‘Of course you do, I’m the same person I always was.’
‘No, Vince, you’re not. The man I married wouldn’t have done this to me. He just wouldn’t have. You’ve changed, I don’t know when exactly it happened, but you did, and this … this has changed us. I don’t know if things can ever go back to the way that they were before.’ Nicole takes another a small sip of her tea, the steam rising in front of her face once more. A misty barrier forming between us.
‘I’ve made mistakes. I know that. You deserve so much better than I’ve given you, and I promise you, Nicole, I’m going to get back to the man I used to be. The man you loved. Please just give me that chance.’ I can hear the desperation in my own voice, the measured confidence I usually exude a long forgotten memory. The guilt, the shame, the regret, the injustice of it all wash over me, one emotion lapping over another, swirling together until I can’t parse them apart anymore. In this moment, all I know is that I’d do anything to make Nicole believe me. I can’t lose her. I can’t.
‘I’m trying,’ Nicole replies. ‘I’ve been trying. I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt all along. I still believe you didn’t kill that girl, and that’s the only reason I’ve agreed to stand by your side through all of this, but I can’t take any more surprises. Have you told me everything? Do you promise me?’
‘Yes. I swear to you that I have.’ I swallow down the lie. I haven’t told her where I really was the night Layla died. But I can’t. If I told her where I was, I’d have to tell her why I was there, and no one can ever know about that. I want to spare Nicole from having to live with that ugly truth, but I know my reason for the lie is also a selfish one. If the truth ever got out, that would be the end of all of it.
‘Okay. But I promise you Vince, if I find out you’ve kept anything else from me, I’m leaving you.’ Her words land with such finality that it drags the air from my lungs.
‘I assume you’re not going into work today?’ she adds more as a statement than a question, one eyebrow raised.
I look down at the rumpled white shirt I’m wearing, the same one I slept in. The underarms are yellow with sweat, and a food stain, half-heartedly blotted, marks the front. How quickly I’ve descended into disorder.
I explain to Nicole what’s happening at KitzTech, my conversation with Darren and the looming threat of losing more investors for the new video game branch. Her eyes grow round.
‘You, we, invested a lot into that new branch,’ she says, sounding worried.
‘I know, and that’s why I’m taking some time out of the office, out of the spotlight there, until things calm down.’
We both fall silent, not knowing where to go from here. We’re in uncharted waters. Our marriage, once thought to be a sturdy vessel, has been dashed on the rocks, and we’re clinging to the wreckage now; two castaways praying for landfall.
Mercifully I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. I fish it out and check the home screen. Jeff.
‘Hey, Jeff. I hope you have good news.’
‘Not exactly. I spoke to my buddy from law school. He handles libel and defamation cases. Sort of out of my wheelhouse. But anyway, he agreed with me. You don’t have a libel case just yet. Because you’re a public figure, it’s not enough to just prove that World View printed false information that was damaging to your reputation. The standard is quite a bit more rigorous for you. You’d have to establish that World View acted with actual malice in printing false information.’
‘What does that mean exactly, actual malice?’
‘It means that you have to first prove that what World View said was, in fact, false.’
I feel annoyance bubbling up inside of me. I don’t know how many times I can tell him that the things World View has been printing about me are not true. Well, most of it isn’t at least …
‘Anyway,’ Jeff continues, ‘then you would have to prove that they knew that what they were printing was false. And well, I don’t think you can do that. They reprinted a primary source, Layla’s diary. For one thing, they never claimed that what she wrote was true, they just claimed that those were Layla’s words, which, presumably they were, and for another thing, they would have no way of knowing that what she wrote was a pack of lies.’
‘Well, you were right,’ I grumble. ‘This wasn’t good news.’ I thought that maybe the threat of a lawsuit would be enough to warn off the tabloids, especially World View which seems to be leading the pack.
‘Sorry, buddy. I wish there was more I could do for you.’
‘Actually, there is one more thing.’
I glance over at Nicole who has picked up a paperback. Her eyes are scanning the page, but I suspect she’s more interested in my call with Jeff.
‘Did you stop by the house yesterday?’ I ask.
Nicole peers up at me from over the top of her book, but quickly looks down again.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. Never mind. It’s nothing.’
‘Okay, then. I’ve got to get to court,’ Jeff says. ‘Call me if you need anything.’
‘What was that about?’ Nicole asks as I end the call.
‘Oh, nothing really. I thought I saw Jeff’s car in town yesterday. Just wondering if he’d tried to stop by while I was out.’
‘Alright …’ Nicole replies skeptically as she turns back to her book. ‘You could have just asked me if he’d been by.’
I open my mouth to reply, ready to bury one lie with another, but just at that moment, my e-mail pings with an alert, pulling my attention. It’s David Mullins.
Mr Taylor,
Thank you for your interest in my services. I’d like to meet with you in my office today at 11.00 a.m., if that suits you. Please advise.
Best,
David Mullins, P.I.
I reply immediately.
I’ll be there.
I arrive at David Mullins’ office building at precisely eleven o’clock. I hope the locale is not representative of his skills as an investigator. The building, which appears to a converted warehouse, is dismal. The metal walls, painted a nauseating green, are chipped and peeling, and rust streaks under the windowpanes make it appear as if the building itself is crying. I walk inside and take the metal stairs up to the second floor, the sound of my footfall echoing around the stairwell. Mr Mullins’ website said that his office is located in Suite 203. I think ‘suite’ is probably a misnomer for anything located in this building. I approach the door to his office, an old wooden door with a wired glass insert. It reminds me of the door to my high school principal’s office. The numbers ‘203’ are printed in peeling gold letters on the smudged glass. I rap on the door, knuckles on wood.
‘Come in,’ a voice yells from within. David Mullins, I assume.
I step into the office, which as I suspected, can not rightfully be called a suite. There is hardly enough room for Mr Mullins’ desk, the two small folding chairs pushed up against it, and the reams of paper covering his desk like a blanket of snow. Boxes clutter every corner and are stacked upon each other at odd angles like a child’s building blocks, climbing towards the water-stained drop ceiling. At least I hope those are water stains. I can’t be sure.
‘You must be Vince Taylor. David Mullins.’ He reaches across his desk to shake my hand. A firm handshake; his fingers wrapped confidently around my hand.
‘Yes, I am. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me so quickly.’
‘Seemed necessary,’ he replies. His response is clipped, as if he’s conserving words, forming unnecessary syllables a wholly invaluable use of his time. Yet, I find that I like him. I feel as though I can trust him on sight.
David Mullins is short and round with a protruding belly straining against black suspenders. His white dress shirt has a drip stain on the front, which he appears to have tried in vain to wipe away. His salt and pepper hair, heavy on the salt, is noticeably thinning, but his mustache is still bushy on his upper lip and is flanked by a pair of ruddy cheeks. If this private in
vestigator thing doesn’t work out, at least he will have a fair chance of landing a job as a mall Santa in a few years’ time.
‘Let me tell you a little bit about myself before we get into your … situation,’ Mr Mullins tells me as I fold myself into one of the small metal chairs, my knees pressed up against the back of his desk. My ankle is throbbing after climbing the stairs and I’m just happy to be sitting down.
‘I was a Detective with the NYPD for over twenty years. Put away a lot of bad people. Learned a lot about what makes people tick. I retired from the force not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Young man’s game, that detective work. And I have a bum knee. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still do some good in this world. I don’t work like most of your run of the mill PIs. Not interested in cheating spouses and all that. Not my problem. What I’m interested in is real investigative work. For people that really need my help. And people that I think are worth helping.’
He stops speaking abruptly and I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Instead he looks at me expectantly. I suppose it’s my turn to talk now.
‘And you think I’m worth helping?’
‘You’re getting a hell of a bad rap in the press. Seen it plenty of times. Trial by public opinion. I’m interested in hearing your side of things. And then we’ll see whether I think I can help you.’
‘It’s true that I had an affair with my intern. It was a terrible indiscretion, and—’
‘Skip all that. I don’t need to know about how much you love your wife and how sorry you are for screwing around on her, yada yada yada. Remember what I said about the cheating spouses? Not my problem.’
‘Right. Sorry. Anyway, when Layla was killed, the cops immediately circled around me because of the affair. But I had nothing to do with her death. Nothing. I know the media is making it look like I did, but I swear to you I didn’t kill that girl. And now I don’t know how I can get out from under this, but it’s going to ruin my life if I don’t.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’ I’m not sure whether he’s telling me to stop talking or agreeing to take my case.
‘Okay, I believe you.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. I can spot a liar from a mile away. I’ve been wrong a time or two, but I don’t think I am with you. I think you’re telling me the truth. And so I’ll help you.’
I’m flooded with relief. Not because he’s agreed to help me, which I sincerely appreciate, but because there is finally someone who believes my side of the story.
‘What do we do now?’ I ask.
‘You give me as much information as you can about this girl, and I’m going to look into her. You better believe that the cops are digging through your past right now, looking for any skeletons in your closet, and so we’re going to do some digging ourselves and find out everything we can about Layla. Because if you didn’t kill her, that means someone else did. And in my experience, most people aren’t murdered for no reason.’
He hands me a pen and paper and asks me to write down everything I know about Layla Bosch. Which is, embarrassingly, not a lot, but I forward him Layla’s personnel file from KitzTech. Thankfully Eric copied me on the e-mail when he sent it to Detective Barnes last week.
‘That’ll give me a place to start,’ Mullins says, looking at me expectantly.
I assume I’ve just been dismissed.
‘Thank you again, really. I appreciate it.’
‘Don’t need to act like I’m doing you a favor. Wouldn’t have agreed to do it if I didn’t want to. And if you weren’t paying. I’ll call you with whatever I’m able to find.’
Chapter 26
Vince
DAY 6
I swing my arm as hard as I can, my racket colliding with the bright green tennis ball. It sails over the net and hits the surrounding fence with a satisfying clang. I lift another ball, the sun beating down on my head as sweat trickles down my back. The white linen shirt I’m wearing is nearly translucent by now. I squeeze the ball in my hand, my fingers digging into the spongy fuzz and the hard rubber underneath. I toss it into the air and swing my racket again. The racket whistles through the air and smacks the ball. Thwack.
I should probably find something more productive to do with my time, but I needed some way to burn off my nervous energy. I’m on edge waiting to hear from David Mullins, and even though Nicole and I spoke yesterday, the tension between us is still palpable.
When I got back from Mr Mullins’ office yesterday I found a note from Nicole: ‘Staying the night at Kathy’s. Be back tomorrow.’ She got in this morning, a whirlwind of blonde hair and yoga pants as she rushed to get ready to teach today’s classes. She was running late, and we skirted around each other while she quickly showered and dressed. I did my best to stay out of her way, hardly exchanging a more than a few words. She ran out the door heading for her studio, and, alone in the house, I felt as though the walls were closing in on me; as if the anxiety radiating off of me had seeped into the bones of the house. Our warm spacious home suddenly felt suffocating, the air stifling. I had to get out of there. And so here I am. Alone on my private court, taking my stress out on a bucket of innocent tennis balls.
I hear my phone ringing on the side of the court. I drop my racket, letting it clatter to the ground. It knocks over the bucket of remaining tennis balls and I watch them bounce merrily across the green asphalt, like bunnies scampering through a field. I ignore the mess and jog to the side of the court to answer my phone. The phone feels hot in my hand after roasting in the sun, and my fingers, slick with sweat, smudge the touch-screen, but I manage to pick up the call after a few tries.
‘Hello?’ I answer breathlessly, perspiration beading on the bridge of my nose. I run my hands through my hair, raking it away from my face.
‘It’s Mullins. Got some info for you.’
‘That was fast!’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Right, sorry.’ What is it about this man that makes me feel like a child eager to impress his teacher? ‘What did you find?’
‘First of all, Layla Bosch did not attend the University of Pennsylvania like she claimed on her application to KitzTech. I pulled a few strings and was able to verify that no one by that name was ever enrolled in their Software Engineering program.’
‘But she gave us a copy of her transcripts!’
‘Not hers. They were doctored. The transcript she gave you was from someone named Fred Mattherson. She musta switched the names. Did a pretty good job of it too. Looks legit.’
‘Wow …’ I find that I’m speechless.
‘I’m still doing some diggin’ but I got one more thing for you so far. Old address. You want it?’
‘Yes, please.’
David Mullins rattles off an address in Philadelphia while I scramble to type it into my phone.
‘A basement apartment? Philadelphia?’ I ask, confused.
‘Need me to repeat the address?’
‘No, it’s just that Layla told me she grew up on a farm.’
‘Not likely, unless cows rented the unit upstairs. Ha.’ Mullins laughs, a choked, terse chuckle. ‘Seems like she wasn’t the most forthcoming and honest person,’ he says, regaining his stoic composure.
‘Right, thanks Mr Mullins. This was very helpful.’
‘Mullins. No need for the mister. I’ll let you know if I find anything else, but there’s not much out there on this girl. Unusual for a girl her age these days. Usually have their whole lives on the Internet. Anyway, goodbye for now.’ He ends the call.
It seems I didn’t know Layla at all. But that’s about to change.
Chapter 27
Allison
DAY 6
I try hard to suppress a yawn but it bubbles up within me, demanding to be released. Lanner, Kinnon, and I have been sitting in the conference room all day reviewing CCTV footage from the bodega across the street from Layla’s apartment. The store owner keeps four months’ worth of footage before it is automa
tically wiped over, but at this point I’ll take anything I can get. The most difficult part of reviewing the footage is that we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for. Anyone who seems suspicious, anyone who seems to be paying particularly close attention to Layla’s building, anyone who we see on multiple occasions that doesn’t look like they belong … all very vague. A shot in the dark.
‘You guys find anything good yet?’ I ask.
‘Not yet,’ Kinnon grumbles, an elbow propped atop the table, his cheek resting upon it. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks like he’s seconds from sleep. ‘I’ve seen Layla coming and going, but always alone or with Mindy.’
‘Same here,’ Lanner adds. ‘Haven’t found anything suspicious. This old guy likes to pick his nose when he thinks no one is looking, but that’s about it. Pretty sure the nose picker lives in the building anyway.’
‘I was hoping we’d see Vince Taylor, to be honest,’ I offer. ‘No sign of him on my end though. Yours?’
Lanner and Kinnon both shake their heads. They haven’t seen Vince either.
‘Wait. I think I got something,’ Kinnon says, sitting up straight. ‘Look. Here.’
Lanner and I crowd around the tiny laptop screen and stare at the grainy footage that Kinnon has paused for us. Framed on the screen is a frozen black and white image of a tall, gangly man, with thick, square-framed glasses, a tuft of curly hair atop his head. He appears to be in his 20s, but it’s hard to tell from the blurry image.
‘Can we zoom in?’ I ask.
‘This is as close as I could get,’ Kinnon explains. ‘Quality on these cameras isn’t the best, and don’t forget he was across the street.’
‘Well it’s definitely not Vince,’ I point out. ‘Totally different build.’
Kinnon nods in agreement.
‘Why did you point this guy out?’ Lanner inquires. ‘What did you see?’
‘This is the third time I’ve noticed him standing outside the building, but he never goes inside. This time he’s pacing back and forth, looking up at the building like he’s waiting for someone, but he doesn’t meet anyone. Watch.’
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