Page 64 of Skin and Bones

“That’s lovely, Walt,” I said, genuinely touched by this glimpse of the man beneath the hypervigilant exterior.

“Now,” he said, obviously deciding that was enough personal talk, “When we get there, watch his eyes, not his mouth. The mouth can lie, but the eyes always tell the truth.”

“Right,” I said, and settled in for the rest of the drive, singing “Little White Lies” to myself.

The Harrington Construction headquarters surprised me. Instead of the cold glass and steel monument I expected, the lobby was all reclaimed wood and worn leather furniture. Photos of construction sites and workers in hard hats lined the walls, not the typical corporate bragging gallery of handshakes with politicians.

Inside, the receptionist wore jeans and a polo with the company logo. “Mr. Harrington’s expecting you,” she said with a warm smile. “Head on up.”

Clint Harrington Jr. was nothing like I’d imagined. Where Brooks was polished corporate slick, Harrington was job-site rugged. He wore dark jeans, work boots with construction dust still on them, and a sport coat that looked like it had been tossed on as an afterthought. His hands were calloused and his tan came from actual time outdoors, not some salon.

His office had a working drafting table covered with blueprints and a wall of hard hats from different projects. Only the spectacular harbor view revealed this was the office of someone important.

Harrington looked up from his blueprints, eyeing me with curiosity before turning to Walt. “Mr. Garrison. It’s been a while.” He shook Walt’s hand and then extended a hand to me. “Clint Harrington. You must be Mabel McCoy. I was a friend of Patrick’s. I was sorry I was out of the country when he died. Scared the daylights out of me. I get a physical every year like clockwork.”

“You knew Patrick?” I asked, surprised because I couldn’t recall if Patrick had ever mentioned Clint Harrington. But to be fair, we didn’t do a lot of socializing back then. We’d only had eyes for each other the two short years we were married.

“Sure, our families go way back,” he said, clearing a stack of permits from some chairs. “I’ve probably got some pictures around somewhere if you’d ever like to see them. Please, sit. Though I trust this won’t take long. I’ve got some problems on a site and I need to drive out and remind my foreman what I’m paying him for.” His polite words didn’t match the tension radiating from him.

“We’ll be quick,” Walt said. “Appreciate you seeing us on short notice. You see, Mabel and I have recently been deputized to clean up some of Milton’s messes.”

Clint’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked back and forth between us. “I can see why you’d be an asset, Walt.”

I decided not to take offense that he didn’t include my name as an asset.

“We have some questions about Elizabeth Calvert,” Walt said.

Harrington’s jaw tightened like someone had cranked it with a wrench. “That’s one of the messes Milton left behind? I thought he closed the case. Accidental drowning.”

“You believe that?” Walt asked.

“Never did,” Clint said. “But there was no proof otherwise.”

“Her father’s dying,” I said. “His last wish is to know what really happened to his daughter.”

Something flickered across Harrington’s face. “But I’m not sure how I can help. It was almost thirty years ago. Elizabeth and I were close once, were lovers, talked about our futures and dreams together. But Elizabeth had big ambitions. She was never quite satisfied with just being the lighthouse keeper’s daughter.”

“Elizabeth was researching the Harbor Development Corporation the summer she died,” I said. “Your father’s company—this company—was the primary developer.”

A dull flush rose from his neck to his cheeks and his gaze hardened. “Elizabeth was naïve about business,” he said, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “You’d have thought she was looking for a Pulitzer the way she dug her teeth into that story. She saw conspiracy where there was just standard practice. The environmental adjustments, the zoning modifications—that’s how projects get done in the real world.”

“It’s also how laws get broken,” Walt pointed out mildly.

“You want to talk about breaking laws?” Harrington’s composure shattered like cheap glass. “Let’s talk about Jason Brooks.”

The venom in his voice when he said the name practically blistered the paint on the walls.

“What about him?” I asked, fighting the urge to take a step back.

“Brooks,” he spat, pacing now like a caged animal. “That manipulative bastard seduced her with his fancy law degree and worldly sophistication. Elizabeth was brilliant but sheltered. She’d never dealt with someone like him before. Where do you think she came up with the idea for that story? He was feeding her nothing but conspiracies.”

Walt gave me an almost imperceptible nod to continue. “You’ve got a lot of anger there, son.”

Harrington stopped pacing, his hands white-knuckling the back of his chair. “You know what no one understands? I loved her. Really loved her.” His voice cracked. “We were talking again those last few days before she died. About reconciliation.”

He swallowed hard. “I went to her apartment. I thought we were meeting alone. Then I find Brooks there with all those papers spread out, and I thought they were playing me for a fool.”

“Brooks mentioned that confrontation,” I said carefully. “But not that you and Elizabeth were discussing getting back together.”

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