like I told you before, I’m interested in stories that have some kind of punch or twist to them. Not some crackpot who might have told a lie to the cops to get some attention.”
Harrington reared back, clearly offended. “I’m not some crackpot,” he said. “I supplied the gun that was used in that crime.”
We were back to plain old marshmallow, so I suspected this much was the truth. I was dying to ask Harrington again who he had sold it to, but I bit my lip. So far Carter was handling the man well, playing him like a fine-tuned instrument.
Carter stared at Harrington, who grabbed his drink and took another big gulp, draining the glass of all but the ice cubes. Apparently, he was trying to muster up his courage, because after setting down the empty glass, he looked around the bar, leaned in again, and said, “Being a writer and all, you’re like reporters, right? You have to keep your sources confidential?”
“Sure,” Carter said, and the taste of his voice changed, telling me thi
s was a lie.
Harrington looked around again and lowered his voice even more. “Because if it gets out that I lied to the prosecutor, they’ll send me to jail. There won’t be no deal this time.”
“Are you saying that your testimony in the case wasn’t the truth?” Carter asked in an equally low voice.
“I sold someone that gun, all right,” Harrington said. “But it wasn’t Ben Middleton I sold it to.”
The marshmallow taste didn’t change. I barely dared to breathe, lest I upset the momentum Carter had going with the man.
“Who did you sell it to?” Carter asked.
“I don’t know who the guy was,” Harrington said, and both Carter and I let out exasperated breaths. “But I might recognize him if I saw him again,” he added quickly, sensing our frustration.
Carter’s lips narrowed to a thin white line. “Give me a verbal description.”
Harrington looked toward the ceiling for a moment, then back at Carter. “My memory would probably work better if I had a little more of something to drink,” he said slyly.
Carter shot me a look, and I shook my head. I knew from past experience that alcohol could tinge the subtle changes in a person’s voice to the point where their lies became undetectable. Carter looked at Harrington and said, “You give me the description first, and then I’ll get you the drink.”
Harrington weighed the offer for all of two seconds. “Okay. Fine.”
“Hold on a sec,” Carter said.
He got up from his chair and approached the bar. Behind me I heard Oskar ask him if he wanted another round. “Not yet,” Carter said. “I’m wondering if you could give me a piece of paper, something plain and white, like from a printer.”
“I suppose,” Oskar said with a world-weary sigh. Then I heard him walk away, muttering something under his breath. He returned a minute later and said, “Here you go.”
Carter returned to the table, set the paper down in front of him, and took a pencil from his shirt pocket. “I’m going to try to draw this guy from your description,” he said to Harrington. “Pay attention and tell me what looks right and what looks wrong. Let’s start with what you can recall of the man’s facial features. What shape was his face?”
Harrington looked intrigued. I didn’t know if I looked intrigued, too, but I was. I had no idea Carter had any artistic talents.
“His face was kind of long and narrow,” Harrington began. “He was a tall dude, tall and kind of lanky, you know?”
Carter quickly sketched the vague outline of a long, narrow face and said, “Describe his eyes for me.”
“They were blue,” Harrington said without hesitation. “And he had blond lashes and eyebrows. Heavy eyebrows.”
Harrington and I both watched as Carter drew in two eyes and added some lashes and brows. “I assume his hair was blond?” Carter asked as he drew.
“What I could see of it was,” Harrington said. “He had a long piece that hung down over his right eye. Other than that I don’t know, because he was wearing a knit cap.” He paused and looked over at me. “Kinda like what she’s wearing, but his was black.”
“Good, good,” Carter muttered as he sketched away. He added the shock of hair and then sketched in the outline of a cap. “What about his nose? Was it big? Small? Wide? Narrow? Long? Pudgy? Upturned?”
Harrington looked up at the ceiling for a second. “It was long and narrow. But it was a bit hawkish, stuck out quite a bit.” He demonstrated what he meant by outlining the nose in front of his own with his hand. Carter continued drawing, and for a bit, Harrington just watched.
“Any facial hair?” Carter asked after he finished the nose.
Harrington grimaced. “Don’t know, because he was wearing a scarf wrapped around his lower face, like one of them muffler things, you know?”
“So you didn’t see his mouth or chin?”
“That’s right.”
Carter drew in the scarf and added a few shading details. He then turned the picture around to Harrington. “How does this look?”
“That’s good, real good . . . but not quite right.” He pulled at his chin and studied the drawing. “His eyes were closer together.”
Carter erased and redrew the eyes and eyebrows.
“That’s it,” Harrington said. “That’s the guy.”
Carter smiled. So did I, impressed with this newly discovered talent of his. Carter set the pencil down and slid the picture toward me. I studied it, saving it in my memory. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar and made me feel a sensation like cold water running over my feet.
“What was the guy wearing?” Carter asked.
“He was dressed kind of fancy,” Harrington said. “Oh, he tried to hide it by wearing faded jeans and a ratty-looking old parka, but it didn’t fool me. He forgot about his hands and feet. His boots were leather, expensive stuff, you know? And so were his gloves. I got a good eye for details like that.”
Carter nodded. “Anything else you can recall?”
Harrington thought for a moment and then shook his head.
“Thanks, man,” Carter said. “You’ve been a big help.” Carter took out his wallet, removed a twenty, and handed it to Harrington.
Harrington’s face lit up, but it didn’t last. “You aren’t going to tell anyone that I lied, are you?”
Carter gave Harrington an appraising look, which made the man squirm in his seat. “Your lie got an innocent man convicted,” he said finally. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
Harrington shrugged. “Who says the guy is innocent? Just because he didn’t buy the gun doesn’t mean he wasn’t the one who used it.”
“But it’s looking like he wasn’t,” I said, irritated with the man. “Ben Middleton may well be innocent.”
Harrington regarded me with an amused expression. “And just how do you know that?”
I stared back at him and didn’t answer.
It took several seconds before dawning kicked in with him. “Wait a minute,” he said. He looked over at Carter. “I thought you said you didn’t know nothing about this case. If that’s true, why would she say something like that?”
Carter smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly friendly smile. “We might have lied a bit,” he said.
Harrington clearly didn’t like this. He got up from his chair and stepped back from the table. “Everything I just told you was a lie,” he said, and the taste of his voice changed instantly, taking on a blackened, burnt marshmallow flavor. “I made it all up.”
“Did you?” I said. “And the picture? Was anything you told us about that true?”
Harrington’s mental wheels turned surprisingly fast. “Made it all up,” he said in a clipped tone. But that burnt taste remained. “Are you guys cops or something?”
Carter shook his head. “We’re just interested parties who don’t want to see an innocent man rotting in jail.”
“You can’t know the guy is innocent,” Harrington said again, and the burnt taste disappeared. Clearly, he believed Ben Middleton was guilty, most likely because that was the only way he could justify his lies to himself.
“He might be,” I said. Harrington looked like he was about to turn and run out the front door. The last thing I wanted was for him to disappear. We might need his testimony down the road, though I had doubts as to whether or not he’d be willing to give it and incriminate himself. So I tried to reassure him. “We have other evidence that suggests he might be innocent,” I said. “So you can relax. We don’t need your statement. We just wanted your help in verifying what we already suspected so we can get a lead on the real killer.”
Harrington weighed this for several seconds, looking back and forth between me and Carter.
“Can I ask you one more question, Mr. Harrington?” I said. I was fairly certain he was done cooperating with us, but figured it couldn’t hurt to try. I didn’t give him time to answer. “How much did the man in the picture pay you for the gun?”
He stared at me for severa
l seconds and then said, “Five hundred.” His voice tasted all burnt again.
“That’s a lie,” I said with a smile and saw Harrington’s eyes widen. “It was more than that, wasn’t it? You can tell us. We’re not going to turn you in to the IRS or anything.” He didn’t look convinced, so I upped the ante. “If you don’t tell us the truth, we will turn you in to the cops.”
Harrington ran a nervous hand through his shaggy hair. “Fine,” he said irritably. “It was a grand. And the guy handed me a photo and told me that if anyone questioned me about the gun, I was supposed to say that the man in the picture was the one who bought it. He said if it came to that and I did what he said, he’d pay me another grand.”
That piqued Carter’s interest. “How was he going to pay you?”
“Hell if I know,” Harrington grumbled. “I ain’t seen it, and I ain’t seen the guy again, neither. That’s one reason why I decided to tell the truth. He told me he’d find me after the deed was done, but he never did.” He let out a little puff of disgust. “That guy . . . ,” he said, pointing to the picture, “went back on his deal, so I figure my end of the bargain is done, too.”
The plain marshmallow taste flavored everything he’d just said, so I believed him. I looked over at Carter and said, “I think we have enough.”
He nodded, and the two of us shrugged back into our coats in preparation for leaving. Harrington watched us with a wary eye.
“You sure you aren’t going to turn me in?” he said.
I looked at him hard. “Not if we don’t have to,” I said finally. “But I hope this has been a lesson for you.”
“Yes, ma’am, it has been,” he said, suddenly all polite. “I really didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.” This last statement was flavored with burnt marshmallow.
I grabbed my crutches and got up from my chair, shooting Harrington a look of skepticism. Carter folded his drawing and tucked it into an inside pocket of his coat. Then he grabbed the laptop.
“Good day, Mr. Harrington,” he said as we took our leave.
Shots in the Dark Page 22