I smile, but in my head I’m thinking, this is not your castle, this is not your kingdom. I suddenly feel a desperate need to get Layla out of the apartment. It was stupid to bring her here. I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, I do. I was thinking about her. About having her. I wasn’t thinking about how it would feel to see her standing in Nicole’s footprints.
‘Have you been to Central Park yet?’ I ask.
‘No, I haven’t had the chance since I moved to New York.’
‘Perfect, let’s get dressed. I’ll show you the park.’
‘Won’t you be late getting into the office?’
‘Who cares? I’m the boss. Besides, if anyone asks, I took you to another investors’ meeting this morning. Came up last minute.’
Layla rises up onto her toes and kisses me deeply, her tongue probing my mouth. I feel a flutter in my gut, but I force it down.
‘I said go get dressed, you,’ I chide as I tap her bottom playfully.
‘You’re the boss.’ Her voice is sensual and full. ‘I’m just going to shower first, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course.’
Layla makes her way towards the bathroom in the master bedroom. I watch her walk away, the curve of her bottom poking out from underneath the hem of my shirt, her hips swaying rhythmically like a model on the catwalk. I wonder whether she’s doing it intentionally, whether she knows what she’s stirring inside of me, or whether it’s derived from a more natural, subliminal control of her sexuality.
I hear the shower turn on as I follow her into the bathroom. I watch her drop my shirt to the floor, tantalizingly slowly, and step under the cascade of water. She lifts her face to water, allowing it to drip down her throat and onto her breasts. I watch her pull her hands through her hair and I turn away. If I watch any longer, we’ll never make it out of this apartment.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a one of my signature black shirts. Just as I’m yanking on my socks, I hear a key in the lock. I freeze. My heart hammers against my chest like a rabbit caught in a trap. Did Nicole not believe me when I told her I was working late and staying in the city last night? Did my lies seep through the phone sounding flimsy and wavering, revealing me for what I am? My mouth goes dry and there is nothing I can do but walk out into the living room and watch the front door slowly creak open.
I know that when Nicole steps through that door, I will fall to my knees and confess. I will beg her for forgiveness. I will do anything she wants if she will just give me another chance. I feel my knees go weak, I’m ready to throw myself at her mercy as I see her foot begin to step inside.
The door swings fully open, and a startled Marta is staring back at me. Both of us wide-eyed in surprise.
‘Oh, Mr Taylor. I’m so sorry. I did not know you were going to be here today. I always clean on Tuesdays and—’
‘No, Marta, it’s okay. I’m just leaving for work. This was my fault, I forgot to tell you I’d be in this morning.’
We both fall into an awkward silence before it dawns on me that Marta can hear the shower running in the master bath.
‘Right, I was just about to get into the shower,’ I say, running my fingers through my hair.
Marta’s face glows red. ‘Yes, Mr Taylor, of course. I’ll come back later.’
She hurries out, dragging her cart of cleaning supplies behind her, and letting the door fall closed in her wake.
Jesus. That was too close. I can never bring Layla back here again.
Layla laces her fingers through mine as we walk across the park. I wince at the intimacy of the gesture and hope she doesn’t notice. After the close encounter with Marta I feel like I need to distance myself from Layla. The hazy glow of our drunken, passionate sex last night has worn off and in the cold light of day it feels cheap and shameful. I was no longer in the mood for a stroll through the park with Layla, but I didn’t know how to tell her I’d changed my mind, and besides, I needed to get her out of that apartment immediately.
Layla, on the other hand, seems to still be basking in the afterglow of our indiscretions. She clung to my arm in the elevator, looking up at me with her big doe-eyes. My stomach roiled.
I gulp down my growing anxiety that someone may see us together, and gently disentangle my fingers from Layla’s under the guise of pointing out a cardinal soaring between the lacy elm trees above us.
Central Park has always held a special significance to me. My father used to take me here every year around the holidays. It is the one thing we’d always do together. Things weren’t always easy, but the times we spent here felt magical, an escape from our real lives. For a few hours we could pretend we were the type of people who casually strolled Central Park all the time. In reality, things were quite different. My mother was diagnosed with cancer when I was young. She was dying for most of my life, until she finally succumbed to her illness when I was eleven. My father, who never finished high school, worked long hours in a tire factory to provide for me and to take care of my mother’s medical expenses. He never once complained, though I know he always wished he could provide more for us. He couldn’t afford to take us on family vacations, or pile presents under a Christmas tree, but he never missed a Christmas in New York.
Up until my father passed, following a heart attack about four years ago, Christmas Eve in Central Park was our tradition. Just the two of us. As a child, I remember how he’d take my hand as we waited on the cold, cement platform for a train to take us from New Jersey into Manhattan. I buzzed with excitement, bouncing giddily at his side. Once in the city, we would take a cab to Central Park, and I felt like a celebrity in a chauffeured car as we passed through the bustling city, whizzing past skyscrapers, billboards, and all the twinkling lights in the shop windows.
My visits to Central Park with my father are some of my fondest, and most vivid memories. I remember the horse-drawn carriages, adorned with Christmas ribbons, which carted elegantly dressed couples with thick woolen blankets laid across their laps. The cold December air escaped the horses’ velvety muzzles in curling puffs as silver sleigh bells tinkled on their reigns. The smell of roasted chestnuts and soft pretzels warming over coals wafted through the air as I strolled through the park next to my father, who, when I was a child, seemed impossibly tall. On one glorious Christmas Eve, snow fell around us like confectioners’ sugar, clinging to my coat and gloves, the world sparkling with frost.
I shake off the memories, precious, intimate treasures that I don’t want to share.
‘We should probably get to the office,’ I tell Layla, making a show of looking at my watch.
The park holds no magic for me today.
Chapter 24
Allison
DAY 5
I drum my fingers on my desk. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
‘Do you think you could maybe stop that?’ Stu says gently.
‘Stop what?’
‘The tapping. And maybe also that thing you’re doing where you’re hovering over my shoulder?’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ I say, forcing myself to sit down and wait patiently. I’m not a patient person. One of the many virtues I do not possess. I asked Stu to look over Layla’s phone again, to see if there is any way we could see whether she had a Date Space account, maybe find out who she connected with there.
‘Barnes?’
‘Yeah?’
‘The tapping.’
I look down and realize that I’ve been tapping my foot against the side of the desk. Tap, tap, tap.
‘Sorry.’ I grin sheepishly.
‘Okay, here’s what I can tell you.’
I lean in closer.
‘Layla did have a Date Space account. Her username was BreakfastAtTiffanys. She didn’t list her real name on the account, and there’s a photo but you can hardly tell it’s her. See?’
Stu turns the phone to face me. He shows me an image of who I assume to be, Layla. It was taken from the waist up, highlighting her ample breasts which are piled into a black bikini that does no
t seem up for the task of containing them. She’s wearing a floppy sun hat, which she’s seductively pulled down over one eye with a delicate hand ending in pink manicured nails. The hat casts a shadow over her eyes, but her cherry red lips glisten enticingly in the sunshine. It strikes me that this photo was probably carefully selected. It’s suggestive enough to garner attention (plenty of attention is my bet), but keeps her real identity hidden, in case she wanted to avoid recognition by any local suitors outside of the designated Date Space chat.
‘Can you see when Layla joined Date Space?’ I ask.
‘Looks like it was January of this year.’
‘Four months before she moved to New York then,’ I say, more to myself than to Stu. ‘Any way to find out who she was talking to on there?’
‘No, there isn’t. Once a conversation space is closed, the app doesn’t keep a record of who you spoke to.’
‘Damn.’
‘Secret Message is the same. She has the app, but she has no unread messages. Once a message is read, it’s automatically erased. Can’t be retrieved.’
‘Double damn.’
‘Sorry, Barnes. Wish I had more for ya,’ Stu says as he shuts down Layla’s phone once again.
Back to the drawing board. There has to be some way to find out more about Layla. And there’s only one person I can think of who might be able to help us with that. I walk over to Lanner’s desk.
‘I think we should go talk to Mindy again, Layla’s neighbor. Stu just told me that Layla had a Date Space account, but we don’t know who she was talking to. Let’s see if she ever mentioned it to Mindy.’
Lanner pulls up to Mindy’s apartment building, Layla’s former residence. It’s a squat little brick building with small rectangular windows cut into the facade, each fitted with metal bars. For a girl who was sleeping with a multi-millionaire, she wasn’t doing too well for herself. There’s no parking on the street in front of the building. Lanner circles the block a few times before he finds a spot to that can accommodate his department-issued Chevy Impala. We walk up the block in the suffocating heat. It radiates off the sidewalk and coils around me like a snake. The air is stagnant and laced with the smell of urine and simmering garbage. Lanner and I approach the building in silence. It’s as if the heat evaporated all of the words off of our tongues.
By the time we walk up the four flights of stairs to Mindy’s apartment, I’m drenched in sweat. Lanner knocks on the door while I peel my shirt off of my skin and fan myself with it.
Mindy comes to the door, opening it cautiously, the chain lock still in place. We called her before showing up, so she should be expecting us, but I suppose you can never be too careful. Especially after her friend turned up dead just a few days ago.
‘Oh, hi Detectives. Just a moment,’ Mindy says as she closes the door and disengages the chain. ‘Come on in.’ She sniffles. She mentioned earlier that she’s working from home today, nursing a cold.
Mindy’s hair looks like a lion’s mane in the sticky humidity. Black curls leap from her scalp as if they’re trying to escape her head. She must notice me looking because she pulls it back self-consciously.
‘Sorry about the heat. The air conditioners in this building suck.’
‘I know how you feel,’ I tell her. ‘Mine’s just as bad.’
‘Did you guys find out what happened to Layla?’ Mindy motions for us to take a seat on her sofa, which is thankfully positioned right in front of the feeble air conditioner. It’s blowing lukewarm air, but sitting in the breeze still feels like we’ve reached an oasis.
‘Not yet,’ I explain. ‘We’re following up on a few leads and had a couple of questions for you.’
‘Sure. Anything I can do to help.’ Mindy swipes at her nose with a wadded-up tissue.
As Lanner and I had discussed on the drive over, he’s going to handle the social media questions as I’m still a ‘newbie’ as he phrased it.
‘Did Layla ever mention Date Space to you?’ Lanner asks.
‘Yeah, sure. She knows that I’ve made a few unsuccessful attempts at Internet dating, and when I told her I was ready to call it quits, buy a few cats, and become a spinster at the ripe old age of twenty-six, she suggested I try Date Space. She told me that her employer, KitzTech, created it and that it’s a fun and safe way to meet guys. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but it sets up these private chat spaces for you to talk to anyone you connect with so that you, like, don’t have to exchange numbers until you’re ready, and you can even video chat and stuff.’ Mindy fidgets in her seat and she seems to be having trouble meeting Lanner’s eye, her cheeks glowing pink. It’s no wonder she prefers meeting men online first. She strikes me as painfully shy.
Lanner smiles, making Mindy squirm just a little bit more. Sometimes I forget that women find him attractive. We’ve been partners for so long that his shine has sort of worn off for me. I see him more like a brother; someone who drives me crazy, but I care about fiercely.
‘Did Layla use Date Space herself?’ Lanner asks.
‘I don’t know. She didn’t mention it if she did. But did you, like, see her? There’s no way a girl who looks like that needs to meet guys on the Internet … Not that there’s anything wrong with that of course,’ Mindy rushes to add as she looks over at me. ‘Plenty of good-looking people do Internet dating. How else do you meet people these days, ya know?’ Evidently she thinks I’m exactly the type of person who spends my evenings scouring the Internet for dates.
‘I’m just saying,’ Mindy continues, ‘Layla had no trouble meeting people. Every time we’d go out to a bar or whatever, all the guys in the place would stare at her.’
‘Does anyone in particular stick out in your mind?’ I ask. ‘Anyone approach her?’
‘No, not really,’ Mindy says, looking up thoughtfully. ‘Layla never even seemed to notice all the attention she was getting. I imagine she was used to it.’
‘You still have my card?’ I ask.
Mindy nods. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Call me any time if you think of anyone who showed a particular amount of attention to Layla. Anyone you may have seen more than once.’
‘Okay, yeah, sure,’ Mindy agrees.
Lanner and I shake Mindy’s hand and thank her again for her time, and we show ourselves out of her apartment.
When we step back out onto the sidewalk, the heat hits me like a punch to the face. I feel a wave of dizziness crash over me.
‘Sit down, Barnes,’ Lanner instructs as he lowers me to the curb. ‘I’ll go get you some cold water.’
Lanner jogs across the street to a bodega. ‘Apples 99 cents per pound’ advertised on a bright pink poster tacked to the front window. I watch him hurry through the door, but it’s what is above the door that has really caught my attention. A CCTV camera aimed directly at me, sitting on the sidewalk in front of Layla’s building, its lens glinting in the sun.
Lanner rushes back with a bottle of water. I gulp it down greedily, feeling the blissfully cold liquid trail down my throat.
‘Thank you,’ I say when I finally manage to pull the bottle away from my lips. ‘But we need to go back in there for one more thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Their CCTV footage,’ I reply, pointing up at the camera. It stares back at me, an ever watchful eye.
Chapter 25
Vince
DAY 5
I refresh my e-mail over and over and again. For the first time in … I don’t even know how many years, I’m not going into the office today. The temptation to log into the KitzTech server and check in on things is very strong. I know I should keep my hands off the wheel, at least for now, but I find that I’m having difficulty relinquishing control. And so instead, I’m sitting on my living room couch, my laptop warming on my thighs, just waiting for David Mullins, the private investigator, to respond to my inquiry. I need to relax. It’s still early and he probably hasn’t even had his morning coffee yet, never mind decided whether or not to jump
on the train wreck that is my life right now.
I hear Nicole coming down the stairs.
‘Hey,’ I offer.
‘Hi.’
Okay, not the warmest greeting, but at least she’s speaking to me.
‘Can we talk?’
‘I suppose we have to. Just let me make myself some tea first.’
Nicole makes her way into the kitchen. I hear her filling the kettle, the tea cups clinking. I can’t see her from here, but I can picture her up on her tip-toes searching for her favorite tea cup. The white one with the gold rim. As Nicole waits for the kettle to whistle, I refresh my e-mail approximately fifteen times, before I toss the laptop aside in frustration.
Nicole walks back into the living room on catlike feet, carefully balancing the delicate china tea cup brimming with peppermint tea. Its bracing aroma fills the room, cool and clean. Nicole perches on the edge of the sofa and takes a tentative sip, steam rising from the cup in spiraling tendrils.
‘You saw the World View article yesterday?’ I begin sheepishly.
Nicole nods.
‘None of it is true. I swear to you, Nicole. I don’t know why Layla—’
‘Please don’t say that name to me.’ Her voice takes a hard edge.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that, she’s lying. She lied.’
‘It seems like, for some reason or another, she was under the impression that you were very much in love with her. You “couldn’t bear to see her with anyone else” were her exact words, I believe.’ Nicole’s voice is cold, unforgiving. She doesn’t believe me. And why should she? I’ve broken her trust.
‘I don’t know why she’d think that, but it’s not true. I never felt that way about her, and I certainly never said those words to her. You have to believe me. I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me, but I swear to you I’m telling you the truth.’
‘I want to believe you, Vince, I really do. But I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.’ Her eyes mist over with tears, but they don’t fall. Not yet. It’s as if she’s looking at me from behind protective glass.
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