The Guilty Husband

by Stephanie DeCarolis

  Vince grabbed me by the arm and pulled me off of him. He got into his car and peeled out of the parking lot as if it was on fire. And to make matters worse, when I turned around, that pathetic intern, Brian, was standing there watching the whole thing. I couldn’t be sure how much Brian had seen, so I turned on the waterworks just to be sure he’d keep his mouth shut for the time being. I knew he wasn’t my biggest fan after I’d stolen his idea for the intern pitch contest, but I was willing to bet that a decent looking woman had never given him the time of day before, and if I cried on his shoulder he’d probably do just about anything I asked of him. Brian spotting us wasn’t part of my plan, but I guess I can use him to my advantage later if I need to.

  Chapter 44

  Allison

  DAY 11

  I lay my head on my desk feeling the cool metal on my forehead. The day’s heat is no match for the air conditioning in the squad room. I hear it growling in the ducts overhead, but the soaring temperature outside is clearly winning out.

  It’s been eleven days since Layla Bosch’s body was found and I’m no closer to finding her killer. I know in my gut that Vince Taylor was involved somehow, but I can’t seem to prove it.

  And that incident with Kinnon has only made matters worse. The pressure is mounting to make an arrest and I’ve got nothing. My first case as lead detective is a total failure. I won’t be surprised if Chief McFadden hands it off to someone else by the end of the day today. But I can’t just lay on my desk all day. If I don’t have any new leads, it’s time to re-examine the old ones.

  I gather up my folder on the Bosch investigation and walk over to Lanner’s desk. He’s busy on a call and holds up one finger, indicating that I need to wait a moment. He knows I’m not the patient type, so he’s probably not surprised when I start tapping my foot and pretending to check my non-existent watch as he wraps up his call.

  ‘About time,’ I say as he clicks the receiver back down on his desk.

  ‘You’re a pain in the ass,’ he chides.

  ‘I know. But I want to go over the Bosch file with you. I’ll set us up in the conference room.’

  ‘You have anything new?’

  ‘No, and that’s the problem. There has to be something here that we’re missing,’ I reply, waving the case folder. ‘There just has to.’

  Lanner follows me into the conference room where I spread the contents of the folder onto the table.

  We spend the next several hours reading through every last shred of evidence time and time again. It feels as though all links of the chain are present and accounted for, but we have no way of connecting them.

  ‘Let’s go over what we have again,’ I suggest.

  ‘Okay,’ Lanner begins. ‘First we have the coroner’s report. He puts the vic’s time of death at approximately 9.30 p.m. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head. No sign of sexual assault.

  ‘Vince Taylor, who was having an affair with the victim, has an alibi for the evening, and provided security records showing that his fingerprints were scanned at KitzTech headquarters, putting him there from 6.26 p.m. until 10.43 p.m.

  ‘Then we have the report from CSI from the crime scene. According to their report, the blood spatter patterns shows that the vic was struck one time on the back of the head while she was standing on a jogging path in Central Park.

  ‘There is no CCTV in the area of the park where the murder took place. And the only useful CCTV footage we found was the from the bodega outside Layla’s apartment where we identified Thomas Barnett. He too has an alibi for the night of the homicide, though it was a questionable one given by his mother. And there is also the unsettling fact that he had an obsession with Vince Taylor. I still think he could have killed Layla Bosch out of jealousy because Vince had chosen her over him.

  ‘Then we have the issue of the missing diary pages. We know Kinnon was selling photos to World View, and that he knew the victim from the gym, but he claims the diary pages didn’t come from him and we didn’t find any others in our search of his apartment.’

  I nod. ‘It’s not much to go on. I also looked through our notes from our interviews. In addition to Taylor and Barnett, we had Brian Geller who came in to tell us that he witnessed Taylor being aggressive and hostile with the victim in the KitzTech parking lot one week before she turned up dead.’

  ‘Right, and let’s not forget the interview with Nicole Taylor, though she didn’t have much to say, other than that Vince wasn’t always a cheating, lying bastard.’

  There’s something about the interview with Nicole that still isn’t sitting right with me. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but something she said is softly seeking my attention, like a cat gently rubbing against my leg.

  ‘Can I see the notes from Nicole’s interview again?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ Lanner replies, passing me the typewritten page.

  I scan the familiar lines one more time and I finally see it.

  ‘Look.’ I point down at the page. ‘She mentioned the Heatherly Hotel twice during our conversation with her. It must have been a special place for her and Vince. Do you think he may have taken Layla there too?’

  ‘Use the same hotel for trysts with his wife and his mistress? Wouldn’t be the brightest move, but who knows, he may have.’

  ‘Let’s take a trip over there and see if anyone remembers seeing him with Layla.’

  I wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand before we enter the cool lobby of the Heatherly Hotel. I wonder to myself what kind of people are regulars at a place like this. Inside the marble-covered lobby, bellhops in red jackets scamper to and fro, dragging luggage behind elegantly dressed women and men swathed in expertly tailored suits.

  To the right of the main entrance is an old-fashioned bar with assorted bottles of liquor artfully arranged before a mirrored wall which sparkle below soft overhead lights. The bar itself, a deep cherry red, is polished to a high sheen. A few customers are enjoying an early happy hour, sipping colorful cocktails from thick glasses. I spot at least two purses that are worth more than I make in a month casually draped over the backs of the plush red seats lining the bar. At the back of the bar is a sign, written in curled gold lettering, advertising a gentleman’s cigar lounge. I feel as though I’ve stepped back into the 1920’s, into an atmosphere of glittering luxury and elegance.

  As I’m taking in the scene at the bar, imagining what it might be like to be Vince Taylor puffing expensive cigars in the gentleman’s lounge, Lanner strides up to the front desk and asks to speak with the on-duty manager.

  I hear the receptionist, in her chipper customer service voice, tell him that the manager, Dale, will be right with us. I join Lanner at the front desk and pull up a photo of Vince Taylor on my phone as we wait for Dale.

  ‘What can I help you with, Detectives?’ a portly man with graying hair in a black suit asks as he walks up to us and extends his hand.

  ‘You must be Dale,’ I reply, shaking his hand firmly.

  ‘That’s me. Dale Haverstad.’ He offers me a warm smile.

  I have to wonder how much of the ‘happy to help’ attitude around here is genuine and how much if it just comes with the territory of working in a high-end hotel where guests won’t tolerate the help appearing as if they are anything less than thrilled at the opportunity to serve them.

  ‘We were wondering if you’d ever seen this man in your hotel.’ I show him the photo of Vince.

  ‘We here at the Heatherly try to respect our guests’ privacy. We have many guests who value anonymity and—’

  ‘I understand, Mr Haverstad,’ Lanner interrupts. ‘If you’d prefer, we could come back with a warrant and some officers in blue uniforms. But I suspect your elite clientèle might be less than pleased at the intrusion.’ Lanner winks.

  ‘Oh … I … no that won’t be necessary. Between you and I, yes, I’ve seen that man here before. I recognized him the first time he came. I’d seen his picture on the cover of Forbes mag
azine, so I knew he was Vince Taylor. But he signed in under a fake name, paying in cash, and so I assumed that he didn’t want to be recognized. We have a lot of celebrities who come in here looking to escape public attention, and so I didn’t think much of it.’

  ‘Did you ever see him with a woman?’ Lanner asks.

  Dale’s face burns a crimson red. ‘I … yes. Just once. A brunette. Pretty young thing. I try to stay out of the guests’ business but, well, I couldn’t help but notice her.’

  I pull up a photo of Layla on my phone. ‘Was this the woman you saw him with?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  ‘Do you remember the fake name he used to check in?’

  ‘I think I do. Vinny Gambini. I remember because that’s the name of the character from that movie, My Cousin Vinnie. I found it humorous. I’m a big fan of Joe Pesci.’

  ‘Can you check to see when the last time … Vinny Gambini … checked in?’

  ‘Certainly. Just give me one moment here …’

  Dale steps behind the reception desk and hit a few strokes on the keyboard. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he says. ‘Mr Gambini checked in for a one night stay on August twenty-fourth at eight o’clock in the evening.’

  ‘And you’re sure this was Vince Taylor?’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain of it. I checked him in myself on that particular evening.’

  ‘Was he with anyone that night?’

  ‘Not that I recall, but I can’t be certain.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Haverstad; you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Excuse me, Sir!’ A woman in a royal blue dress, a pashmina pulled over her shoulders, exclaims. She’s waving her arm in Dale’s general direction. Her lips are pursed and her foot is tapping impatiently on the gleaming floor of the lobby.

  Dale scuttles off to attend to his demanding guest and Lanner and I turn to leave.

  ‘Guess Vince Taylor’s alibi isn’t so airtight after all,’ Lanner says.

  ‘I knew he was lying to us. He’s been hiding something from day one. Let’s just hope this is enough to get us a search warrant.’

  Lanner and I sit by the fax machine waiting for a copy of the warrant to come through. After finding out that Vince lied about his alibi for the night Layla Bosch was killed, we were able convince a judge that we had probable cause to search KitzTech’s electronic data and she signed off on a warrant allowing us to access the metadata to their security records.

  I didn’t have the faintest clue what ‘metadata’ was, but we requested it upon Stu’s suggestion. He explained, in that ‘I can’t believe you don’t know this’ way of his, that ‘Metadata is a set of data which gives information on other data.’ He must have noticed that I was still puzzled because he went on to explain, in less complicated terms, that the metadata will show us if and when the KitzTech security records provided to us by Vince Taylor were accessed and if anyone altered them.

  ‘It’s coming through!’ Lanner shouts animatedly. I pull the signed warrant from the fax machine, the paper still warm under my fingers.

  ‘Let’s get this over to KitzTech right away.’

  Chapter 45

  Allison

  DAY 12

  I’ve always wanted to be a detective. My father was a detective, and my grandfather before him. And so you’d think I would have had a clear understanding of what the job would entail. But I guess I had loftier ideas. I naively pictured it being more like a Sherlock Holmes story. I envisioned myself scouring crime scenes looking for the muddy footprint or the stray hair that would crack the case. And there is some of that involved, but in reality, a lot of my job involves sitting in front of a computer.

  I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve refreshed my inbox this morning waiting for an e-mail from Darren Hamish, the acting CEO of KitzTech. He was served with the warrant last night directing him to turn over the metadata pertaining to KitzTech security records for the night of August twenty fourth. Not that I’ll know what I’m looking at once I get them though. That’ll be Stu’s department. So I guess my role here is just to deliver the digital evidence to someone who might be able to see it as the proverbial muddy footprint. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.

  And yet, when that little red icon pops up advising me that I’ve received a new e-mail from Darren Hamish, I nearly fall out of my chair in my haste to open it.

  ‘Stu!’ I call excitedly. He’s been hanging around the squad room all morning just waiting for this moment. ‘I got the e-mail!’

  Stu comes rushing over, his eyes wide with delight. This is like Christmas morning for him.

  ‘Let me get in here,’ he says, shooing me out of my chair. Stu adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses and sits them neatly on the bridge of his nose.

  ‘What does it say?’ I ask impatiently.

  ‘Hold your horses. It’s going to take me a little time to comb through the data. Go get yourself a cup of coffee or something. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.’

  I think I’ve been dismissed. I guess he doesn’t want me hovering over his shoulder peppering him with my novice-level questions while he works. Fair enough.

  I walk toward the back of the station, to the break room that’s next to McFadden’s office. I check the coffee maker, but all that’s left in the pot is a splash of burnt coffee, the grinds clinging to the pot like dried sediment. It reminds me of low tide. I don’t know why I even bothered to check. No one ever cleans this thing properly, and consequently the coffee tastes like sludge. I suppose I didn’t need the caffeine anyway. My nerves are already on edge as it is.

  I grab a granola bar instead and bite into it without checking the expiration date. I’m certain that I don’t want to know. I chew the stale breakfast bar while pacing the break room, resisting the temptation to shoot back over to my desk to ask Stu if he’s found anything yet.

  I really should eat better. Josh is always lecturing me on providing my body with proper fuel. But I never find the time to prepare healthy meals. It’s far more common for me to grab something quick that I can eat on the go. I exercise enough to make sure that I keep fit, but my body would probably appreciate the odd vegetable thrown into the mix of carbs and takeout. I should talk to Josh about arranging a meal prep schedule we could both stick to. Maybe something involving salads. Josh. There are a lot of things I need to talk to him about. I make a mental note to myself to apologize to him again tonight, to do something special to make him see how much I appreciate him.

  ‘Thought I might find you in here,’ Lanner says as he appears in the doorway. ‘Stu sent you off, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ I admit.

  ‘Bit bossy, that one. But he knows his stuff. If there’s anything to find in that data, Stu will find it.’

  I nod, and wipe a stray crumb from my lip.

  ‘You’re not eating one of those granola bars are you?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Barnes! They’ve been in here since the dawn of time!’ He shakes his head in a mock shudder.

  ‘Barnes! Lanner!’ I hear Stu shout. ‘You guys better come over here.’

  I practically bowl Lanner over as I rush out the door and back to my desk. Lanner follows closely behind me.

  ‘What have you got?’ I ask, staring at the computer screen containing a jumble of numbers that I can’t make heads or tails of.

  Lanner seems far more relaxed than I am. He casually seats himself on my desk, his long legs splayed out in front of him. Is that a male thing? I’ve noticed it on the subway too, men spreading their legs wide, taking up as much space around them as possible. Is it simply to do with defending their personal space in a crowd? Or is it something deeper, something lurking in the collective subconscious of our society, that makes men able to move through the world with such confidence, such entitlement to claim the territory around them, while women are constantly reminded to make their bodies smaller, to take up less space in the world?

  ‘You’re going to be very pleased wi
th this,’ Stu says, pulling me from my contemplation. ‘These records clearly establish that KitzTech’s security log was accessed by someone on August twenty-sixth, and several lines of data were added at that time to show that after Vince Taylor left the building at 6.03 p.m., returned at 6.26 p.m., scanned his fingerprints to get into his personal office at 6.31 p.m., and left again at 10.43 p.m.. There was a trip to the men’s room somewhere in there too.’

  ‘August twenty-sixth was the day we interviewed Taylor at the station – when we started asking him for an alibi,’ I say to Lanner.

  ‘Yup,’ he agrees, ‘and this timeline is impossible because we know he checked into the Heatherly Hotel at eight o’clock, so he couldn’t have been in his office at that time. Looks to me like he didn’t want us to know he was at the Heatherly.’

  ‘Stu, is there any way to determine who altered these records?’ I inquire.

  ‘No, all I can tell you is that they were definitely tampered with. But there is no way to determine who accessed the records from what I have here.’

  ‘Thanks, Stu. You’re the best.’

  ‘I know,’ he says with a wink. ‘I’ll leave you two to it.’

  ‘Obviously Vince doctored these records,’ I say to Lanner after Stu leaves us alone at my desk. ‘Who else would have done it?’

  ‘I agree. But let’s take it to the Chief,’ he suggests.

  I knock on Chief McFadden’s door.

  ‘Come in,’ he barks.

  We step into the Chief’s office and I’m relieved to finally have some good news for him.

  ‘What’s going on with your investigation?’ he asks.

  Lanner and I fill Chief McFadden in on our interview with Vince, his false alibi, and how the metadata showed that the security records were tampered with. We also tell him about our chat with Dale, the manager at the Heatherly.

  ‘Arrest Taylor,’ Chief McFadden responds curtly.

  ‘Do you think we have probable cause, given that we can’t prove that he was the one that altered the records and—’