The Guilty Husband

by Stephanie DeCarolis

  Barnett looks up at Lanner quickly. His eyes darting back to the table in front of him where he continues to pick at the side of his thumb. I notice a bright red drop of blood beading on his pale, white skin. The sight of it makes him shudder.

  ‘Ok, Detectives. Let me say this first,’ the attorney, Beringer, begins. ‘My client is here voluntarily, to clear his name before you two get carried away and rope him into a murder investigation that he has absolutely nothing to do with. Certainly wouldn’t be a first for this department.’

  Beringer is a shark, his silver-gray eyes hard and sharp, as he assesses his prey. He is surprisingly decent looking for a man who is likely nearly twice my age. He has wide shoulders and an imposing stature, combined with distinguished gray hair that sits in a well-trained comb over. I might look twice if I saw him in a bar. A silver fox with a Rolex on his wrist. But in this room, I can’t forget that he is a predator.

  Lanner rolls his eyes. I look at him in mock disappointment. ‘Ok, Counselor,’ I reply. ‘We just had a few questions for your client.’

  Beringer nods, but he still appears distrustful. I suppose that’s his job.

  ‘Thomas, you told us earlier that you didn’t know Layla Bosch, is that accurate?’

  ‘Um, yeah, I didn’t really know her. Like, I saw her around, but I didn’t know her, you know? I never spoke to her or anything.’

  ‘Is this you? Standing outside of her apartment building?’ I ask, producing the photo from the CCTV footage.

  ‘Detective,’ Beringer interrupts. ‘My client is willing to concede that he was in the vicinity of Miss Bosch’s residence on more than one occasion. However, as I’m sure you will see on your videos, he never approached her or interacted with her in any way. In fact, he was in a romantic relationship with another woman in her building. The fact that my client sometimes visited that area of Brooklyn and occasionally visited a coffee house surely isn’t evidence of murder.’

  ‘They must make a really good cappuccino,’ Lanner scoffs. Beringer glares at him.

  ‘About that romantic relationship,’ I continue. ‘We spoke with Mindy and it turns out that you gave her a fake name and number. Seems sort of counterintuitive if you were hanging out around her building hoping to see her again.’

  ‘I wasn’t waiting to see her. I was, I was just getting coffee.’ Barnett’s voice waivers.

  ‘See, that doesn’t make sense to me,’ Lanner replies. ‘We have video footage of you pacing back and forth in front of the building, sometimes for up to fifteen minutes, before you went to get your little cappuccinos.’

  ‘Maybe he was deciding on his order,’ Beringer says with a smug grin. This time it’s Lanner’s turn to glare.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think you were doing.’ Lanner leans forward in his seat now, spreading both of his large hands on the table in front of him. ‘I think you were waiting to see Layla. I think you were obsessed with her but you knew she was out of your league. You were too intimidated to approach her, and so you followed her instead. Lurking around her building like some kind of creep. I think you were getting a feel for her schedule, following her, so that you could finally get her alone. And then what happened Thomas? Did you follow her to Central Park? Did she reject you?’

  ‘No, No! It wasn’t like that!’ Barnett shouts. He looks startled, as if the sound of his own voice took him by surprise.

  Beringer places his hand possessively on Barnett’s shoulder. A signal that the kid should shut his mouth. ‘Nice story, Detective. Too bad it isn’t based on any actual facts.’

  But Lanner isn’t ready to give up. ‘Was that it, Thomas? Were you in love with Layla?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’ve seen pictures of her. She was pretty irresistible, wasn’t she, Thomas?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that!’ Barnett looks like he’s nearing tears. He’s about to crumble.

  ‘So why don’t you tell us what it was like,’ I offer. I’m giving him a chance to tell us what happened to Layla on his own terms.

  But he doesn’t take it. ‘I can’t, I … I didn’t know her!’ Barnett whines. His mother hands him a tissue. The poor victim.

  ‘Then why were you stalking her?’ Lanner demands, his voice nearing a roar as his hands press down onto the table in front of him, the tips of his fingers turning white.

  ‘It wasn’t her! It was Vince!’ Barnett shouts. He falls back into his seat, as though a pressure valve has been released. A balloon deflating before our eyes. His attorney scowls at him. He’ll probably be charged extra for trying his patience.

  ‘What was Vince?’ I ask gently. Lanner got him to boil over, but now that the weight of his confession is off of his shoulders, we need to take a softer approach to keep him talking.

  ‘It was Vince I was in love with, not Layla. Like I told you, I didn’t even know Layla.’

  ‘You knew Vince from when you worked at KitzTech?’

  Thomas nods. ‘I was an intern there a few years ago. That’s where I met Vince. He’s, well, have you met him? It’s hard to explain. He just has this magnetism, this charm about him. Everyone loves him. And he was so nice to me, even though I was just an intern. A nobody. He made me feel special. And I guess that’s when I realized I was … I am …’

  ‘Gay?’ I suggest, warmly.

  ‘Yes. I’m gay.’ Barnett seems to deflate even further once he says the words out loud.

  I glance over at his mother. Her jaw has fallen open once again. A lot of surprises for her today.

  ‘I’ve never said that out loud before,’ Barnett says shyly. ‘But I am. I’m gay. And I was in love with Vince Taylor. Maybe I still am. I don’t know. I don’t think he killed that girl, you know. For what it’s worth.’

  ‘You should have told me, sweetheart,’ Ms Barnett says. ‘Being homosexual, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I would have accepted you and loved you no matter what.’

  I momentarily feel a wrenching sadness for this young man who felt like he had to harbor this secret, to hide his own identity. And I’m sure this isn’t how he envisioned coming out to his mother. But I can’t let the sentiment derail the momentum of the interview. I need to press forward.

  ‘Did something happen with Vince while you were at KitzTech? Is that why you weren’t offered a position after your internship?’

  ‘I was offered a job, actually.’

  Once again Ms Barnett seems to have been taken by surprise by her son’s revelation.

  ‘But I turned it down,’ Barnett continues. ‘I was afraid of the feelings I was having for Vince. It was all new to me then. I didn’t know what to make of it. And so I turned down the job hoping these feelings would go away once I was away from Vince. But they didn’t go away. In fact, I think they only got stronger after I left KitzTech.’

  ‘How did you come to be outside of Layla’s apartment then?’

  ‘I’d follow Vince sometimes. I know it wasn’t the right thing to do, but I think I was just trying to understand myself. To understand what drew me to him; what it was about him that made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.’

  ‘And you followed him to Layla’s apartment?’

  ‘No. But I saw them together a few times. I figured out pretty quickly that they were having an affair. They tried to be discreet, but I knew. It was just the way they were together. The way she looked at him, the way they’d stand a little too close to one another. They were in love. I could tell. And so I just wanted to find out more about her. About what Vince saw in her, about why he’d risk his marriage, his reputation, for her.’

  Barnett swallows hard. ‘That’s why I went to her building. I followed her home from KitzTech one day. That’s why I went out with Mindy too. I was just trying learn more about Layla. But I never approached her, I never even spoke to her, I swear.’

  ‘Oh, Thomas,’ Ms Barnett says, wiping tears from her eyes.

  ‘That’s really something,’ Lanner says. ‘But I don’t think you’re telling us t
he whole story.’

  ‘I am! I told you everything!’ Barnett sounds panicked now. He’s desperate for us to believe him.

  ‘See, now I’m thinking you were jealous of Layla. Because Vince wanted her when he didn’t want you. Is that why you killed her, Thomas?’

  ‘NO! I didn’t kill her! I didn’t!’

  ‘That’ll be enough, Detective,’ Beringer interrupts. ‘My client has told you everything he knows, and so unless you have any evidence that puts him with your victim in Central Park on the night she was killed, or, hell, any evidence that he ever even met her, we’ll be getting on our way.’

  ‘I just have one last question, Thomas, please,’ I implore. ‘Where were you the night of August twenty-fourth?’

  Barnett looks to his attorney who nods curtly, giving him permission to reply.

  ‘I was at home all night. With my mom. We watched a movie. The Breakfast Club.’

  ‘He certainly was,’ Ms Barnett chimes in. She nods her head in agreement while patting her son’s hand reassuringly.

  ‘We’ll be leaving now,’ Mr Beringer announces. Ms Barnett stands, smooths out her dress, and slings her purse over her shoulder. She lifts her son by the elbow, helping him out of the chair. He seems drained after our interview, a boxer stumbling out of the ring.

  Mr Beringer leads his clients out of the room. As he passes, he says, ‘Do let me know if you’ll be making an arrest. Though I should hope you’d only do so if you find some actual evidence.’

  The door to the interview room slams shut behind him.

  ‘Looks like the little creep has an alibi,’ Lanner says.

  ‘I’m always suspicious of alibis given by wives or mothers,’ I reply.

  Chapter 34

  Vince

  DAY 9

  I slowly open my eyes. They’re dry and gritty, and my head is pounding. My ankle is too, come to think of it. I probably should have it looked at, but I know I won’t. There’s no point anymore. My ankle is the least of my problems.

  It takes me a moment to remember where I am. My apartment. I have no idea what time it is. Not that it matters. I have nowhere to be. The blackout curtains are drawn and the television murmurs quietly in the background. I must have fallen asleep on the couch at some point.

  I sit myself up and my head swims. I’m hit with a wave of dizziness that forces me to fall back down onto the couch. I drag a hand across my face. My brow is sweaty and my chin is rough with stubble. My mouth feels dry and wooly, my tongue like sandpaper. I need some water. I try sitting up again, more slowly this time. I bang my shin on the coffee table, causing an empty wine bottle to fall over with a hallow clatter. That’s right, now I remember. I had a few glasses of wine last night. Or, rather, a full bottle it would seem. My mind flashes back to the late hours of the night, and I see myself dumping the last remnants of the bottle into an already brimming glass. No wonder my head feels like it’s splitting in two.

  I drag myself to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. I take it back into the living room and hit the switch to open the automatic shades that cover the enormous glass windows. I squint in pain as my eyes struggle to adjust to the bright sunshine which now streams into the darkened apartment. Dust motes lazily dance before my eyes in the growing streaks of sunlight, like suspended glitter. When was the last time Marta was here? I need to remember to cancel her cleaning service for this week. I can’t let her see the apartment in this state, the overturned bottle seeping blood red liquid onto the coffee table, my discarded wine glass stained with the sticky rinds of my last glass, my clothes in a rumpled pile on the floor. I can’t let her see me in this state. It suddenly occurs to me how desperately I need a shower. My clothes, a pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt, smell sour and it turns my stomach.

  I look down onto the street below me. People bustle quickly along the sidewalk. Some wearing suits and carrying briefcases, others with skateboards slung over their backs. One man stands at the entrance to Central Park, a hat turned upside down at his feet as he plays the saxophone, eyes closed in rapture, while he tries to move jaded New Yorkers with the sound of his soulful melodies. A small girl tosses some coins into his upturned hat before trotting off down the sidewalk to catch up with her mother who, by all appearances, had no time to slow her pace for something as trivial as music. The world is in a rush. As it always is in this city. As I have been for the last ten years. I used to belong to that world, the one of business meetings, deadlines, and harried importance. But now, I don’t belong to any world. I am lost. Marooned. Stranded and alone. Maybe Layla was right. Maybe this apartment is a castle, and I am a prisoner locked away in the highest tower, forced to watch the world move on without me.

  Layla. She was the start of all of this. I think of the last time I saw her. Of the words we exchanged, of the rage I felt when I said them. I want you out of my life. Not for the first time, I wish I’d never laid eyes on Layla Bosch. She will be my undoing.

  I hear the distant sound of a phone ringing. I sprint back towards the couch, tossing the pillows and tangled blankets out of my way. It might be Nicole calling. I haven’t heard from her since yesterday afternoon, since I walked out of our home. I’m desperate to hear her voice, and a small part of me is holding out hope that she’s calling to tell me to come home, that she’s ready to talk to me. I find my phone lodged between two couch cushions and I snatch it up quickly, hurrying to answer it.

  ‘Hello?’ I answer desperately.

  ‘It’s Mullins.’ Right, the private investigator. Of course it wouldn’t be Nicole calling.

  ‘Hi, sorry. Thought you were someone else.’

  Mullins grunts before getting on with the purpose for the call. ‘Finished looking into that Bosch girl for you. Dropped out of High School at sixteen. Got her GED. No evidence that she ever went to college.’

  Most of what I knew of Layla turned out to be a lie. I think back to the last words Layla’s mother said to me: ‘If you’re involved with Layla you better be careful.’ What was she trying to tell me? What kind of trouble was Layla caught up in? What was she running from?

  ‘You still there?’ Mullins asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘I was sayin’, there’s hardly any trace of this girl. In my experience, those are the people who don’t want to be found.’

  ‘Thank you again for looking into it. I appreciate the help.’

  ‘Bill is in the mail.’ He ends the call as abruptly as he does everything else.

  I boot up my laptop and cringe as I check in on the World View website. I exhale with relief as I search for my name and find that they haven’t printed anything new about me today. I click on one of the old articles, the first one reporting on Layla’s death, and stare at the photo of Layla. Her thick hair shines in the midday sun, her smile is bright and warm. She was young, beautiful, and full of life. But who were you, Layla? Who were you really?

  My e-mail inbox pings with a new message. It’s from Darren. I remember now that he tried to call me a few times yesterday, but I ignored the calls. I was well into my bottle of wine by then, lamenting the damage I’ve done to my marriage, and I couldn’t deal with Darren too. I click on his e-mail now, my stomach already in knots.

  Mr Taylor,

  The Board is saddened to have to deliver this news to you, but in light of the continuing negative media attention surrounding you at this time, KitzTech finds itself in a precarious financial situation. In the best interests of the company and its investors, we have, unfortunately, voted that you will need to resign as CEO of KitzTech effective immediately. We did not come to this decision lightly, but we feel that it is a necessary action in order to prevent any further financial losses.

  That being said, we appreciate the years of service and dedication you have put into KitzTech, and we will allow you to retain your financial stake and shares in the company, as a silent investor. We hope that you will continue to serve as a valued shareholder, but we canno
t allow you to continue to serve KitzTech in a public role at this time.

  Sincerely,

  Darren Hamish

  CFO, Board of Directors

  My company, my life’s work, ripped out of my hands in a few type-written lines. The bottom has officially dropped out of my life, and yet, I feel numb. Perhaps the impact of what’s just happened, the complete overhaul of the landscape of my world, has not yet set in, or perhaps it’s because I’ve already lost something far more valuable than my company: my relationship with Nicole.

  For years I’ve prioritized work over my home life. I built KitzTech into an empire while I let my marriage wither on the vine. When Nicole needed me most, while she was struggling with the grief of our infertility, I turned to work to bury my own grief. In a way, throwing myself into my job was my way of coping with my own sadness, but I should have been there for Nicole. I should have taken time away from the office, Nicole should have been my priority. But I was arrogant, foolish. I took our marriage for granted, and I trampled on the vows I once made to her. It wasn’t until both my company and my marriage were hanging in the balance that I realized how much more she should have mattered.

  I delete Darren’s e-mail without responding. I cannot find the energy to form the words, or maybe there’s just nothing left for me to say. I am no longer the high-powered CEO, the ruthless businessman, that I was just a mere week ago. That man wouldn’t even recognize me right now.

  But I need to save any fight I have left in me for Nicole. I may not have been the best husband to Nicole, in fact, I’ve been a rather abysmal husband of late, but I will not give up on her now. Someone is targeting me, systemically destroying my life and hers. I owe it to her to put a stop to it. I need to focus.

  I walk into the master bathroom and turn on the waterfall shower. An image of Layla in this very shower, the warm water trickling down her smooth skin, pops into my mind unbidden. I shake my head as if I can loosen the memory from my mind.

  I step into the shower and let the water cascade down my back, washing away my hangover. I spread the shampoo through my hair, massaging it deeply into my scalp, and my mind slowly starts to slide back into focus, like the twist of a photographer’s lens. I need to think about who has the most to gain by ruining me and the life I’ve built. Who would benefit the most by making sure I take the fall for Layla’s death?