Harbour Falls

by Grey, S. R.

  I looked down, scanning the items on the table. A recording device, a small microphone canted in a stand, a bunch of loose papers, and Detective Mitchell’s tattered notebook, his pen clipped to the front cover.

  The detective had softened somewhat on the way to the station. Apparently he and his partner, Detective Crowley, had known my dad for several years. Though they were not friends per se, he told me he liked and respected my father. No surprise, since most people did, but it didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, I only felt worse. I’d disappointed my dad, and he didn’t even know it yet. But once we arrived at the station, I knew that would soon change.

  As Detective Mitchell had led me to the interrogation room, the inquisitive stares of the men and women in blue had fixed on me, recognition in the eyes of more than a few. Yeah, it was only a matter of time before someone picked up the phone and told Mayor Fitch his daughter was about to be officially questioned in the murder—yes, the murder—of Jimmy Kingston.

  Sitting here now in interrogation room number two and imagining those conversations, my face heated. I glanced up at the big institutional clock on the wall—almost five o’clock. We’d been waiting roughly three hours since I’d been in touch with Adam, but he still wasn’t here. I guessed finding a defense attorney on such short notice took time.

  When I’d talked with Adam, he’d been surprisingly calm. Having just arrived back on the island, he took it in stride when he learned of my predicament. My broken promise, my lies, my new status as a suspect in Jimmy’s murder, yeah, all that. I suspected Adam was probably just saving his wrath for when he saw me.

  In any case he’d calmly informed me he’d contact a defense attorney he knew in Harbour Falls—a man named Elliott Hoffman. I’d heard of him from the newspapers and he was definitely the kind of attorney I was going to need. One who could get a person out of a jam. Adam’s plan was to come over to the mainland, have Hoffman pick him up at Cove Beach, and then head over to the Harbourtown police station. I glanced back up at the clock, but only two minutes had passed.

  “More coffee?” Detective Mitchell asked, nodding to the almost-empty paper cup clutched in my hands.

  “No, thanks,” I replied.

  Mitchell grunted and resumed shuffling papers atop the table, and I choked down the last of my cold coffee.

  Just then the door to the interrogation room opened. I breathed a sigh of relief when Adam stepped in, a short, balding man with unassuming features—the defense attorney, I presumed—trailing behind. I felt confident this Elliott Hoffman was more than capable, but when his sharp, unwavering lawyer eyes scanned the room like a hawk, I knew he was the perfect attorney for this situation.

  Introductions were made, and I shook his hand. “Don’t worry, Ms. Fitch,” he said to me. “We’ll get you out of here in no time.”

  He shot Detective Mitchell a look that said he meant business. I felt instantly relieved. I needed the best, and Adam had obviously brought me—and bought me—the very best. I felt confident this attorney would sooner have the Harbourtown police for dinner than allow them to detain me past the time it took to take my statement. Let alone if they tried to arrest me.

  Confirming my impressions, his eyes on Mitchell, Hoffman said tightly, “Let’s get this over with, Detective. I believe you’ve wasted enough of my client’s time today.”

  “We’ll see about that, Mr. Hoffman,” Mitchell replied, handing him back the business card Elliott Hoffman had thrust into his hand during the introductions.

  Adam cleared his throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but before you begin, I’d like a moment alone with Ms. Fitch.”

  I knew Detective Mitchell could deny his request, but he didn’t. I couldn’t say I was all that surprised, as Adam always seemed to get his way. The detective and the attorney left, closing the door behind them, and Adam came over to stand next to where I was seated.

  I’d been careful to avoid meeting Adam’s gaze up to this point. I had to admit I was ashamed that I’d brought this on myself, by not heeding his warnings to stay away from Billy’s.

  Adam coughed to get my attention, and I tentatively looked up. His pained blue eyes were locked on my bloodstained sweater. He reached out and traced the streak that had dried to a brick color, and then he swept me out of the chair and into his arms. “God, Maddy, are you all right?” His words were muffled as he held on tight with his head lowered, speaking into my shoulder.

  I nodded meekly, tears filling my eyes at last. I hadn’t cried once, until now.

  “I’m so sorry, Adam. I should have listened,” I choked, my tears moistening the smooth, light blue fabric of his button-down.

  “Shhh,” he soothed, lifting his head. “I’m just thankful you’re fine. Let’s just get this unpleasantness over with and get you back home. Sound good?”

  I nodded, words eluding me. Adam’s kindness was making me feel guiltier than ever for breaking my promise. I sobbed, fisting the back of his shirt in my hand as he tightened his hold. There was so much more I needed to say, and I wanted to stay wrapped up in his warmth forever, but a sharp knock on the door ended our embrace as well as any further time to talk.

  Adam took a step back, hands on my shoulders. “Remember, don’t answer anything Elliott advises you not to.” His tone was gravely serious. “Understood?”

  I bit my lower lip and nodded. “Yes.”

  Elliott Hoffman and Detective Mitchell stepped back into the room, and Adam trailed a finger down my cheek, wiping away the last of my tears.

  As I sat back down, I overheard Mitchell telling Adam there was a waiting room down the hall where he could wait until we were finished with the interrogation. After Adam left, Hoffman sat down next to me, and the detective returned to his seat on the other side of the table.

  The formal questioning was much like it had been at the bar—just variations of the same questions—but with the same gist. Hoffman took copious notes, nodding after each of Mitchell’s questions, thus indicating it was permissible for me to answer each one. I sensed Detective Mitchell suspected there was more to my visit to Billy’s, but he didn’t press. Not with my new attorney present. But I was sure he’d do some digging, and when armed with more information, he’d confront me, attorney or not.

  Just as Mitchell was wrapping up, the interrogation room door burst open. Another detective I recognized from earlier at the bar entered the room, and Mitchell rose to greet him. As they stood speaking in voices too low for me to hear, I tried to assess this new development.

  Hoffman appeared to be unaffected, glancing up with a bored expression and then returning to his notes. But the detective having a heated discussion with Mitchell was definitely unhappy about something. This new detective was a tall man with gray-streaked dark hair. I estimated his age to be about mid-forties. And as his cold, dark eyes flashed to me, I started to get the feeling this man’s displeasure had something to do with me.

  Hoffman suddenly cleared his throat, startling me and interrupting the detectives. “Pardon me, but if we are finished here, I’m sure my client would like to get home after her very trying day.”

  Mitchell held up his hand. “Not quite yet, Counsel, we’re going to need a few more minutes. My partner here, Detective Crowley, has a few more questions for Miss Fitch.”

  “Five minutes,” Hoffman snapped, his tone firm. “My client has already proven to be more than cooperative.”

  Detective Mitchell appeared apologetic but not Detective Crowley. No, not at all.

  Instead he approached the table, glowering at me. “Ms. Fitch,” he began, pacing the floor with his fingers steepled in front of him. “Is it true your official statement is that you and the victim, James Kingston, had no more of an involved relationship than that of customer and bartender?”

  Hoffman nodded to me, so I answered, “Yes, that’s correct.”
/>
  Crowley stopped and turned to face me. “If that is indeed the case, then tell us please, Ms. Fitch, why did the victim call your cell phone yesterday afternoon?”

  Oh no! I looked to Hoffman, unsure of how to respond. He shook his head and answered for me, “My client has no comment.”

  Detective Mitchell—who had been relegated to a corner of the room—caught my eye. Disappointment was written all over his face. Yeah, Mayor Fitch’s daughter had lied to the police. Sorry.

  Detective Crowley addressed my attorney, smugness in his tone. “Clearly, the record speaks for itself, Mr. Hoffman.”

  “There’s no proof the cell phone you are referring to was even in my client’s possession yesterday,” Hoffman countered smoothly.

  Oooh, he is good, I thought.

  Crowley smirked at my attorney and said slowly, “There’s also no proof that it wasn’t in her possession.” The detective paused momentarily and then redirected all of his anger back on me. “Ms. Fitch, are you familiar with terms like ‘obstruction of justice’ and ‘tampering with evidence’?”

  Hoffman stiffened but nodded for me to proceed. “Yes.” My voice was no more than a whisper.

  And then, to my absolute horror, Detective Crowley produced the crumpled, white envelope—tainted with Jimmy’s blood—and threw it on the table. It was now sealed in a plastic “evidence” bag, but the printed “M” on the front was facing up, mocking my sad attempt at deception. I kept my eyes glued to the envelope, afraid to meet any of the questioning eyes I felt upon me.

  “Would you care to explain why this”—Crowley tapped the incriminating evidence—“was found in a trash bin under the bar at Billy’s?” When I didn’t answer, he put his hands on the table and leaned toward me. “Your prints, Ms. Fitch, are all over it!” he hissed.

  “I didn’t kill Jimmy,” I suddenly cried out, standing.

  I felt Hoffman’s hand on my shaking arm, silencing me, urging me to sit back down. “My client is invoking her fifth amendment rights,” he said sharply, with a light squeeze to my arm to remind me to keep quiet.

  Crowley laughed darkly. “Fine, but let me tell you this…” I glanced up, and his eyes locked with mine. “If Bill Fitch wasn’t your father and a man I respect, I’d arrest you right now.”

  Detective Mitchell moved in to calm his colleague, while Hoffman interjected, voice raised, “You’re out of line, Detective. I will not allow you to speak to my client in that manner. You have nothing here but circumstantial evidence at best.”

  “Bullshit!” Detective Crowley fumed, shucking Mitchell’s hand off his arm. “We have a body and a suspect who is lying. I can name you hundreds of cases where the defendant was convicted on far less!”

  Mitchell grabbed Crowley again and this time pulled him back, all the while apologizing for his colleague’s outburst. Hoffman’s only response was to remind both detectives that the five minutes had elapsed, and that we were done here.

  Detective Mitchell refused to meet my gaze as my attorney steered me to the door. But Detective Crowley threw me a parting glance that promised he’d not let this slide.

  Hoffman led me gently out into the hallway, and I thanked him for everything. He offered to walk me down the hall to the room where Adam was waiting. On the way he assured me there was no need to worry. The evidence was weak. “Circumstantial evidence doesn’t hold much weight with a jury, Ms. Fitch, despite Detective Crowley’s claims to the contrary,” he said.

  I didn’t really know what to say in return. God, I sure as hell didn’t want things to get to the point of being arrested, let alone be faced with a trial.

  As we walked Elliot Hoffman asked for clarification on a couple of the answers I’d given, but he never once asked me if I was innocent. I didn’t think he really cared. He’d been hired to be my advocate, and he was going to do his job. And, no doubt, he’d do it well.

  When we reached the waiting room, I stopped abruptly. I was done thinking about the events of the day. All I wanted to do was fall into Adam’s arms. It was there that I felt safe and protected.

  Unfortunately, when we stepped into the room, I realized my plans would have to be put on hold. Adam was not alone. There was somebody else in the room with him, waiting for me and looking less than pleased. It appeared my earlier fears had been confirmed. Someone had contacted my father, and now he was here.

  Well this is going to be…awkward, I thought, sighing.

  Chapter 24

  My dad stood across from Adam, the full distance of the tiny waiting room, a gulf neither appeared willing to cross. Instead both acted as if the other wasn’t there. Adam stood leaning casually against the wall closest to the door, raven locks falling across his forehead as he scanned a Wall Street Journal. The mayor was standing as far away from Adam as was humanly possible on the opposite side of the room. His arms were crossed, his posture stiff, and his eyes everywhere but on the man he’d asked me to stay away from.

  My dad caught sight of me and hurried over, ignoring both Elliott Hoffman to my right, and Adam, who lowered the paper and met my apologetic gaze. Wrapping me in a hug, he said, “My God, Madeleine, what the hell is going on?”

  “Mayor Fitch,” Adam interjected, straightening.

  I suspected this was the first either had spoken to the other in this small, enclosed space.

  My dad spun to face him. “You!” he said through clenched teeth. “There’s nothing you have to say that I care to hear.”

  Adam took a restrained step back, and my father moved toward him. “I knew my daughter would end up in some kind of trouble hanging around with the likes of you. I warned her to stay away.”

  “Dad, stop!” I pleaded, taking note of Adam’s terse expression. “Dad, Adam is helping me, OK?”

  “Yeah, I bet he is,” the mayor said with a derisive scoff, sweat beading on his brow.

  After the day I’d had, this was just too much to take. I didn’t want the two most important men in my life at each other’s throats like this. The only way to diffuse the situation was to speak with my dad alone. Hoffman had already made himself scarce, having retreated back out to the hallway. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw he was busy with his Blackberry, paying absolutely no heed to the unfolding drama. Geez, that man is cool as a cucumber.

  When I turned back, both Adam and my dad were watching me. I supposed they were waiting to see what my next move would be. And it was this: I asked Adam for a few moments alone with my dad. He nodded, shot a parting look of aggravation to my father, and then joined Hoffman in the hall. When the door clicked shut, I turned to face my irate dad. His eyes held all the disappointment I’d expected to see. Maybe more. He’d obviously been briefed, and I was sure no detail had been spared.

  “Dad,” I whispered, dropping my eyes to the floor in shame.

  My father cleared his throat and said softly, “Madeleine, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into? This whole thing is just some kind of a misunderstanding, right?”

  “Of course,” I reassured him. “But I can’t explain everything just yet.”

  My dad’s brow creased. “I hope you’re not withholding information from the detectives.” He sounded bewildered, an emotion he rarely expressed. “I’ve known those guys for years. They’ll do right by you, sweetheart, but you have to level with them. Tell them everything. They don’t believe you really hurt that boy.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, especially when it came to Detective Crowley. I must have looked skeptical, because my dad reiterated, “You can’t keep secrets, Madeleine. These men can help you only if you’re honest with them.”

  “I will tell them, uh, everything,” I said without conviction, and then added in a whisper, “Later.”

  My dad obviously didn’t hear my last word, because he launched into his next order of business. “How does
Adam Ward fit into all of this?”

  I started off by explaining that I was actually in a relationship with Adam—a relationship that was getting serious. But, as expected, this hardly comforted my father.

  “Maddy, you promised me you’d stay away from that guy. And now you’re telling me you’re involved with the man? Unbelievable.” He shook his head disapprovingly.

  “Dad, yes,” I hesitated and then just laid it on the line. “I’m in love with Adam. And he loves me. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but it’s the truth.”

  “But, honey, he may be a murder—”

  I held my hand up, stopping him in mid-sentence. “Don’t say it. Please. I can’t hear it from you.” I begged with my eyes. “He’s not who you think he is.”

  My father looked doubtful but held his tongue, so I continued, “Look at what’s happening to me right now. You see how easy it is for someone to become a suspect for something they had nothing to do with…” I trailed off, and then the tears began to fall.

  My father pulled me into a hug. “I love you, Maddy.” He patted my back. “I’m just worried.”

  “I know,” I mumbled. “I love you, too, but you’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

  The mayor and I ended up reaching a truce. As long as I didn’t ask for his outright blessing, he’d refrain from voicing his objections to my burgeoning relationship, particularly in the presence of Adam.

  Speaking of Adam, I was anxious to reunite. But when we opened the door and stepped into the hallway, neither he nor my attorney were there. I told my dad I’d check for them in the front lobby, but the mayor said he had something he needed to do elsewhere in the station—speak with Detectives Mitchell and Crowley. Presumably to find out exactly where they stood on the question of my guilt, and I was sure he wanted to see what he could do to assuage their suspicions.