Page 84 of Skin and Bones

“Very much so,” Vincent said, his hands as animated as his expressions. “As soon as he made the decision to purchase, he told me he had to have it engraved in twenty-four hours. Paid for it too.”

“I need to know a name,” Dash told him.

Vincent put his hand to his heart. “I wish I could help you, but my reputation is how I’ve stayed in business for thirty years.”

“I think a homicide trumps your reputation,” Dash said.

Vincent’s olive complexion paled to the color of dirty dishwater. “Homicide?” His voice rose an octave. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” Dash said, reaching into his jacket and producing an official-looking document. “This is a warrant for your business records related to the creation of this specific watch, including any names or personal information you collected.”

“Well then,” he said, taking the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing his forehead. “Follow me.”

He led us through a door behind the main counter, into an office that looked like it had been decorated by someone with unlimited funds and questionable taste. Everything gleamed with gold leaf, from the ornate picture frames to the baroque desk that dominated the space. The walls were lined with antique clocks, all showing slightly different times, their ticking creating a cacophony of tiny heartbeats.

“This is highly irregular,” Vincent said. “I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before. The man didn’t look like a murderer.”

I wanted to ask him what murderers were supposed to look like, but didn’t figure now was the time.

“I need a name,” Dash said.

“Let me check my records,” he said, moving to a file cabinet behind his desk.

I would’ve bet dollars to donuts that he had the name memorized, but he was enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Here we go,” Vincent said, pulling a single sheet of paper from the file. “He didn’t leave an address or phone number. Which was odd because I told him I needed it so I could call him when the engraving was finished. But he told me he’d be here at three o’clock and that the watch had better be ready.”

Vincent handed the paper to Dash and I looked down at the name printed neatly at the top.

“Clint Harrington,” I said.

Dash’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Can you describe him?”

“Of course,” Vincent said. “I’m excellent with names and faces.

“That wasn’t Harrington he described,” I said once we were back in the SUV, the air-conditioning cooling my flushed skin. “Not even close.”

“No,” Dash agreed, his expression grim. “It wasn’t.”

Dash made a sharp U-turn, heading back toward the causeway.

“Where are we going?” I asked, watching his profile as he navigated through Charleston’s narrow streets.

“To have a chat with Clint Harrington,” he said, his jaw tight. “Pull up the address on the MDT.”

“What the heck is an MDT?” I asked, looking all over the inside of the Tahoe.

He pushed what looked like a laptop attached to a swivel arm in my direction. “Mobile Data Terminal,” he said. “Just type it in and the directions will come up on the screen.”

“So it’s a big GPS?” I asked, arching a brow.

“Among other things,” he said. “Type in Clint Harrington’s name and see what comes up.”

Once I’d put the map on the screen I did as he suggested. “There are seven Clint Harringtons in South Carolina.” Then I looked at the screen closer. I could narrow it down further by city and age. “He’s got a couple of parking tickets.”

“I’ll make sure to mention it when I ask him why someone would be using his name.”

“You think he’s involved?”

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