The Guilty Husband

by Stephanie DeCarolis

  ‘So, basically what I’m hearing is that Vince Taylor is probably pretty wealthy?’

  ‘Try extremely wealthy,’ Lanner replies. ‘You gotta see his house.’

  Lanner pulls out his phone and quickly taps away at it before turning it around and showing me a photo of what could easily pass for a luxury resort. The house, or I should say mansion, is incredible. An expansive villa set against a wooded backdrop. The aerial view Lanner found highlights the private pool, tennis courts, and long winding drive. The large property is extremely secluded and bordered by a stately stone wall – the only thing separating the grandeur of the home from the tangled woodland surrounding it.

  ‘Just a touch larger than my apartment,’ I scoff with a roll of my eyes, as I envision my tiny one-bedroom rental with the rattling air-conditioner that can’t seem to keep up with the suffocating heat wave we’ve been experiencing.

  ‘I’ll say,’ Lanner agrees. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, his commute into the city from Loch Harbor probably sucks.’

  That earns him another eye roll. ‘You know, somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better at all.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Lanner continues, ‘did you get anything good from your interview with him?’

  ‘Not really. He didn’t seem to know the victim too well. She was just an intern and she’s only been here a few months, but there was something about him that didn’t sit right with me. I’m gonna scope him out later. You get anything good?’

  ‘Not much. The vic worked with the development team. They were working on some new app or something. All very top secret,’ Lanner says. ‘Pretty much everyone on the team had the same things to say about her though: she was a quiet girl, kept to herself, but very bright and very ambitious. Apparently she showed a lot of promise.’

  ‘Any luck getting in touch with her next of kin?’

  ‘No,’ Lanner explains, ‘but I had Kinnon drop by her address this morning and he got in touch with her neighbor. She’s on her way down to the morgue now to ID the body.’

  ‘Let’s meet her there,’ I say.

  I hate the morgue. I can’t count how many times I’ve been here during my years on the job, but it never gets any easier. The cold metal slabs, the blue-gray lifeless bodies, and the smell of formaldehyde make me shudder every time. But I have to keep it together. I’ve only recently been promoted to detective and this is the first major homicide investigation that I’ve been put in charge of, and so I don’t want to show any signs of weakness.

  Lanner and I have worked together for a long time. Although he made detective almost a year before I did, we more or less came up the ranks together, so he already knows my feelings on hanging out with dead bodies. But still, as lead detective on this case, I feel like I have something to prove. Lanner is a good guy, but he’s still exactly that … a guy. In a male-dominated police force, I can’t afford to look like I can’t handle the gore that comes along with the job.

  ‘You ready?’ Lanner asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  I pull back my shoulders, shake off the eerie chill that this place gives me, and walk into the lobby to meet Layla Bosch’s neighbor.

  We find her sitting on one of the small wooden chairs in the waiting room under a mop of frizzy black curls. She seems almost folded in on herself, making herself appear as small as possible, while she nervously picks at the skin on the side of her thumb.

  ‘Hi, I’m Detective Allison Barnes,’ I say gently as I approach. ‘And this is my partner, Detective Jake Lanner.’

  ‘I’m Mindy,’ the woman says in a small voice, as she brushes a rogue curl away from her face. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. Are you sure it’s Layla?’

  ‘We think so,’ Lanner says. ‘We found her work ID badge on her when we arrived at the scene this morning. But we need you to identify the body, if you can, so that we can be sure the woman we found is Layla Bosch.’

  ‘Yes, I can do that,’ Mindy says, pulling herself to a stand. It looks as though she’s doing her best to brace herself for what’s to come.

  ‘Follow me,’ I tell her as I lead the way to the viewing room.

  ‘Do I have to … go in the room?’ Mindy asks, her eyes widening. ‘You know … with the body?’

  ‘No,’ I assure her. ‘The coroner will go into the autopsy room and he’ll pull back the sheet, just away from her face. You’ll see her here,’ I explain, indicating a television monitor in the center of the room.

  ‘And all you’ll have to do is tell us if you recognize the body. If it’s Layla,’ Lanner adds.

  ‘Okay. I can do that,’ Mindy says, but she can’t seem to stop her hands from shaking.

  The television flickers to life and the familiar face of the coroner, Dr Allen Gress, appears on the screen. ‘Are you ready?’ he asks.

  Lanner presses a button on the intercom next to the screen. ‘We are,’ he says. ‘Go ahead.’

  Dr Gress gently lifts a white sheet away from the victim’s face. He’s cleaned her up a bit since we’ve last seen her. Her face is no longer splattered with dirt, and her hair, which was matted with blood this morning, has been carefully brushed away from her face. The red dress, mottled with dark red blood, that she was wearing when we found her, has been cut away and replaced with a clean white sheet tucked neatly under her sides.

  I hear Mindy take a sharp breath, and then she covers her mouth with her hands. ‘That’s her,’ she says. ‘That’s my neighbor. Layla Bosch,’ she manages before she begins to sob. Her hands tremble in front of her face and I can see red splotches blooming on her cheeks underneath.

  ‘Thanks, Dr Gress,’ Lanner says through the intercom. The coroner nods and pulls the sheet back over Layla’s face as I switch off the screen.

  I lead a tearful Mindy to a seat while Lanner goes to talk to Dr Gress about his findings thus far.

  ‘Do you mind answering a few more questions for me?’ I ask Mindy gently.

  ‘Of course. Anything I can do to help.’ Mindy’s eyes fill with tears again and I hand her a tissue from a box on the small end table situated next to us.

  ‘We’ve been trying to track down Layla’s family,’ I explain. ‘We haven’t been able to find any next of kin for her.’

  ‘She doesn’t have any family, I don’t think. She told me that her parents and her only brother were killed in car accident when she was very young. She was raised by her grandmother who recently passed, which is how she ended up moving to Brooklyn in the apartment next to mine. After her grandmother died she wanted a fresh start. Oh my God, I can’t believe she’s really gone.’ The tears in Mindy’s eyes begin to fall.

  ‘Were you two close?’

  ‘We were becoming pretty good friends, I guess’ she replies. ‘Layla only just moved to town but I made an effort to get to know her. I live alone too, and I figured two single girls should look out for each other. She was kind of shy at first, kept to herself, but lately we’ve been spending more time together. Having a glass of wine after work, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did you ever meet any of her other friends? Boyfriends?’

  ‘I don’t think she had anyone else,’ Mindy explains. ‘She was new to town and really only ever talked about people she worked with. It didn’t seem like she socialized with them much outside of the office though. I don’t think she was seeing anyone either. If she was, she never mentioned it. I told her about my love life, or lack thereof, all the time. I think she would have told me if she was dating.’

  ‘Thanks, Mindy. You’ve been really helpful,’ I reassure her, handing her my card. ‘If you think of anything else, you can call me any time.’

  Lanner folds himself into the passenger seat of my car, his long lanky legs nearly pressed up against the glove compartment. He slams the door behind him, making me wince. He always slams the damn door. It’s infuriating. He immediately rips open a bag of chips, shoving a handful in his mouth. I watch the greasy crumbs fall onto the passenger seat of my car. Also infuriating.
I don’t know how Lanner manages to stay so thin with all the junk he eats.

  ‘What did Dr Gress have to say?’ I ask.

  ‘He hasn’t finished his autopsy yet,’ Lanner replies while munching away, ‘but his initial impression is that the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head. He’s putting her time of death at approximately 9.30 last night. Give or take about a half hour.’

  ‘That’s consistent with CSI’s initial findings. When they looked at the site this morning they said that the blood spatter along the jogging trail looked like it came from a blow to the head. They’re still canvassing the area, but no sign of the murder weapon yet.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Lanner asks.

  ‘I’ve asked Kinnon to put together a team to check CCTV footage. There are no cameras in that area of the park, but maybe we can pick her up somewhere heading into the park. See if anyone was following her.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Lanner agrees. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Let’s go see what we can find at her apartment.’

  Chapter 3

  Vince

  DAY 1

  I park my Tesla in my driveway and take a deep breath, my hands still curved around the leather-wrapped steering wheel. I plaster on a fake smile and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. I’m surprised to see that despite the fear roiling inside me, I look like my usual self, or at least the image of myself that I’ve carefully cultivated over the years. The CEO. The tech mogul. The rock climber. The philanthropist. It frightens me how easily I’m able to turn it on. To tramp down my true feelings and play the part. But right now it’s what I have to do. I have to pretend that the world is not crumbling beneath my feet.

  I walk up the front path to my house reminding myself that today is just any other day. It has to be, as far as Nicole is concerned anyway. I stand in front of the house for a moment, under the clear blue sky, steeling myself for the conversation I know I need to have. Our house, a Mediterranean villa styled after a home we once rented on the Amalfi Coast, stares back at me unforgivingly. Its stone archways, sweeping balconies, and soaring pillars already seem to be aware of the lies I’m about to tell within its walls.

  I push open the double entry door and step onto the shining travertine floors of the foyer. Nicole loved these floors when we were first designing the house. I remember watching her poring over sample materials with our team of designers, choosing a palette of warm cream tones and cool grays for the home we were to build. She used color names like ‘River Rock Gray’, ‘Dove White’, and ‘Vanilla Cream’. All natural hues, an earthy palette that would make the house feel both bright and tranquil, at one with the natural landscape surrounding it.

  I drop my keys on the entryway table and call up the grand staircase which leads to the second floor bedrooms, but Nicole doesn’t answer. I’m about to walk up the stairs when I catch a whiff of roasted garlic in the air, and decide to check the kitchen instead.

  Our kitchen combines traditional Mediterranean design with ultra-modern amenities. The warm, sun-dappled room features natural stone surfaces with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances fit for a chef. It’s one of Nicole’s favorite rooms in the house as it seamlessly flows out onto our pergola-covered patio where we often sit to eat outdoors. This space always feels warm and inviting, and today it’s also filled with the unmistakable scent of Nicole’s homemade lasagna. It’s her specialty, her recipe perfected over the years. But Nicole isn’t here.

  I crack open the oven, something I know my wife would hate, but I can’t resist the temptation to peer in at the bubbling cheese.

  ‘You aren’t opening the oven are you?’ Nicole calls in.

  ‘How do you always know?’ I yell back.

  ‘I know everything,’ Nicole teases as she appears in the doorway of the kitchen. No, you don’t.

  ‘Lasagna looks delicious, Babe.’ I slide my arm around her slender waist. ‘Were you in your studio?’ I take in the sight of her yoga pants, Lycra tank top, and her long blonde hair pulled back into a thick plait that hangs down her back.

  ‘Yes, I wanted to get in a little yoga session before we indulge in all that pasta and cheese,’ she says, patting her flat, toned stomach.

  Nicole swipes an oven mitt off of the counter and lifts the steaming tray of lasagna from the oven. ‘It needs to set for a few minutes.’ She says this as if I’m not very well aware of her lasagna schedule by now. ‘I’m going to take a quick shower and then we’ll eat.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll set the table.’

  Nicole rises up onto her tip-toes, and I lean over so that she can give me a quick kiss before she makes her way out of the kitchen. I can’t help but steal another glance as she’s walking away. With her trim, petite figure and the delicate way she pads out of the room, she reminds me of a little bird. But my wife is anything but fragile. She’s been through so much and she’s always remained so strong. I just hope she can do it again.

  I remember the first time I ever saw Nicole. It was about ten years ago, when KitzTech was just a start-up. I was looking for office space to rent, and had found an ad online for a postage stamp-sized room available for lease. I called the listing agent, and to my surprise, it was within my minuscule budget. I set up an appointment to see it that afternoon, and jotted down the address on a scrap of paper. A few hours later, I found myself staring up at the old brick building wondering if I had the right address. I opened the battered-looking door on the first floor of the building and walked into a small, but beautiful, art gallery. Nicole stepped out from behind a desk, wearing a delicate, flowing dress in a soft pink. Her long, white-blonde hair fell loose around her face giving her an almost ethereal look.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  I was so mesmerized by the frosty turquoise blue of her eyes that I couldn’t bring myself to answer right away. ‘Oh, uh, yeah, I think I may be lost,’ I eventually stammered.

  ‘Can I see this?’ She gently took the scrap of paper with the office address from my hand. ‘Oh, that’s the unit upstairs,’ she explained. ‘The entrance is around the other side of the building.’

  ‘Um, thanks.’ I tried to tear my eyes away from her, but found it nearly impossible. She was the loveliest creature I had ever seen. I went to see the dank, musty office space upstairs and rented it on the spot. I didn’t care that it wasn’t at all what I was looking for. Because I needed to see that girl again. It felt like a fait accompli. I was meant to meet Nicole.

  I don’t know how I’ve strayed so far from the starry-eyed young man who accidentally stumbled into the art gallery that day. I don’t know when exactly I lost that version of myself and became this person, the one with so many secrets to protect, but I am not proud of the transformation.

  Just as I finish setting the table and putting together a quick chopped salad, Nicole walks back into the room pulling me from my reverie. She’s barefoot with her long, damp hair thrown back over her shoulders.

  ‘You even made a salad,’ Nicole says. She’s smiling as she takes a seat at the table and tucks her legs up under her.

  ‘See? I told you I could cook.’

  Nicole laughs. I never cook and we both know it. Burnt toast is the most I can manage most of the time.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask before she has the chance to ask me about mine.

  ‘It was good, I taught a few classes this morning, and then I had a client come in for a private session in my studio.’

  We built a yoga studio for Nicole on a cleared section of our wooded property last year. It’s built in a converted and air-conditioned greenhouse that lets Nicole’s affluent and captious clients feel at one with nature without having to actually deal with any of the inconveniences of the outdoors.

  ‘I’m glad the studio is working out so well.’

  ‘The clients love it and I do too,’ Nicole replies nodding. ‘It’s so peaceful out there.’

  There’s a brief moment of silence while we both dig into the rich lasagn
a, letting the flavors melt on our tongues.

  ‘Anyway,’ Nicole says, ‘how was your day?’

  Here we go. ‘Well … not so good, actually. A few detectives came by the office this morning. It turns out one of our interns was killed last night.’ My voice waivers as I choke out the words and I clear my throat to steady myself.

  ‘Oh how awful!’ Nicole exclaims. She drops her fork and looks up at me, her eyes wide.

  I feel my cheeks grow warm under her expectant gaze. I know she’s waiting to hear more, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘Yeah, it was an unexpected visit, to say the least,’ I reply, trying to sound as casual as I can under the circumstances.

  ‘I’m sure.’ Nicole resumes twirling cheese around her fork.

  She doesn’t yet know that there’s nothing casual about this. Not for me. Not for us. Nicole is the most caring and kind-hearted person I’ve ever met, but she doesn’t understand yet. She couldn’t. She’s hearing this story at a remove; like one who learns of a death on the evening news and thinks to themselves, ‘Such a shame’ while taking for granted the luxury of being able to simply flick the channel and let the tragedy gently drift from their minds. Aren’t we all guilty of this though? Of failing to internalize the plight of others? We may feel compassion, perhaps even sympathy, but a stranger’s pain doesn’t keep us up at night when it doesn’t reach out its cold, spindly fingers and touch our own lives. When the suffering isn’t ours to carry, we wash it off hastily and unceremoniously and, if we’re being honest, quietly think to ourselves that we’re glad to be rid of it and the mild discomfort we fleetingly felt as a result of its proximity to our lives.

  ‘Who was it?’ Nicole asks, yanking me back from the darkness of my own thoughts.