15

Scott Harrington

I felt sure of myself when we talked under the bridge, but uncertainty crept in, making me doubt my own words. Tyler had been delivering. All of a sudden, I questioned my guarantee that it would be dismissed. I needed to get some advice before I put him at risk. The thought of calling my father filled me with tension. I rubbed the stiffness in my neck, turned it from side to side trying to ease the taunt muscles, then picked up my phone and dialed.

A mixture of emotions came with his voice. The booming tones always spoke of his level of command, shrinking my confidence. The contrasting emotion was relief that I had reached his voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. He’d see a missed call, but I doubted he would return it.

Hitting the keys on my laptop, I found another phone number and called a local attorney. He would see us in one hour. It’s only money, Harrington.

Lawrence Greene agreed to accompany us to the police station. We would share nothing until we had a signed immunity for Tyler. We reached him on a slow day and would go directly to the precinct. He would drive himself and meet us there.

I pulled the car into an open parking space in the lot behind the station. Tyler’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the area. He placed a baseball cap on his head and gave the visor a final tug to shield his eyes.

I stifled a smile. “Hey, buddy, can’t get much safer than the police station.”

“I don’t need anyone to see me going in here. Or you, for that matter. They see you, they’ll figure I’m the one under the hat. Jim probably has his goons all over the city looking for me. By now, he knows I bolted.”

Tyler opened the passenger door and took off. I had to sprint from the car to the building to keep up with him.

Stepping inside the outer lobby, a tiny space with a half-wall separated us from the uniformed officer at the desk. Safety glass furthered the accessibility. Pamphlets, brochures, and folded maps were displayed on plastic wall-mounted bins for the public to help themselves.

Where was Greene? I couldn’t start this without him.

The officer spoke through the safety glass. “What’s your business today?”

“Um … We’re waiting for one other person to join us.”

“Well, you can’t wait in here. State your business, or you’ll have to be on your way.”

As he spoke, the door opened, and the attorney walked in. He marched to the window and took charge.

“We need to see a detective, please. Is Paul Everson available?”

“No, sir, but I can get you someone else. Adam Fulton is here.”

Sir? We almost got the boot, but he got a “Sir.”

“That’ll do.”

The officer picked up the phone and pushed a single button.

“Is Fulton back there?” He paused, listening before he continued. “OK. When he’s off the phone, send him out.” He hung up the phone and turned back to the window, motioning us to the bench. “Have a seat. Someone’ll see you soon.”

Turning, I could see the height markings on the doorframe. Tyler scooted to the far end of the bench, out of view of the window. Twenty minutes passed before a plain-clothes officer came to get us. The rectangular gold pin on his pocket said, “Detective Fulton.”

“Adam Fulton,” he introduced himself. What can I do for you today?”

We all stood but, as advised, Tyler and I remained silent.

Lawrence Greene asked for somewhere private where we could discuss a possible crime.

He turned and nodded to the uniformed officer. “I’m bringing ’em back.”

That set the desk officer in motion toward the side door that Detective Fulton had used. He opened it, requiring us to empty our pockets and walk through a scanner, confiscating our cell phones and my pocket knife until we were ready to leave.

The precinct room at the end of the hallway was filled with activity and cubicles. But we stopped short of that and were escorted to a small area that said “Processing” on the door. The uniformed officer handed Fulton a stack of papers and went back to the front desk.

Seated at a small table, he got right to business.

“So, what do you think you know?” He shuffled through the papers, looking for the one he needed.

“I have a client who has strong suspicion of a drug ring,” Greene took charge. “He assisted without knowledge, receiving minimum compensation to make deliveries without awareness of the contents inside the packages. He has become suspicious and would like to report it. However, before that occurs, we need assurance that he won’t be held culpable for that which he had no knowledge.”

Fulton’s eyes turned toward me and then to Tyler. “Are one of these men your client?”

“I can’t discuss my client relationship until I have the requested assurance.”

Fulton sat back, crossed his leg over one knee. “If what you’re telling me is true, he won’t be held accountable. If we determine that he knew what went down and gained from his involvement, that’s another story.”

Greene scratched his head. “Hmm. Well that leaves us at loggerheads. What’s your criteria for determination?”

Fulton leaned back, his fingers interlocked behind his head. “Q&A.”

Greene sighed. “This is most unfortunate. It could have been a major lead for you, filled with information. Thank you, and have a good day.”

With that he stood and motioned for us to do likewise.

“Hold on. Sit down. I said if you’re telling the truth, if he had no knowledge, he won’t be charged.”

I glanced at Tyler who had lost all color in his complexion.

Greene appeared to think it over and sat down. “I’ve drafted an immunity agreement. Please read it, and if you agree to sign it, you won’t be sorry.”

Fulton glanced at the paper. “There’s no name here?”

“It has my client number and the name will be completed upon your signature.”

Fulton reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pen, and scribbled his name. Greene held his hand out for the pen, inserted Tyler’s name, separated the duplicate, and handed it to Detective Fulton. He folded the original and returned it to his briefcase.

“Detective Fulton, I’d like you to meet my client, Tyler Pulkowski. He’s accompanied by a friend, Scott Harrington. I’ll remain present for your questioning.”

Money well spent.

After an hour of questions, Tyler had shared his experience with the shelter. He discussed meeting Jim, and he gave detailed descriptions of the places and people receiving deliveries. I proved to be an unnecessary fifth wheel, only sharing how I had met Tyler and our conversations about his involvement.

“We believe Tyler is at risk here and want to see what security you might be able to offer.”

Fulton shook his head. “Lay low for a while. Keep away from the area. Did you find a place to stay?”

A sigh escaped as Tyler ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

I turned toward the officer. “What can we do to help?”

“Leave us your contact. We’re going to put an undercover in there. If we need to talk to you again, we’ll call.”

“How will we know when this is over?” He stood up even as I spoke.

“Watch the news.” He walked to the door and motioned for the officer at the front desk.

“I’ll be staying on top of this,” Lawrence Greene interjected, speaking to Tyler.

He handed his card to the detective as the uniformed officer arrived to show us out.

~*~

I’d made a commitment to take Caroline to Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens, but that meant leaving Tyler alone at my place.

He sat on the floor, playing with Ginger, using a knotted rope that served as a tug-of-war. “Hey, Ty, I have a lunch date and a tour to do today. You OK here for a while?”

He glanced up. “Yeah, I won’t steal the silverware.”

I sighed with a shake of my head. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to leave you feeling anxious about the whole situation.”

“No, I’m OK. I don’t feel threatened here. It’s far enough away from town.” He gave the rope a pull and Ginger held tight, shaking her head back and forth. “And I have this girl to protect me.”

Tyler let the rope go free, ruffled Ginger’s fur, and stood up. “But I don’t have anything to do without a job. I can’t keep mooching off of you. I’ve got to pay you back for that lawyer. How much is that gonna be?”

“You’re not mooching. It’s not costing me anything but a little food, and Stella keeps us well fed. Don’t worry about the attorney. I’ve got that.”

“How much is that? I can’t let you pay to keep me outta trouble.”

“Tyler, you’re eighteen years old. You don’t need to be worrying about legal fees.” He stared at me in disbelief. Had no one ever taken care of him before?

“Thanks, Scott. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“Relax. Watch some TV. You might find some college football.”

“You got anything I can read?”

I had forgotten the kid was a book lover. “Sure. Help yourself. There’s a shelf full of books in my bedroom.”

~*~

I was about to give up on Miss Savannah, Georgia, when she arrived at twelve twenty. I caught a glimpse of her strawberry-blond hair stepping out of a sporty coupe. I couldn’t make out the model, but it looked flashy and expensive. Not too shabby for a non-profit receptionist. Must have some of Daddy’s money flowing up from Savannah.

She walked toward me, arms swinging and hips swaying, showing off the long legs her skirt did little to cover.

“Car trouble?”

“Excuse me?”

I tapped my watch. “You’re late.”

She glanced at the face of my watch. “Only twenty minutes.” She put her arm through mine. “I’m starving.”

We headed in to our table.

The Mount Washington Restaurant sat high atop a cliff with a perfect view of the city, all of the tables positioned near the glass front. The fountain marked the spot where the three rivers met at the point. Our seats offered a clear view of the Duquesne Incline as the red trolley car made its slow journey up the tracks.

I might have expected a little admiration for the grandeur of the restaurant, but Caroline displayed nonchalance. She didn’t seem to notice the crystal chandeliers, the fine china, or the incredible view. She walked right in without a word, apparently indifferent to the opulence. She didn’t thank the waiter when he pulled out her chair. I offered a thank you on her behalf. Once seated, I eased into a chat about Three Rivers Mission. Still a journalist, I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to gather information.

“So, tell me about Ray Brockman. He’s rather elusive—never there when I am.”

Her lips drew together in a smirk. “Not much when I am either. Let’s say, he likes his flexibility.”

“Well, does he ever come in?”

“Oh, sure. An hour here and there. I pretty much run things there. He poses that as a compliment—‘oh you’re so competent. I feel like I can take a little time for the family.’ But I know better. Take a little time for the girlfriend is more like it.” The more she spoke, the more her vowels elongated.

I sat back, enjoying the show. “I take it you aren’t a Ray Brockman fan?”

“You think? Leaves me to the job of running three facilities for twenty-six thou a year? Job responsibilities of a CEO, salary of a receptionist. Can’t even boast a better job title on a resume.”

I couldn’t resist a smile.

Her arms crossed in front of her. “What’s so funny? I’m not amused by any of that.”

“Nothing. Let’s order.” This might be the quirkiest lunch date I’d ever had.

Our waiter approached the table, and Caroline called out her order. “Chilean Sea Bass without the cream glaze, a Caprese salad, balsamic on the side, and the almond brie appetizer to start.” She lifted her menu with a detached demeanor and held it up to our waiter without making eye contact. Caroline McMann must have assumed a class distinction.

I was still processing the menu items but, once again, attempted to counter her rudeness with appreciation. “Excellent menu. How’s the roast duck? Would you recommend that or the salmon?”

After hearing his detailed description, I thanked him and ordered the duck.

While we ate, I ventured again into the topic of Three Rivers Missions.

“So, you have a lot of responsibility to keep the shelters afloat. Do the directors report to you?”

“Not officially, but in reality, yes. When they want something, they call me. I do all of their ordering and pay the invoices. Each director oversees their own employees and volunteers. Ray keeps tabs on the grant and charitable giving.”

“How about the rehab in Greensburg? You said it’s a profit-making facility.”

She took a sip of her tea and frowned. “Northerners don’t know how to do tea.” She emptied three packets of an artificial sweetener into her glass and stirred. “There’s a director for that center as well. It’s a little different since they have more employees and ones that are trained in their fields. Less volunteers. They have a small accounting office, but I get their financial statements. Ray expects them to make him a profit.”

“Does that profit subsidize the other two centers?”

“Oh no. It subsidizes Ray Brockman.”

Interesting.

~*~

We stepped inside the Botanical Gardens at Phipps, moving from autumn to a balmy summer atmosphere. It welcomed us with a splash of color and fragrance. I found myself with a different Caroline—one I liked much better.

“Oh look. A gardenia. Breathe in and imagine a backyard filled with that aroma.” She lowered her eyes and inhaled the sweetness. “Oh, and there’s redbud and crepe myrtles. We have all of them around our house. It’s incredible when they’re all in bloom.” She became a portrait of excitement. Yet with each discovery, a shadow crossed her face.

“When’s the last time you were home?”

She stood, pulling her face from the hibiscus. Her snarky side resurfaced with speed. “Are you writing my exposé?”

“Just wondering. You seem to be missing it.”

“I haven’t been home since I left two years ago. Seems I’m no longer welcomed there. My good southern family didn’t approve of my new relationship. No more questions, Mr. Reporter.”

“Sorry. No more questions.” I put my arm around her shoulder to provide some element of comfort.

She stared at me, raised her eyebrows in question, and walked away, finding another hibiscus to smell.

~*~

Today had been quite amusing, but I needed to get back to business. I had Tyler to worry about, needed to get notes on paper, and I still needed a third contact.

I opened the door to find Tyler and Stella on opposite sides of the Scrabble board, Ginger laying on the floor, and takeout containers from the café beside them.

“So, the tour guide returns. Phipps ready to hire you?” Stella’s eyes never left the game board as she spoke.

I kicked off my shoes. “They can’t afford me. Who’s winning?”

“The kid’s killing me.”

That brought the first full smile I’d seen on Tyler’s face. “I read a lot. Helps with the vocabulary.”

“Well I cook a lot, and I’m saying uncle. Got things to do at the deli.”

I walked outside to have a word with Stella. She made no eye contact with me, and I wasn’t sure why.

“You OK, Stel?”

She swung around to face me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You seem kind of hurried. Are you upset I brought Tyler here?”

That softened her face to its normal pleasantness. She pointed toward the house. “That’s a nice young man. I hate to say you were right, but…guess you were right.”

“I hoped you’d see it, too. I want you to know he was leaving that business even before I caught up with him. He almost hopped on a bus to leave town before I located him. He knows right from wrong. He needs to catch a break here.”

Stella reached one arm up to hug me. “Glad he found you.”

Her hug lingered a little longer than usual, convincing me that something still troubled her.

“Stel, you sure you’re OK?”

“Yep. I’m fine. Did you have an enjoyable time today?”

“Sure. Phipps is a beautiful facility.”

“And your date? Did she enjoy it?” She emphasized the word date.

“She did. Not exactly a date. More of a business investment.”

She arched one eye. “Hmph. What was she wearing?”

I leaned back and squinted at her. Where had that question come from?

“Skirt and sweater. Why?”

“Short skirt and heels?”

“I guess short, and yes, heels.”

She nodded. “It was a date. Gotta go. Call me when you get hungry.”

She walked the distance to her house without looking back. I watched until she entered and shook my head. What had gotten into her?

Tyler had already put away the Scrabble and tossed the food containers into the trash.

“Hope that was OK. She stopped with lunch for us, and when I told her you had a date, she stayed and ate with me.”

“Always OK. She’s a good neighbor.”

He paused as he wiped the table and turned, regarding me. “That all she is?”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought it may be something more.”

I shook my head. “No, not with Stella. She’s a good friend.”

“Does she see it that way?”

“Of course. We’ve always been friends.” Where did that come from? “Hey, let me show you what I’m working on.”

I opened my laptop and clicked on my notes for Pete.

“The highlights indicate missing facts I’m still working to track down.”

Peter (need last name), born in Somerset County in 1950

Youngest of six siblings

Married, (need date, wife’s name, children)

Served in the United States Marines, part of the Wild Weasels, POW for two years

Returned with signs of PTSD and began drinking

Worked on construction site, welder, and truck driver at various times

Alcohol interfered with each employment

Wife died in (need year)

Tried rehab (need dates)

Became homeless at the age of (???)”

Tyler scanned the printed notes as I read aloud.

“Well, I’m no reporter, and I’ve never met this guy, but I could’ve written that. That fits half the men on the streets.”

A defensive tension gripped my chest. It was preliminary. I had a vision for how it would come together.

“It’s not done. These are notes. It doesn’t have any resemblance to what I’ll write. It’s the way I put it together that will give him some identity, some…” I searched for a word. “Some humanity.”

“So what are you going to do with me? I still haven’t decided to let you use my name.”

How could I convince Tyler that my words would represent him well? Without a real name and pictures, the story would lose significant impact.

“Ty, you’ve been a victim all your life. I want to show that you’ve risen above all of the junk that life has thrown at you, and you’ve come out on top.”

“Well, you might be a long time waiting. I’m not on top of anything yet.” A little grin came. “Except the Scrabble game.”

I gave his shoulder a playful punch. “You will be.”

“If I climb out of the pit, will I want to be looking back down into it? And have the world read about the worst part of my life?”

“Ty, trust me on this. I think you’ll be happy with the end result. Hey, I’m headed to town tonight. You want to come and meet Pete and D.J?”

He shook his head. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay as far away from town as possible.”

“Oh yeah. Forgot.” I glanced at Ginger curled up and pressing against Ty’s leg while she slept. “Well, I guess Ginger can stay at home. She likes your company. Did you find something to read?”

“Yeah, I took a few books to my room. Is that OK?”

I glanced to see the one sitting on the end table. “Integrity in Journalism.”

Why, Tyler?