Was Taylor forcing his intern to continue a sexual relationship against her will? Was he involved in her death? Check in with World View for updates on this scandalous investigation.
The article is accompanied by a photo of me screaming in anger, my fist raised above my head. It looks like it was taken as I was driving out of my office parking garage. Probably the day that group of photographers blocked my car, taunting me. I look at the image of myself, my mouth open in anger, my eyes hard and cold. I look like a monster. And there I am, in full color, next to the same photo of Layla that’s been published with each article, forever angelic in death.
I drop the phone and it clatters to the table.
The ground has fallen, the earth is shaking. I sensed it coming, the way an elephant feels the first subtle vibrations of an impending earthquake long before the earth rips in two, and yet I was powerless to stop it.
I run into the house to find Nicole. I have to tell her that this isn’t true. I hope she knows that. No matter how much I may have strayed from the man she first met, the man she married, I hope she knows that I would never force a woman to be with me in that way.
‘Nicole!’ I shout from the kitchen, the patio doorway still open behind me. ‘Nicole!’ She doesn’t answer. I continue calling her name as I run up the stairs towards our bedroom, her bedroom now. I take the stairs two at a time, my ankle still tender and I bound off of it.
The door to the master bedroom is closed. I knock gently.
‘Nicole, I can hear you in there. Please let me in. Just talk to me.’ No answer. ‘Please, nothing in that article is even remotely true.’ Still no answer. ‘Nic, I’m opening the door. We need to talk about this.’
I want to respect her boundaries, but this can’t wait. I push open the door to find a large suitcase opened wide on the bed as Nicole grabs armfuls of clothes from her closet and stuffs them inside.
‘You said there would be no more surprises, Vince. You promised me.’ I can hear the fury, the disappointment, in her voice, but she doesn’t stop packing, even for a moment, as she admonishes me.
‘I already told you everything!’ It’s a lie, but it’s one well-rehearsed. Even I’m starting to believe it myself. ‘I can’t help it if that ridiculous tabloid insists on printing lies!’
‘I want to believe you, Vince, I really do. But you’re making that very difficult. Were you planning to meet Layla the day she died?’
‘No.’ Yes.
‘Then why would she write that in her own diary?’
‘How would I know?’ I can hear my voice rising with hysteria.
‘Don’t yell at me. You did this, Vince, you. And I can’t live with you anymore. I know we’re supposed to be keeping up appearances, but I just can’t be under the same roof as you for one more second.’
‘Nicole, please. I know no one else believes me right now, but I need you to. Your opinion is the only one I care about. You know me! I would never do those things that were printed in that article!’
‘I don’t know what I believe anymore, Vince. I really don’t.’
Nicole slams the lid of the suitcase shut. Clothes trail out the sides like a dog’s tongue on a summer day. She begins to zipper it, but the over-stuffed clothes snag the zipper. She pulls at it forcefully, but the zipper won’t budge. I watch as she collapses in frustration and begins to sob, face-down on top of the suitcase.
‘Don’t leave,’ I plead softly.
‘I have to. I can’t be near you right now.’
‘Where are you going to go? The apartment?’
‘No. I don’t want to go there. That’s your apartment. There is too much of you in it. I’ll call Kathy and see if—’ Nicole sniffles.
‘No, you stay. This is your home. I’ll go. This was my fault. I should be the one to leave.’
I grab a duffel bag off the top shelf of my walk-in closet and begin to pack. I don’t need much, I’m going to stay at the apartment and I have everything I need there, but I feel like I have to go through the motions. This feels like such a monumental moment in our marriage, the day I moved out, that it deserves the deference of packing a bag.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’ I ask hopefully as I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder.
Nicole nods, wiping tears from her eyes.
‘I never wanted things to go this way,’ she says.
‘I didn’t either. I’m sorry I got us here.’
I turn to leave without looking back. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll fall to my knees and beg her forgiveness, beg her not to make me go, beg her to forget all of this and love me again, the way she once did. But I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to her.
‘I love you,’ I say as I close the door behind me, my voice barely a whisper. I’m fighting to keep my own tears at bay. I can’t be sure whether she heard me, but there is no reply from my wife.
Chapter 32
Allison
DAY 8
My alarm blares and I strongly consider throwing it across the room. Instead I hit the silence button and pull my pillow over my head with a groan to block out the mid-morning sun streaming in through my bedroom window.
Lanner and I spent most of the night poring through the box of receipts from Coffee Clutch. I had no idea so many people drank cappuccinos. We narrowed our list down to five men who placed orders within a few hours of the times ‘Mike Gentry’ was spotted outside of Layla’s apartment and paid with a credit card. As suspected, none of them were actually named Mike Gentry. It would seem he gave Mindy a fake name. Poor girl.
Weary and exhausted, Lanner and I handed off the list of names to Stu this morning, and we went home to finally get some rest. I hope that while we were catching up on our sleep, Stu was able to dig up some information on the men on our list which might help us figure out which, if any of them, is our mystery man. It occurred to me that none of these cappuccino-lovers might turn out to be the guy we’re looking for, but I’m hoping luck is on our side for once in this investigation.
I quickly shower and then dress in a pair of tan dress pants and a loose white blouse. The ensemble is something my grandmother might wear, but at least it will keep me cool. It’s supposed to be over one hundred degrees today. Which, in a city made largely of cement and asphalt, feels more like one thousand degrees.
‘Good morning, Sunshine,’ Stu greets me as I finally make it to my desk. He and Lanner are crowding around my workspace waiting for me, Stu in my chair and Lanner sitting on top of the desk. I’m eager to hear what Stu found on our list of potential new suspects, but I wish I’d had a moment to breathe before jumping into it, at least put my bag down, maybe even freshen up. Sweat is trickling between my shoulder blades, my blouse clinging to my skin.
‘Yeah, yeah, good morning,’ I grumble.
‘Well, you’re cheerful today,’ Lanner teases, bumping his shoulder against mine. ‘Nice outfit too.’
‘Thanks.’ I pretend not to notice the sarcasm dripping from his voice. ‘Anyway, unless we’re now the fashion police, how about we discuss the investigation?’
Lanner laughs, and Stu pulls out his tablet as I drag another chair over to my desk.
‘Ok,’ he begins. ‘Here’s what I found on each of your guys. The first is Gerald Banter. He’s sixty-eight years old; lives about a block away from Coffee Clutch.’
‘So he’s out,’ I say. ‘Too old to be our guy. We’re looking for someone in his twenties, maybe thirties.’
‘That narrows things down quite a bit then. The next two guys on your list are aged fifty-five and forty-eight respectively.’
‘That means we’re down to two,’ Lanner adds.
‘Yes,’ Stu continues. ‘You’re left with Anthony Valant, age twenty-six, lives in Astoria, and Thomas Barnett, age twenty-four, lives in Brooklyn.’
‘Can you check to see if either of them have Friend Connect accounts or any other type of social media? Maybe we can get a picture,’ Lanner inquires.
Stu smiles widely. ‘I’
m way ahead of you. I did all of that while you two were getting some shut-eye this morning. Here ya go.’ Stu turns his tablet around so that the screen is facing towards Lanner and me.
‘Meet Anthony Valant. Looks to be an electrician, loves football, owns an English bulldog.’
I study the image. His muscular shoulders and dark slicked-back hair don’t seem to match the wiry, curly-haired man we saw on the CCTV footage. ‘Let’s see Thomas.’
‘Thomas Barnett. Saved the best for last. Computer programmer. Loves, well … computers, former intern at KitzTech. Left there about two years ago. I think it’s safe to assume he wasn’t offered a job after his internship because he appears to be unemployed at present, and by the look of things, living with his mother.’
There he is. Mike Gentry is Thomas Barnett.
‘You could have led with the KitzTech connection …’ Lanner remarks.
‘I know, but then I wouldn’t have been able to give you my whole presentation.’ Stu smiles and leans back in his chair (my chair), his hands folded behind his head. He looks rather pleased with himself.
‘This is amazing, Stu, really. You’re the best of the best.’
‘I know,’ he says with a wink as he gets up from my chair. ‘I already forwarded you his current address.’
Lanner and I prepare to leave. We both know that we need to go talk to Thomas Barnett immediately.
Layla was killed over a week ago, and we finally have a solid lead to follow. Although I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that I always get when chasing down a lead, I still can’t help but feel like Vince Taylor is at the center of all of this. There has to be a connection there that I’m missing. Layla and Thomas Barnett didn’t work for KitzTech at the same time, but it can’t be a coincidence that Layla and her stalker both worked for Vince Taylor at one point.
‘You guys heading out?’ Kinnon asks as he approaches my desk, just as I finish pulling my car keys out of my bag.
‘Yeah, why? What’s up?’
‘Chief McFadden wants to talk to you.’
This can’t be good.
‘What’s going on with this investigation, Barnes?’ the chief demands. His brows are furrowed, a deep ridge forming in the center of his forehead.
‘We have a new lead, a man we spotted on CCTV outside the victim’s apartment. We just identified him and we’re about to go question him now.’
‘That’s all well and good, but that’s not what I meant. Have you read the news lately?’
‘Honestly, no, Sir, I haven’t had a chance. Lanner and I were tied up—’
‘Let me sum it up for you then. World View printed another article. With another page from that damn diary. Seems the vic’s boss was harassing her after she called it quits with him, pressuring her into sleeping with him. And they claim that she planned on meeting Vince Taylor the night she died. Were you aware of this?’
I wasn’t aware of that. Though if she was meeting her lover that would certainly explain why Layla was wearing a skimpy red dress and stiletto heels in the park the night she was killed.
‘No, I—’
‘Please don’t make me take you off of this case, Barnes. I thought you could handle it, but if you can’t keep on top of the investigation, I’ll be forced to ask someone else to take the lead.’
‘I’ll keep on top of it, Sir.’
‘Good. Please see that you do.’
The Chief waves me out of his office. Once in the hallway, out of his line of sight, I lean against the cold concrete wall and release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. This interview with Thomas Barnett better go well.
‘Thomas Barnett?’ Lanner barks authoritatively as he pounds on the door of Barnett’s home. He lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn, a fairly affluent area, in a neat little brownstone across from a quiet park where an old woman sits on a bench tossing bird seed to a flock of greedy pigeons. The Barnetts, Thomas and his mother Gwendolyn, according to Stu, occupy the entire three-story home. It must be worth a fortune.
‘NYPD, please open the door,’ Lanner tries again.
‘Just a moment,’ a sing-songy voice replies before a petite blonde woman pulls opens the front door. Her slender frame is wrapped in an emerald green sundress, which perfectly accents the deep green hue of her eyes, and gold earrings dangle from her ears, twinkling in the sunlight. Her hair is neatly styled and she smells of expensive perfume. I like her on sight.
‘What can I help you with, Officers?’ She smiles kindly, a warm smile that reaches her eyes.
‘We’re Detectives Allison Barnes and Jake Lanner with the NYPD and we were hoping to speak with Thomas Barnett about a young woman who was killed recently.’
The woman seems genuinely shocked. ‘Thomas is my son, but I’m certain he doesn’t know anything about a … murder. He would have mentioned …’
‘If it’s all the same to you, we’d still like to speak with him if he’s available.’ Lanner turns on his most charming smile.
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ the woman falters. She reacts to him the same way she might a lost puppy. The instinct to help him is almost immediate. That’s some trick, I think to myself.
‘Please, come in,’ the woman continues. ‘I’m Gwen, by the way. Take a seat and I’ll go fetch Thomas for you.’
‘Works like a charm,’ Lanner whispers to me, a conspiratorial grin on his face, as Gwen escorts us into her living room.
She directs us to a cream-colored leather sofa while she walks toward the back of her house, presumably to find her son. The fabric is cool and as smooth as butter beneath my fingers. I look around the rest of the room. It’s decorated tastefully in shades of cream and white, and a black and white photo of a horse hangs in a gold frame over the sleek leather sofa we’re sitting on. Every surface gleams, and the floors smell of fresh polish. How does she keep this place so clean? Where is the clutter? Josh and I live in such cramped quarters that there is no way to keep the detritus of daily life out of sight. Our tiny kitchen table is used for eating meals, storing our keys, holding our mail, and even as a home office when needed. Someday I’ll be the kind of person who owns a couch that doesn’t double as a laundry basket and whose countertops sparkle. I’m just not sure when that day might be.
Gwen ushers her son into the room. I notice the way he shuffles his slightly pigeon-toed feet along the hardwood floors, and how he walks with his eyes downcast, as if he’s actively avoiding making eye-contact with us. He clearly didn’t inherit his mother’s easy, affable charm. She glides toward us, chin held aloft, and I wonder if that type of confidence comes with wealth, if knowing that you hold a secure place in the world allows you to move through it with a fluid grace.
‘This is my son, Thomas. Thomas Barnett,’ Gwen offers.
Thomas looks up briefly, looking first at Lanner, then at me. He picks at the skin on the side of his thumb which already appears red and raw. A nervous habit, most likely.
‘Hi, Thomas,’ I begin gently. ‘We wanted to ask you a few questions about a young woman who was killed last week. We thought perhaps you might have known her.’
Thomas remains silent, his gaze still avoiding my own.
‘Her name was Layla Bosch. Does that name sound familiar to you?’
It takes Thomas a moment to respond, and when he does, his voice cracks and waivers. ‘No, not really.’ He clears his throat. ‘I mean, no, I’ve seen her name in the papers, but I didn’t know her personally.’
‘You’ve never met her before?’ I ask, more pointedly.
‘No. Never.’
‘Well, here’s the thing Thomas,’ Lanner steps in, his usually gentle voice taking on an authoritative edge. ‘We have video footage of you loitering around in front of her apartment on several occasions just before she went missing, and so we think that maybe you did, in fact, know her.’
Thomas looks over at Gwen, whose jaw has fallen open. Thomas’s eyes dart rapidly between his mother and Lanner. ‘I—’
‘Thomas, don
’t say another word. Officers, unless my son is under arrest, I think we should speak to a lawyer before he answers any further questions.’ Her warm, kind eyes have grown stern. A mother bear protecting her cub.
‘No he’s not under arrest at this time, but—’ I begin.
‘Excellent, then you can speak with our attorney.’
Chapter 33
Allison
DAY 8
‘I guess I came on a little too strong with the kid back at the house,’ Lanner says as he rubs the back of his neck and watches Thomas Barnett fidget in his seat in interview room one. Barnett is now flanked by his mother and his attorney, Glen Beringer, who sports a custom-tailored suit over a crisp white shirt. Beringer is no stranger to us; he’s a well-known criminal defense attorney, revered for his talent in sending rapists, drug dealers, and murderers back onto the streets. It’s clear that Barnett’s mother spared no expense in retaining legal counsel for her wayward son.
‘He seemed so on edge, I really thought he’d crack at the first sign of pressure,’ Lanner explains.
‘Probably would have if his mother wasn’t there to stop him. You made the right call.’
Lanner nods. His shoulders seem to relax with my reassurance.
‘Alright,’ I say. ‘We let him sweat it out long enough. Let’s get in there.’
Lanner and I walk into the interrogation room and close the door behind us. Lanner drops himself into one of the metal chairs across from Thomas Barnett. He leans back causally, his arms crossed against his chest. I sit in the chair beside Lanner, my hands folded on the table in front of me. I know his strategy; I can read it on him without so much as a word exchanged. We know that if Lanner frightened Barnett earlier, he’s not likely going to open up to him now. The bridge is burned. We expect that Barnett will be reeling during the interview, looking for a kinder, softer, ally. And I’m hoping that will be me.
‘Nice to see you again, Thomas,’ Lanner says with a grin.
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