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He didn't get far away from Cohen Wellington's office before a hand reached out, ambushing his exit. With a slow burning flame in his belly and eyes steeled, detective Harrington gazed the olive hand wrinkling the sleeve of his Ralph Lauren blazer. The hand dropped, but Barron trailed it, needing to know who'd interrupted his disappearance.
Carter.
The recognition should have rung like a bell since he'd just stepped out of the attorney's father's office. But with features as stoic as a rock, Barron adjusted the sleeve of his blazer, waiting for an apology that never came. "I'm the one who sent the notes." The man before him seemed in his early thirties, with electric eyes and sandy hair, but there was a fear behind those eyes, and a crack in the baritone of the young man's voice. He possessed the kind of fear that has seen death and in those eyes Barron saw the truth, he was yet to hear it.
He'd approached the wrong Wellington.
"But before I tell you anything, I want to know how Christina is? I went over after her relapse and they didn't let me see her." Barron thought of how she'd looked the morning after she'd been rushed to the hospital. He thought of her and he saw a strength his own mother lacked, a fighting spirit. "She's one of my best friends and I want to know that she is fine."
"She's chirpy as a Cockatiel. Now tell me what happened on the night of my father's murder." The man ran a hand over his chin, suddenly restless. Barron Harrington detested the hesitance, he dreaded every moment that the thought he'd arrested the wrong man, was eating him up. His mandatory desire to seek clarity just seemed repeatedly hindered by the bright stupidity of men.
"Not here, in my office." But Barron was impatient. He didn't care about the camera's that watched him like a hawk, or the listening ears that lingered about. His father's case was barreling towards becoming a closed case, and he would stop at nothing to keep that from happening. The man with the electric eyes had already turned on his heel and begun towards the elevator.
Reluctant, Barron trailed the man in silence, rather deliberating the questions he'd long prepared since his father's body had been uncovered underneath the newly imported Italian desk. Why did he feel the desk had some importance in his father's death? Why was his body there? Under the desk when the body ought to have fallen beside the desk upon impact from the bullet? Why did he die the same day he'd received the delivery for a new desk? Could it be a delivery gone wrong? The likelihood of that seemed slim, then again, he was an officer and crossing out all possibilities was his job.
The attorney's office differed from that of his father's, where Cohen had morning hues on his wall, Carter's were dusky, similar to Terrence Gresham's office. The decor of the office differed as well from both Cohen and Terrence. Where Terrence didn't have pictures up, Carter did, where Cohen had a bar, carter had a foosball table. One he could swear wasn't there the last time he'd visited. With brows dipped, creases forming on his forehead and eyes, storm eyes calculating, Barron tried to remember, vividly his last visit to the 5th avenue law firm.
For one thing, this wasn't Carter's office, but at the time, it had been a shared space between two men. Barron wished he could recall more about the other man he'd seen in the corporate space.
"Are you going to talk now or should we step into the closet and disappear to Narnia where they can't find us?" Barron asked irritated that the man who'd brought him to the third floor office still remained tight lipped.
"I need immunity." Barron's frown deepened. He should have known the attorney's claims were bullshit. He should have expected something tied to the end of his statement. With hands shoved into his pockets, Barron heaved a sigh, though it did nothing to relax his muscles. Letting his eyes flutter shut, he thought of Christina and allowed his muscles ease, he thought of seeing her, he thought of making her laugh, he wanted to hear her laughter, would it be chirpy? A cackle that would make him laugh as well?
His eyes snapped open and he nodded. "Fine. I'll get you an immunity deal, if you tell me what I need to know and I see that it's worth an immunity deal. After all, you will be handing over a hardened criminal, that will make you a hero." Barron paused. "And no hero wants to fear for their life."
Nodding, Carter dropped to his seat behind his desk and Barron occupied the one opposite it. "Terrence didn't kill Lawrence. Peter White did, and I am willing to testify."
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To New York's Attorney | Completed
Mystery / Thriller"Was his DNA on the weapon?" Silence. "It's his gun right? He'd pulled the trigger right? Was Terrence Gresham's DNA on the weapon?" He ran a hand through his chestnut hair. "Maybe you're right, maybe we shouldn't think about Monday, but remember o...
