Shots in the Dark (23 page)

“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 this 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 several 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.

Despite the reassurances we'd given him, I had a strong feeling John Harrington would disappear, just in case we reneged on our promise. Hopefully, with the information he'd just provided, we'd be able to find the proof we needed some other way.

“I had no idea you could draw like that, Carter,” I said once we were outside.

He shrugged. “I got myself through college by drawing portraits of people. At one time I thought I might try to make a living with my art, but I'm not very good at coming up with anything original. And my writing muse sang a more alluring song.”

“You could get a job as a police sketch artist,” I said. “I'm sure it has to pay more than waiting tables.”

“I looked into it, but the demand isn't as great as you'd think, especially these days, when everything seems to be caught on camera and done with computers. Neither is the pay.” We had reached the end of the block, and he nodded to our right. “The car is just another block over. Want to wait while I get it, or can you make it okay?”

“I'm good,” I said. “As long as I take it slow. The sidewalks here are relatively clear.”

He nodded, and we waited for the light to change so we could cross the street.

“I have to say, I'm impressed by all your hidden talents,” I said as we stood there.

“
All
my hidden talents?” Carter said with a quizzical smile.

“The way you handled Harrington back there. I thought you were blowing it a couple of times, but you psyched him out perfectly. You played the man right into our hands.”

“Oh, that,” he said. The light changed, and we headed across the street. “You can thank Sam for that. I've picked up a lot of psych stuff helping him study over the years.” His mention of Sam reminded me of Tiffany's paintings. I wanted to chat with Sam to see what he thought about them. “What was your take on the stuff Harrington told us?” Carter asked.

“I think he was telling us the truth. I picked up on the lie about the money because it made the flavor of his voice change dramatically. And it changed again when he told us that he'd made everything up and none of it was true. So I think your picture is good to go. Now all we have to do is find out who really bought that gun.”

“And just how are we going to do that?”

“I think we need to dig a little deeper into Tiffany Gallagher's life.”

* * *

We arrived back at the bar at 4:35
P.M.
, and I saw that Mal was seated at the bar. I sent Carter upstairs to the Capone Club room, telling him I'd join the group a bit later and claiming I had some bar business to tend to. In the meantime, he could share the information we'd gleaned from Harrington with the others.

I walked over and said hi to Mal, who kissed me on the lips. It wasn't a long or particularly romantic kiss, but it warmed me down to my toes, nonetheless. Maintaining this little subterfuge about the two of us dating was getting more dangerous with each passing day.

I checked in at the bar—Billy and Teddy were both on duty—and things seemed to be moving along well. Then I invited Mal to join me in my office. He followed me there, and once I was inside, I took off my hat and coat and filled him in on our visit with Harrington. “Did you come up with anything?” I asked him when I was done.

“I did. I got ahold of Ben's attorney, and she was able to call the prison and talk to him. He told her that Tiffany had mentioned the dog thing once, saying how much it had upset her. The story she told him was the same one Sonja's client relayed, that the dog was a family pet but had always favored Tiffany, and that for some reason, it bit her brother Rory one day. Then Colin shot and killed it.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Rory is a bit of a strange duck, so maybe he did something to provoke the dog.”

“It's an interesting bit of insight into the family's dynamics, but I don't see how it helps us.”

“No, I don't, either.” I glanced at my watch and saw that it was three minutes before five. “I need to disengage the alarm. Duncan will be here in a few minutes.” I walked over to the alarm control panel and flipped off the switch for the alley door. I looked back at Mal. “Can you do sentinel duty in the hallway for me while I let Duncan in?”

“Sure.”

We left the office and went down the hall toward both the back alley door and the entry to my apartment. The hallway was empty at that moment, so I unlocked the door to my apartment. I was about to open the alley door when two women entered the hallway from the other end, heading for the bathroom. Caught nearly red-handed, I knew I looked guilty. But Mal covered by stepping in front of me and effectively blocking the girls' view.

He placed both of his hands on the back door, leaned in close to me, and whispered, “Kiss me, or they might think we're up to something.”

He lowered his face to mine, and our lips met. I heard the tittering of the women down the hall, and a moment later I heard the bathroom door open. The receding sound of their voices accompanied the closing of the door.

Mal pulled away quickly. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I didn't know what else to do.”

“That's okay,” I said, a little more breathless than I liked. I peered past him down the hallway. It was empty. “Let's do it.”

I turned around and opened the alley door, hoping Duncan would be there waiting. He was, and as soon as the door was open, he stepped inside and sidled into the foyer area leading up to my apartment. He was wearing the same bulky parka he'd worn on a previous visit, and he also had on a fake beard, a mustache, and a wool cap that was pulled down low over his ears and forehead.

Mal and I stepped into the foyer, and I locked the door behind us.

“Good disguise,” Mal said to Duncan.

“Thanks,” Duncan said. “But I may have to come up with a different one. This damned beard and mustache itch like crazy.”

We made our way upstairs, the two men sandwiching me in the middle, with Duncan in the lead and Mal bringing up the rear. Once we reached the dining room, I pointed to the box.

“There it is,” I said. “We handled it with gloves on the entire time, so if there are any prints on it, they won't be ours.”

Duncan shrugged his coat off and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. “I brought a fingerprint kit with me,” he said. “I'll dust it before we do anything, and if there are any prints, I'll take them in and get them run.”

“With a cover story, I assume.”

Duncan gave me a patient, somewhat patronizing smile. “Yes, with a cover story. The same one I used last time, that someone is stalking my sister.”

“Can't we open the box and get the letter out first so we can read it?” I asked. “The suspense is killing me, and if history holds true, there will be another deadline. Every minute counts.”

Duncan looked at me and then at Mal, who shrugged.

“As long as we wear gloves, it shouldn't make a difference,” Mal said. “Besides, there probably aren't any prints on the thing. So far this letter writer has been exquisitely careful not to leave any incriminating evidence behind.”

I pointed to the boxes of gloves—two different sizes—sitting on the table. “They're right there,” I said in a hopeful voice.

“Okay. Fine,” Duncan said in good humor. I'd feared he might be annoyed, so I was pleasantly surprised by his rapid and agreeable capitulation.

After we all donned gloves, Duncan opened the metal box and removed the envelope. He flipped it over, revealing a folding metal clasp on the other side. The edges of the envelope flap were raised slightly, indicating that it hadn't been glued down. Duncan pried up the metal tabs and opened the flap. The piece of plain white paper was still on the table from earlier, and he carefully reached into the envelope and removed the contents, holding everything over the paper.

Like many of the letters before it, this one was a single sheet of plain white paper folded in thirds. Duncan carefully unfolded it and held it up for all of us to see. It was written in a calligraphic style with black ink. The smell of it was essentially the same as that of the ink used in the other letters I'd received.

“Damn it!” Duncan said when we'd finished reading the letter. “Now this bastard is threatening you.”

Mal said, “This is getting to be a bit much. I think the writer is tiring of the game and Mack's success with it.”

Duncan nodded his agreement. He set the letter down on top of the sheet of blank paper, and we all stared at it in silence. “What does this one mean?” He looked over at me. “Mack? Do you sense anything?”

I did sense something odd about it, something in the words themselves. “The ink used in this letter smells like the ink in the first letter . . . mostly, anyway. But there is some subtle difference, a hint of something else.”

“Meaning what exactly?” Duncan asked.

I kept staring at the letter, my vision blurring a little so that I was focused more on the overall look of the letter, as opposed to the individual words. Then I saw it . . . and smelled it. “Some of the lettering is a slightly different color,” I said. “It's very subtle, just different shades of black, but it's there.” I reached over and pointed to a word. “Some of the words are different, like this one. They're a smidgen lighter in color.” I moved my finger and pointed at another word. “And this one.” I moved my finger again. “And these.” I pointed out several more words.

Mal looked at Duncan, then at me with a big smile. “You just pointed out the words
lucky, wager, game, bet, risk,
and
buffalo stampede
.”

“Gambling,” Duncan said. “Except for the buffalo stampede part, all those words imply gambling.”

“The casino,” Mal said. “It must be the Potawatomi Casino.”

“Maybe, but how do the words
buffalo stampede
play into it?” I asked.

“Early Native Americans hunted buffalo,” Mal said. “And they own the casino.”

I thought that made some sense, though it felt like a bit of a stretch. “If you're right, what am I supposed to do once I get there? I've been to that casino before for conventions and meetings. It's huge.”

Duncan said, “Given the words you see as different—a difference I don't see, by the way—I think it means you need to play a game of some sort.”

“You mean I'm supposed to gamble? I've never done that. The only card games I know how to play are War, Hearts, Old Maid, and Go Fish, because I played them with my father when I was little.”

“It may not be a card game,” Duncan said. “It could be bingo, craps, baccarat, roulette, or a slot machine.”

“None of which I've ever done,” I said. “And how am I supposed to know which one I'm supposed to play?”

The two men thought for a moment, and then Duncan said, “Look at the letter again. Are you sure the words you already pointed out are the only ones that are different?”

I refocused on the letter, this time blurring out the individual words and focusing only on the letters. And I saw that there
were
other variations, but with individual letters, not entire words. I explained this to Duncan and Mal, and then added, “Maybe whoever wrote this made two batches of ink and went over some of the words and letters. Maybe I'm reading more into this than there is.”

Mal shook his head. “It's no coincidence that the only whole words that are different are all related to gambling or a casino.” He looked over at Duncan. “Do you carry a notebook?”

“Of course.” Duncan reached into an inside pocket of his parka and removed a small flip notebook and a pen. He handed both to Mal, who flipped the notebook open and clicked the pen.

“Give us the letters that look different,” Mal said.

I looked at the page and read out each letter that was in the slightly lighter shade of black. “
C
,
a
,
s
,
t
,
m
,
e
,
o
,
h
,
n
,
i
, and
l
. That's it.”

Mal had scribbled the letters in Duncan's notebook, and he set it on the table for the three of us to consider. “Maybe they spell something,” he said.

As I stared at the letters, they began to assume colors, shifting and changing through the spectrum until four of the letters settled on blue and the rest were red. I motioned for Mal to hand me the pen, and beneath the letters he had written, I rewrote them, putting the
c
,
a
,
m
,
e
,
h
,
n
, and
i
on one line and
s
,
t
,
o
, and
l
on another.