The Perfect Father Page 2

  "Skip the pleasantries. You want to know whether or not Terrence Gresham was involved in Lawrence Harrington's passing. Much like the D.A., you need the motive to piece this puzzle back together." Christina jabbed her hands into her pockets daring to meet his cool granite gaze. His eyes were the type of grey with specks of green bleeding out.

  Did he at the very least feel a stab of guilt? Did it nag at him for not being more involved with his father while he had the chance? If Terrence were to die, would she feel only guilt?

  "I could care less what Berkeley is doing here. I just want to know what kind of relationship they had." He seemed older, Christina easily estimated six years; there was little boyishness about his chiseled and unreadable face.

  “What happened to Detective Mathews at 28th Precinct? He usually handles homicides in this jurisdiction.” Christina asked.

  “He’s off duty, recuperating from a car accident, we’re short-staffed, I’m on duty.” She sat with that for a bit.

  “And 28th Precinct isn’t burdened by the conflict of interest?”

  “No.” The Detective said.

  “I find it unsettling you can’t answer this question, Mr. Harrington,” Christina said. “Lawrence was your father, and you have to decipher who his friends were?”

  Barron looked visibly upset. “Can you please answer the question, Mrs. Gresham?”

  "Miss,” She corrected. “It was complicated.” She finally got to say. “They were friends, not great friends, but they were more than just colleagues." She glimpsed at Terrence's office for an atom of a second before her focus returned. “And to onlookers, it wasn’t obvious. Towards the end, they had a fallout. I don’t know what exactly happened but it changed things. Those men didn’t hate one another. Neither one of them could have done this if the tables were turned.”

  “But the tables aren’t turned, Miss. Gresham.”

  “No, they aren’t.” She said.

  "How exactly do you know these details?" More than anything, Christina expected Barron to be the farthest thing from calm. She anticipated an outburst that never came. He was like the stillness before a storm; intense and unpredictable. Christina ran a hand over her face in an attempt to wake her dear dead senses up. It didn't help. She supposed a cup of black coffee and a cold shower would help. The thought alone was more enticing than being held up on the executive floor of Gresham Square; a base that reeked of Lawrence Harrington's last moments.

  "In the beginning, they talked a lot. Lawrence would come around to see Terrence, to talk business; they spent a lot of time together... I'm not the person you should be talking to, Detective." He shrugged.

  "And why not? Moved out of the house the minute you turned eighteen? Too traumatized by the death of Michel Gresham in 2009?" Christina's brows furrowed, her teeth clenched, her animosity was burning, slicing, potent. It was clear Barron hadn't missed the hatred in her eyes and the color to her cheeks. "Relax darling, I'm just messing with you." Was she supposed to laugh? Did he have the impression that he was amusing?

  Christina glimpsed at her watch, growing more agitated with each minute she had to spend away from Terrence. "It's 4 a.m. Detective; this is not the time for jokes." The corner of his pink lips twitched in an almost smile, even though his eyes seemed to choke back a sob.

  "I suppose." He said shrugging. "Did you ever listen to any of their conversations after their fall-out?" Barron continued, his fingers buried in his pockets as he spoke. "Did Terrence ever show any sign of...animosity? Jealousy? Anger toward Lawrence?" Christina shook her head. At about the time of the fall-out, Terrence had been reeling with his recent divorce from his wife of almost thirty years.

  Thirty years. That wasn’t something to take all too lightly, most especially considering all the couple had been through before their split. Though it was expected, the cracks were there and the pair had overlooked it as their splintering marriage crumbled. And Christina knew with little doubt the first crack had something to do with burying their son, her brother; Michel Gresham in 2009.

  "I don't think I can help you, Detective," Christina said. It looked like Detective Harrington wanted to say more, but bit back his comment the moment a uniform patted his shoulder and dangled a translucent bag from his hand. She couldn’t rip her fatigued eyes from it. Though she’d had to strain her ears to catch the whisper between the uniform and the Detective, she hadn’t missed a mention of the murder weapon, a 9mm shell casing, and a Glock 26. At this point, her eyes had begun to flutter, ever so slightly. And even if she knew that her conversation with Detective Harrington had come to a rather inconclusive end, she couldn’t bring herself to tear her eyes from the metal shell casing in the plastic bag.

  Someone had shot and killed Lawrence Harrington in cold blood. The thought made her sick. Christina had continued to pick up snippets of the two men’s conversation, catching only where they threw around the term suicide. This wasn’t a suicide; that had to be ruled out. Someone had done this and it wasn’t Terrence Gresham. Had the body been made to look like a suicide? She hadn’t exactly gotten to see the scene before the presence of the CSI team, but what she saw on her way out of her father’s office seemed like a murder.

  "His story is very sketchy." Harper's voice was pleased from behind where Christina stood. Whirling, Christina met the soil brown eyes of the district attorney, her lips curved in a sly smile. "He claims to have been occupied with a client all day that day, not that his memory is enough of an alibi."

  Not bothering to retort the fight-keen state prosecutor, Christina strode resolutely towards Terrence's office, the clicking of her red bottoms filling her ears. He wasn't by his desk. Not anymore. He was by the wine cabinet, a glass of Hennessey in hand. "What the hell did you tell her, Terrence?"

  "What she wanted to know; that I was friends with Lawrence, that we fought the night before he died, and no, I do not own a licensed gun." There was something in his tone that was agitating to Christina. He always had an odd sense of humor, if he was even trying to be humorous; it was one that never failed to escape Christina. "This isn't my first time dealing with the authorities, Christina. Have a drink and relax, I'm not going to prison and you don't have to worry about everything." Why didn’t she believe him then?

  Christina's shoulders slumped as she dragged her tired legs to the couch. He was standing above her with a spare glass by the time she'd dropped to a seating position. "Your mother isn't picking her calls?" Christina shook her head plucking the glass from his lean hand. She’d expected him to ask about Olivia. A bond of thirty-years isn’t that easily broken. "Were you with her?" He’d tried, she’d noticed, to sound nonchalant, unattached to whatever answer Christina would give. He’d flat-lined that attempt.

  Christina shook her head, sipping her drink. "You know I don't live there anymore...right?" She clarified. Terrence hummed sipping his brown liquid. He thought back to once upon a time when he had a family and a home. Death changed that. Christina felt guilty, tortured, after his divorce from her mother, she’d pushed Terrence father away because even if she’d been one of the biggest advocates for his innocence all those years ago, there was and had always been a seed of doubt at the back of her mind that felt, wondered what if he’d done what he’d been accused of all those years ago. She was no better than Olivia Gresham. No, she was worse, because with a murder investigation brewing in Gresham Square, all fingers pointing to Terrence, there was a voice, barely audible and yet clear that nudged at her to lift even if it was a shaking finger, at Terrence Gresham.

  "She doesn't tell me things... Not since I moved out. Doesn't even pick my calls." He shrugged sipping his drink. "Wouldn't surprise me if she finally filed a restraining order." At this, Christina looked at him; not through the eyes of his lawyer, but as a concerned daughter. His age was on the older side, much older than her mother when they'd hurriedly tied the knot. Their story clung to her. It changed each time she heard it and from whom she heard it.

  As a child, she was told the stor
y of Terrence being the protagonist who’d liberated her mother from her country; a land barren of productivity. The older she got, the more she understood that her mother was an immigrant who'd hurriedly married Terrence for greener pastures, tied him down with her pregnancy knowing very well that he wouldn't reject the twins she was carrying. But that didn’t necessarily make Olivia Gresham that bad a person even if she’d been wrong at the beginning of their relationship. In many ways, Christina had rather seen her mother in the light of a struggling woman who would have done anything for a better life. She was as determined as the rest of them. It’s just as at then, she hadn’t done things the right way.

  "How are you, Terrence?" There was a beat of silence as Terrence lowered himself to the couch next to Christina, yet at a distance. It took effort, his arthritis weakening his bones. His eyes were fixed on the glass between his hands, his brows dipped and lips pursed. He needed a shave as thick grey strapped his chin and wrapped his cheeks.

  "I have my good times and my bad times. I have my regrets, I have what to be thankful for," He said, unconsciously whirling the drink around in his glass.

  “Regrets?”

  “The divorce, Christina. I regret the bloody divorce.” She knew. "I let it happen. I let her go. And I just keep wondering what if I hadn’t?" Christina couldn’t lie; she’d wondered the same thing. What if he’d fought harder for Olivia? They hadn’t exactly entered into the marriage with love, but somewhere along the lines of raising two healthy babies, it blossomed and he’d buried it, the affection along with one of those babies.

  But there was more to their divorce than just Michel Gresham’s death. There had to be more. More than Christina was yet to understand. That didn’t mean she had been blind to the fights. Night after night, their abuse was verbal, easily penetrating the paper-thin walls of their apartment. And every time, she’d taken their bickering as a means for them to come back stronger. How naive of her. She should have at least taken the separation as a sign; their breaking point was not long in wait. Terrence Gresham would be gone for weeks at a time. Thinking back, it was clear the distance with her father ran deeper than just after the divorce. It had been there before. It was merely one of the shadows that followed Michel Gresham’s death.

  Whenever she would phone Terrence, he would always say, “I’m with your uncle Lawrence.” Her uncle Lawrence, her father’s friend was murdered and she could only imagine what he was going through. Lawrence had given Terrence shelter when he had none; Lawrence had been a listening ear. There was so much those grinning-over-paid-receptionists had been blind to and yet they’d let the content of their ignorant minds spill like a leaking tap and it infuriated Christina.

  Even though towards Lawrence’s rather disconcerting end, it seemed both men hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot. It didn’t invalidate the relationship they had. Once more, Christina Gresham looked at her father, not completely sure whether Terrence had bothered to ring his ex-wife about his situation, at the very least to leave her a message. She doubted it.

  “Tell me you had nothing to do with this, Terrence.” She’d heard the words that slipped her lips and hung unanswered for many minutes. She asked again, and in his eyes a mirror of hers she saw it; that same fear from earlier.

  “You believe I did?” He asked coolly.

  “I don’t want to.” Swigging the remainder of her drink, Christina softly dropped her glass on the coffee table; she shook her head, her heart torn. It had happened in the snap of a finger, the translucent bag Uniform had dangled towards Detective Harrington seemed to sit behind her eyes. Somebody had shot Lawrence Harrington and she didn’t want to believe it was Terrence Gresham.

  “Then don’t believe it,” Easier said than done.

  “What are you not telling me, Terrence?” He wasn’t the only one with regrets that burdened him. She had her fair share, and it clutched her with the death-grip of guilt. How else would she explain the nights at the edge of her bed by the window pondering over the ‘what if’s’? What if she’d put more than just the littlest effort into saving her relationship with Terrence? Would she have her family back? Heaven knew she wanted it back, at least a part of her did. Another part couldn’t shake their piercing bickering from the back of her mind. He heaved an exhausted sigh leaning further on the couch.

  "You were the last to speak to Lawrence, did you know that?" She took a different approach. Terrence nodded. Progress. "What did you talk about?"

  "I don't know, Christina." He looked at her, the daughter he'd watched grow through life. "We must have talked about the Sustainable Funds Conference, how it crumbled before our very eyes." Terrence paused shaking his head. "That’s a lie, Christina. I fired him. I was the last person who spoke to him and I fired him."

  “Tell me more about this Sustainable Funds Conference.” Christina requested. Terrence shook his head. His lips parted, he never got to say the words that clung to them. They’d been interrupted by a knock at the barely-opaque door. It was Detective Harrington. “Sorry to break this family reunion up folks, but I’m going to have to ask you to clear out.” He’d vanished just as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “This isn’t the time, Christina, and if I’m lucky, it would never be the right time to shed light on a night that is best forgotten.” And with that, Terrence Gresham rose to his feet and with a hand over his nose, made his way out of an enterprise he’d built with his bones.

  There is no way you could have known that you would be the last person to speak to him.

  Chapter THREE

  A beggar with a choice, Christina Gresham had been in dire need of sleep, it could wait. The glare of the chirpy morning sun and the gentle-blare of her phone had quite a role to play in giving this beggar a choice. She was in bed, sluggish. It was about a quarter-past six a.m. when she’d made it back to her apartment in W 145th Street. And despite the staggering perception that she would collapse onto her bed the minute she’d stepped into her home, she hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. She couldn’t explain it; where the extra energy had been coming from, the one that had thoughts running through her mind like a restless child. It was probably one of those days again. In her profession, she’d grown accustomed to sleeplessnights, rather cherishing moments in between to steal a nap here and there. She would eventually burn-out and meet a hard, worn-weary end, but until then, she was home and agitated; sitting erect, back pressed against the backboard of her bed, hands clutched around the edges of her head of ruffled mushroom brown hair. It came off in generous strands, wrapped about her fingers. It tickled them, her fingers in a way that made her heart lurch. Her eyes squeezed shut, sun-dried lips wobbling.

  In a swift motion, those eyes flipped open and she’d reached for her ringing phone, swiping the screen and placing it against her ears.

  “You’re ignoring me.” Grace Gresham observed.

  “Not intentionally. I’ve had, a lot going on.” It sounded like an excuse. It was. Christina had been turning a blind eye to countless calls by Grace. She had her reasons.

  “Don’t ignore me, Christina, you know better than that.” Christina knew, and yet, she hadn’t had it in her to listen to Grace. Not after the last visit to the hospital. Not after Grace had borne witness to the sullen look on the nurses face as Christina was handed an envelope. That day remained vividly implanted in Christina’s mind. She’d only recently mustered up the courage to rip open the envelope, tug out the medical report and skim over the findings. Christina knew better than to ignore the concerns of her cousin. They were all in all just concerns. Because, Christina had to admit, aside from Grace, at times Terrence and Carter Wellington, she didn’t have that many people on her side, checking in on her. But she’d grown accustomed to it. People to Christina Gresham were like the seasons, they came often left an impact, and then just as quickly as they’d come, they’d left. At the ripe age of twenty-seven, she was much too old to depend greatly on others.

  “I’m sorry,” Christina said. It was a hollow
response, instinctive. She would do it again. She couldn’t help it. Not that she’d want Grace to know that. Strangely, the accumulated missed call notifications on her phone made her feel almost... important. She would continue to ignore the calls.

  There was a pause as if both women had run out of things to say to each other. That wasn’t possible; there was too much both women had to say and very little courage to say them. “You heard about Lawrence Harrington’s murder?” Christina felt compelled to say. Still pressed against the backboard, she’d brought her legs beneath her comforter to her chest.

  “Yes. There’s quite a lot of coverage on it. He was shot?”

  “In the head, yes. I was able to get some details about the murder weapon. It was a Glock 26; a 9mm shell casing had been taken into evidence at the scene. Though with regards to the facts, I don’t know how it happened, but D.A. Berkeley is convinced there was foul play on Terrence’s part.” She couldn’t forget it. Not at this point. Although Uniform had become a mere blur in her mind, the translucent bag and the shell casing remained clear as day.

  “Poor man. And to think, I’d met him a couple of times before he’d passed. Makes you wonder just how long we have.”