She Without Sin

by J. P. Barry

  “The van. Whoever was driving that van has Nick, or at least knows where he is. It’s the only option, because Nick’s SUV didn’t make a move once parked, and he didn’t abandon his Lexus and take off on foot. Unless he’s still somewhere inside the church, which I really don’t think he is. Find that van on the video again. Let’s see if the license plate is clear, or if we can get a quick look at the driver.”

  Doing as told, Liam clicked the back button. When the target returned, he paused the feed. Grabbing a piece of scrap paper, I scribbled what I believe the plate read, but I wasn’t completely positive due to the fuzziness of the image. Liam agreed he viewed the same letter and number combination. Standing and reaching for my cell phone, Liam took hold of my wrist.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Calling Agent Wilder. Why?”

  “No. You’re not. What we just did is so illegal,” Liam informed, eyes wide with warning.

  “Then what do you propose we do with this new found information? Nick is out there, somewhere. If they find the owner of the van, they’ll find Nick.” My thought process seemed logical. I wasn’t sure why Liam wasn’t viewing it that way.

  “Jill, the cops and FBI have probably already seen this footage. It was more than likely one of the first things they looked at. What we’re doing here stays between us, unless we happen to stumble across something extremely suspicious, or see the actual kidnapping. Got it? Because if you can’t agree to this, it ends now, and I’m going home.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled, begrudgingly.

  “Good. I’m going to call Randy. See if he can run this plate, or if he knows someone who can.” Liam stood, and went to the kitchen. Several long minutes later he rejoined. “W. Lessor. Montauk. That’s who the van is registered to. I’ve got an address here. Randy couldn’t find anything else on Lessor, and neither could I with a search engine search. But, never-the-less, this is a start,” he informed, waiving a slice of paper in the air. “Also, on the down low, he shared St. Luke’s has been inspected four times. The place was picked apart. Not a crack, scratch, or speck of dust was ignored. According to the FBI’s findings, Nick’s fingerprints were captured on a pew and a door handle, which means he was inside the main area at some point recent to his disappearance, but eyewitnesses–two older woman who were there that night, claim to have seen a man who resembled Nick enter and leave. They also said he was sitting beside a middle-aged man, who followed Nick out. Currently, there are no suspects. The tip line the FBI is hosting averages five thousand calls a day, but none of the information has proved valid.”

  “Let’s go. What are you waiting for?” I directed, walking to the foyer, sliding sneakers on.

  “Whoa. Slow your role. You can’t just leave the house without the swarm of media vultures outside the gates tailing you. Hell, whenever I leave, they’re on my ass for at least a dozen blocks before they realize I’m only going home, or to work. Once they followed me into the damn grocery store. They go away, but the situation is dangerous. You want to race over to this house, I do too, but we need to be smart before doing something stupid. I’m not, and never will be, a shoot first, ask questions later kind of man.”

  “Then what do you propose?” I challenged, hands firmly on hips. Had I been in my right mind, I would’ve come up with an idea, but possessing an address where Nick may be, took control over everything else.

  “For starters, we need a decoy–not only to get out of here, but to not blow your cover should this Lessor guy or girl know who you are. If he does, and sees you snooping around, we’re as good as dead, because who the hell knows how much of a psycho this person is? Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll have a plan of attack.”

  With that, he exited the space, and went upstairs. To where? No idea, but when Liam said he had a situation under control, he always did. His word was his bond.

  Chapter Eleven

  Liam

  What the frigging hell did I get myself into? You’re a stone throw away from past middle age, overweight, a borderline diabetic with hypertension and high cholesterol. In addition, let’s not forget, you’re a black man— which of course makes it’s a totally safe move to go snooping around, getting all up in the authorities’ business. You’ve got a wife who if she knew what you were up to would murder you in cold blood, and children–one of which who is on bedrest seven months pregnant, living at your house because her husband is a waste of time loser with a job that requires massive travel, making him the most useless person alive.

  The weight of anxiety and stress bore down heavily on my shoulders. It’s not that I didn’t care for Jillian, I did, and always will. I viewed her as my own child. If it wasn’t for me, she’d still be some local beat reporter for a crap news station, but was this current predicament really my problem? Nope. Nick was a good man. He’d been rather tolerant of Jillian and her quirky behavior–yes, that’s how I’ve chosen to view her obnoxious, diva-like ways. The problem with celebrities usually was their inability to take no for an answer, and their tremendous egos. Jillian’s ego was currently the size of the entire United States, surrounding territories included. The kid knew she was good–damn good at what she did. With her constant, insatiable desire to prove everyone around her, especially Nick’s family, wrong about her worth and talent, the backing of a major network only made the wounded little girl inside lash out more. After Nick’s indiscretion with his former assistant, Jillian changed. Though she pretended all was well, he cut her, deep. Instead of allowing the gash to scab up and heal, Jillian didn’t. She kept going, faster, stronger, which in turn made her public image likability go down, but somehow her ratings rocketed through the roof.

  I’d worked as a producer on many shows, but The Bottom Line was by far the most unique program around. A no nonsense woman in a position of self-created power who refused to raise her voice on air, nor accept lies from guests, gave the network the boost it needed to stay afloat. Jillian always remained neutral, free of bias, despite her deep ties to the Winters.

  Splashing cold water on my face, I observed my reflection in the master bathroom mirror. Dark bags. Tired eyes. Prominent frown lines. Crow’s feet so deep all the creams Kendra owned combined wouldn’t be able to erase them. I’d been working like a dog since this shit show started. The toll taken, draining. At this clip, I’d resemble a ninety-year-old man in less than a month. Between the Jillian/Nick fiasco and Robbins riding my ass like a racehorse he needed to win the Triple Crown, the day, month, and year, escaped a once sharp mind. The show was in the crapper without Jillian at the helm. Didn’t matter what celebrity host took over, or even what guests were scheduled. No one could do the job the way she did. Robbins wanted to blame the declining ratings on Jillian’s current negative media state, but deep down he knew that wasn’t the case. If this nonsense didn’t wrap up shortly, not only Jillian would be out of a job, we’d all be, and the station would crash hard to the bottom of the pack with a slim chance of survival. Perhaps my motives for helping came with a healthy side of self-serving needs, but I had little responsibilities that arrived every month in the form of bills. Letting Kendra and the kids down wasn’t going to happen. At my age, networks weren’t interested. They wanted young people fresh out of college who’d work for pennies on the dollar just to get their foot in the door.

  Can’t do this. Nope. I’m done. This isn’t my circus.

  A split-second decision was made to go back downstairs and tell Jillian I was out. Yeah, she’d be pissed, but I’d be safe. There was too much to risk losing when this went south, which it would. I’d remain present, but only in an emotional capacity, on my terms. That I could handle. Not having a job, wife, home, family, or life I couldn’t rationalize. Exiting the bathroom, eyes scanned her and Nick’s room. I’d never seen it before, so of course curiosity got the better of me. The area was bright, open. A king size bed was placed against the adjacent wall, flanked by two nightstands with tall, crystal lamps. A white washed armoire, chest of drawers, and
French dressing mirror were strategically placed around the room. A mounted flat screen television hung on the wall to the right. Curtains and linens, though snowy in appearance, like the rest of the space, appeared easy and carefree. The composition was a bit shocking being the rest of the house wasn’t as airy and light. Even the furniture bore a stark contrast. Pale colored feminine wood verses the dark, heavy pieces downstairs. Carefully walking across the silvery carpet to not stain it, eyes stopped, browsing the pictures on the dresser. There, right in the front, was one of her and I right before our first show.

  Damn it!

  The image tugged on my heartstrings. I clearly remembered that night. I doubt it would ever be forgotten. This young, talented, well-spoken, highly educated, hungry, beautiful girl was beginning an explosive career. I did that. I discovered, taught, and nurtured The Bottom Line from day one. It was just as much my baby as it was hers. There we stood, many years younger. Her arms wrapped around my waist. My head leaning on top of hers. Both smiling. An excitement twinkled in both our faces. Better days memorialized to live on forever–especially during the difficult times, like now.

  To think, it all started with me breaking my leg as a result of slipping on black ice outside the studio. Back then I was producing several shows, none of which were going anywhere. The station’s ratings were at an all-time low. If a show didn’t pick up, pink slips were going out, and the doors would close, permanently. I feared losing my job in such a way, sleepless nights became a staple of life. Kendra had just been laid off, so we needed my paycheck. While recovering at home, every morning Kendra turned on the local news. The reporters were awful, talentless. None knew which camera to look into, never mind possessed any knowledge of how to engage the viewers with charm and finesse. But, one beat girl, Jillian Winters, whom I’d met several months earlier at a book signing for her husband, consistently nailed her delivery each and every single time.

  We’d chatted briefly at the event, but I dismissed the fact she said she was a journalist. In my field you meet wannabes all day. Most of the time they weren’t worth a second thought because they were vultures who when confronted with someone who could potentially boost their career descended. Been there. Done that. Annoying as all hell. However, for Jillian it didn’t matter the topic, and trust me, they’d given her the crappiest of stories to cover, she delivered the information with a fierce passion. Whatever she reported on, I trusted her words. Emotions read clear and seeped through the television. When she interviewed local residents, she’d make sure to cover a culturally diverse group, focusing on age, race, gender, and sexual orientation. Not many in her field paid much attention to small details such as that.

  About two weeks later, New York was hit with a catastrophic hurricane. Guess what? There was Jillian Winters on the Jones Beach Boardwalk reporting live, tethered with a bungee cord to a lamppost, slender body tossed around like a plastic bag in the wind, keeping her audience updated. The only time she left post was when the eyewall approached, and it wasn’t even her decision to. A rouge piece of debris flew through the air almost knocking her on her ass, causing the cameraman to grab her, insisting she get back in the van. She kept telling him to take shelter, and film from the news truck, that she was totally fine, but after she almost bit the big one, he took hold of her practically carrying her to safety. The girl wanted the story in the worst way.

  A short while after that, she was given a seat at the anchor desk. Trust me when I tell you, she earned it. The few moments of daily banter between her and her male co-host always included her gushing over her husband. It was sweet and rather touching how much she idolized him. She quickly became Long Island’s local sweetheart. One would be hard pressed to not fall for her beauty, aptitude, and charm. Jillian was your classic girl next door. With each passing day, I became captivated by her ways. Her voice, eyes, body language, it placed you in a trance-like state. Her laugh–infectious. Her compassion–deep rooted.

  It wasn’t until I saw the undercover expose she did for her old network that I was sold this was the station’s solution for gaining ratings and climbing out of bankruptcy. Jillian Winters crossed family party lines to uncover political corruption on Long Island. She spent months working on the project with no financial backing from her network, only a promise if the piece was good enough, they’d air it. The woman must’ve worked round the clock because not only did she never miss her anchor shift, but she worked as a volunteer for one of the senate candidates who was up for re-election. Jillian seamlessly changed her appearance, name, and created a new persona so nobody would know who she was. Filming with an American Flag video camera pin, the final result? Twenty-five indictments for local and higher up government officials. Quite a stir in Washington. After that, I reached out. She interviewed with Topher, and he hired her sight on scene. The rest is history.

  The night of her first live broadcast, I found her pacing the set, reviewing the copy of the night’s show. Racing nerves was obviously the cause, but once we sat and chatted for a bit, she calmed down, saying even though this was what she’d been working her entire career for, her biggest fear wasn’t screwing it up, but letting Nick down. Her political piece upset the Winters Family, but Nick stood firmly by her side, defending her to them. He shielded and protected her. If she disappointed him and messed this chance up, she worried he’d be disenchanted, and the pride he felt for her would vanish. I don’t remember what I said to ease her worried mind, but I do remember encouraging we were in this together, and I’d never leave her side no matter what. She took out her cell phone, and had one of the stage hands snap a quick picture of the two of us, suggesting that moment was one she never wanted to forget, even if the show went belly up. And now, the memory of that faithful night captured on film lived on her dresser, front and center, staring at me, jogging my old, tired, over-worked brain of the promise to always be in her corner–no matter what.

  Crap!

  There was no way I could abandon her at such a tremendous, crucial time. Not when she needed help the most. Who else did Jillian have? Blood family? Nope—all gone. Friends? Negative. They were all fake phonies. The Winters Family? Yeah, right. I’d been watching their every move via interviews and endless press conference updates. They were waiting for precisely the right moment to hang and crucify Jillian. That girl may have been a lot of things, but when all was said and done, she loved her husband, and was a good person. All the almighty, powerful Jillian Winters had was Kendra and me. She deserved her happily-ever-after. With a heavy sigh, I extracted my phone from my back pocket, and placed a call.

  “Hey. It’s Liam. I need a favor, not for me, but rather for Jill,” I said into the receiver, praying this play stood a chance in Hell.

  * * * *

  An hour later, I ushered Lyla into the foyer. The plan, simple. The camped-out press knew I was inside the house. If I left with Jillian, they’d, without a doubt, follow. However, if they saw another woman enter the premises who they couldn’t identify, they’d go to quick work to figure out exactly who she was. Once they realized it was Jillian’s assistant, then saw her and I leave, they wouldn’t think anything of it. The vultures would believe Lyla and I were together, and Jillian remained in the house like she had been. I made sure to have Lyla dress down in a pair of gray, loose fitting yoga pants, a light pink long sleeve t-shirt, white tennis shoes, a baseball cap, and an oversized coat of her choosing. When she arrived, I pulled the same, almost identical outfit out of Jillian’s closet. Jillian pulled her hair back into a ponytail, putting Lyla’s hat, coat, and sunglasses on. If she moved quick enough from the house to the car, no one would suspect the switch. I’d make quick time out of the driveway, onto the main road. Everything would be okay … I prayed to every God known.

  “Stay inside the house, away from the windows. Don’t answer the phone, make any calls from your cell phone, or open any social media. Who the hell knows who’s monitoring the house, and Wi-Fi traces are easy to do these days. Anyone finding out you’re
here in place of Jill will cause a stir, which we don’t want, or need at the moment, or ever, for that matter.” Tension rose the closer go time neared. Clutching keys in hand, the metal dug into calloused skin. Any deeper and I’d have drawn blood.

  In a strong attempt to remain calm, I guided Jillian out of the garage. Holding the passenger side car door open, she slid in. Without pause, as to not draw attention to us, I acted in my best ‘business as usual’ fashion. Sweat formed exiting the gates. Out of the corner of my eye, Jillian appeared to be busying herself with random items in the glove box.

  Well played, my little undercover reporter.

  She was drawing on skills she learned years ago when building her career. A flawless actress, indeed. Merging onto the highway, I glanced in the rearview mirror. No tail. We’d done it. Made a clean break.

  “We’re good,” I informed.

  Jillian didn’t respond. Her rigid body nodded, curtly.

  “Hey,” I said, still keeping firm focus on the road. “Nick’s going to be okay.” Though not sure if I believed the words myself, exactly what does one say during a time like this? Your husband may or may not be dead, but chin up, buttercup. Reaching for her hand, I squeezed it.

  The remainder of the ride was filled with silence, the only noise coming from the GPS system in the car.

  “Bear right at the fork. Your destination will be on the left,” the female navigator’s voice spoke through the speakers.

  Assessing the area, we were in the middle of nowhere. Not a single thing around, only overrun forest. Off in the distance on the property stood a small, rundown shack. The heavy timber structure appeared to have been vacant for decades. Front window shutters hung by a thread. The roof, partially collapsed. It goes without saying the building was in dire need of a healthy dose of TLC, and a good handyman.