“That’s insane. It was stolen.”
“But we can’t prove that it was stolen. Micah, this is still good news. It’ll work in our favor.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Micah drum-rolls his palms on the table and shakes his head. “Shawn, can we back up a little? You mentioned heroin.”
“Yes. Sorry, the heroin bags.” Shawn pulls photos from his case files and holds them up to the glass one by one. “Evidence gathered in your condo shows several heroin bags with stickers matching the ghost emblem you drew from the folder. One bag was open and half-empty, which the prosecution intends to argue as another motive for you to kill your husband.”
“That’s— that’s impossible. Lennox was not using again, trust me, Shawn. He couldn’t have been. Not only would I have known about it, but he would have never bought from that guy again. I’ve never seen him like he was when he was telling me about that letter. All shaky and paranoid. Scared me to death.”
“You’re right. Toxicology from fluids and hair samples has confirmed that Lennox hadn’t used in at least three months. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t relapse before that, something he may have hidden from you. That’s why it’s so important to find this guy. I mean, think about it. If Lennox, God forbid, was using again and got reconnected with this guy, who knows what could have happened? This is our best shot at pointing them in another direction, and potentially arresting the right guy.”
“Shawn, please don’t do this. You don’t want this guy on your bad side, trust me. Plus, if you’re on the news talking about my case, my profile in this place is gonna go way up. It’s a lose-lose, I swear it is.”
“I hear you, Micah, I really do.” Shawn collects the heroin photos and shoves them in his briefcase. “Micah, let me be honest. We may have many suspects, but we’re not in as good shape as we initially thought. My detective seems to think otherwise, but me? Not so sure. So far, the company angle has stalled, the hard drives are missing from fucking evidence, the roads to Ghost aren’t leading anywhere, and the camera found at the crime scene is worthless if we can’t find the recordings.”
“You found, wait, what? A camera? Jesus, Shawn, it feels like I don’t know anything.”
Shawn pulls out another stack of photos and holds one up to the glass, letting it linger. “The evidence list and photos of the scene show a camera in your living room that could have recorded the entire murder.”
“You’re kidding me. Wait!” Micah leans back, his forehead wrinkling. “Do you think the camera could’ve been the source of the red lights? Remember? The red blinking lights I saw in the corner of our living room?”
“Holy shit.” Shawn recalls the camera specifications from the discovery documents. “From the documents we have on the camera, I remember it was battery operated. Blinking red lights to let you know there’s no more power, maybe?”
“My God, I’ve been wondering about that ever since that awful night! There was a camera in our living room? Like right here was a freaking video camera?” He points to the picture, his finger touching the corner of their living room, opposite where he found Lennox lying in a pool of blood.
Shawn peels the photo off the glass. “Yes.”
“I can’t. That’s too strange.”
“Micah, do you have any idea why someone would want to film you and Lennox? If it was in your bedroom, I’d be asking another question.”
“This isn’t funny.” He looks again at the photo now resting on Shawn’s lap. “I’m trying to figure out why someone would want to film our lives. Wait, is it a monitor or a camera? Was someone just watching us, or filming us?”
“That’s a great question. But it looks like a motion-recording video camera, works over Wi-Fi, meaning it recorded to a computer we have yet to find.”
Micah hesitates to let his brain catch up to this present moment.
“I guess the good news is, if this camera recorded this godawful night, you’ll see for yourself that I didn’t do this.”
“I have no doubt. We’ll keep searching. We’ll keep hoping that hard drive shows up, and maybe it will have something the prosecution missed. But Micah, that’s a lot of hopes and maybes. Every other lead is going cold. We have just one more month until the trial starts. You gotta help me out, my friend. This Ghost guy. You need to let me go find him, by any means necessary. I have to do this press conference.”
“Do it.”
C h a p t e r 2 4
Shawn’s wife Haylee is in their palatial brownstone, searching for her keys in order to make it back to work for her 2:30 appointment at her office in Greenpoint.
The five-point-five-million-dollar, four-bedroom, three-bath brownstone was Shawn’s major splurge after being promoted to senior partner. He wanted a place out of the city, a home for him and Haylee to raise a family in the best possible neighborhood he could find. When Warren Street came on the market, he’d offered $120,000 over list price to secure it.
Tucked away on a majestic tree-lined street in the heart of Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, the four-story townhouse is tastefully appointed with vintage furniture by Arne Hovmand Olsen, Shawn’s favorite mid-century designer. A long teak coffee table rests in the middle of the first floor living room, surrounded by a custom couch in a 1950s black, tan, and white-speckled tweed.
Just off the living room, Haylee is in the walnut-paneled kitchen, moving around the piles of mail, kitchen utensils, and vegetable remnants on the Carrara marble countertops. Taking a long lunch break from her sometimes brutally demanding psychotherapy practice has become a refuge of sorts. Fixing herself a fresh salad, usually paired with whatever protein was left over from dinner the night before, and watching whatever noon-hour programming is the most interesting has become her daily routine.
She finds her keys on the coffee table next to the remote, which she picks up and points at the television. Before she has a chance to turn the TV off, she sees her husband on the screen, approaching a host of microphones. She can’t make out where he is, but she is intrigued. She unmutes just in time to hear the very start of his press conference.
“Thank you all for coming today. Just a few short weeks ago, on August 17, I began representing Micah Breuer, an innocent man accused of allegedly murdering his husband, Lennox Holcomb, who worked in financial data analysis for Élan International here in New York City. It was a particularly brutal event on an extraordinary evening that saw two different Élan publishing employees murdered. And I’m sure New Yorkers want to know that everything possible is being pursued to keep this city safe.”
Haylee places her keys on the table and sits back down.
“Based on facts omitted or unknown by police during their initial press conference”—Shawn waves a brown folder for emphasis—“we have reason to believe that overwhelming evidence obtained in the condo of Micah Breuer and the late Lennox Holcomb points in several directions, none of which is linked to my client Micah Breuer.” Shawn waves the folder again, then sets the left heel of his hand on the podium, while still holding the folder halfway toward the camera.
Haylee thinks this is odd. Since she knows her husband quite well, she also knows he wouldn’t do something so awkward without a reason. It’s as if … Wait, what’s that?
Shawn continues. “Although the prosecuting attorney claims there is a confession, the presumption of innocence has been detrimentally and haphazardly …”
Haylee hears none of the rest. She pauses the television and squints at the folder. She notices a small sticky note with the ghost illustration on it. She walks closer to the television. Her eyes widen then squint in one singular motion.
She takes her phone out of her purse and begins to text.
“Honey, the stickie note. I think I’ve seen that logo thingie before.”
C h a p t e r 2 5
Astrid pauses the television. Shawn’s torso is frozen on the screen, with the folder in his hand.
Elaine and Wallace Holcomb are watching the press conference from Astr
id’s office and have been waiting for an update on their son’s case. They are seated in front of Astrid, catty-cornered to the TV on top of the side console.
“See what we’re up against?” Elaine points to the television. “He plays dirty. He knows goddamn well that folder is showing everyone that stupid heroin emblem. What is he doing? Does he hope that somebody recognizes it and points us to some hoodlum that supposedly got my Lenny to take drugs again? Divert, divert, divert. Pure and simple evil.”
“Sweetie.” Wallace Holcomb tries to comfort his wife, laying his hand on top of hers.
“Don’t.” Elaine pulls her hand away.
“Elaine, I’m with you,” Astrid says. “It’s a red herring. But rest assured, we’ve got more than enough to put Micah away for good.”
“Then fill me in. I’m done with this sideshow.”
“Okay,” Astrid begins, wordsmithing as she goes. Elaine Holcomb is powerful and respected in this office, with devoted followers of the way she used to run the place, including her own boss. But Astrid also knows that even though this case involves the murder of Elaine’s son, she is under no obligation to divulge everything, nor should she. “Micah’s hard drive was clean. Too clean, if you ask my opinion. He’s either engineered it that way, or he’s like no other gay guy I’ve ever known.”
“Funny, but not helpful. What else?”
Astrid hates being cut off, or cut down as the case might be, especially when there’s more to share on the topic. She wants to pick her battles, and this is not one of them. “We have character witnesses aplenty. First, we have Josh Harrison, Lennox’s former boyfriend. Now, even though Josh’s testimony will show Lennox was unfaithful, I believe overall it will be a win for us to show motive: jealousy, resentment, et cetera. Josh will also testify that Micah has a snapping point.”
“Yep.”
“Micah has a melting point that registers on a psychopathic scale, which we will demonstrate with expert testimony.”
“Not sure how that will fly, but I like the thinking.”
“Thank you. Then we have the two sponsees, Frank Jabali and Talbot Lexington. Now, in a follow-up interview, Micah had said that perhaps Lennox was going to meet them that night, but Frank and Talbot’s testimony will reveal that they did not see Lennox that evening. Micah lied, tried to divert. Furthermore, they will confirm Micah’s jealousy. Apparently, he was outwardly jealous of the time Lennox spent with them.”
“See, what did I tell you?” Elaine says in the direction of her husband, placing her hand on his. He places his hand on top of hers.
“We also have Jenna Ancelet as a character witness. She has misgivings about Micah as well. She can also back up her best friend Josh’s account of the breakup, when Micah went off the rails. One caveat. She will also be a witness for the defense. She is loyal to them as a couple, even after she left the employ of Lennox to work for the competition. They were super close. We’re talking vacations, house parties, everything. We’re unsure of how this will play out, but I’m developing a strategy.”
“Don’t like that.”
“The video camera,” Astrid continues without missing a beat. “No one has been able to locate where the recordings went, or even if there were recordings at all. I’m going to file a motion that the camera be inadmissible as irrelevant to the case.”
“That doesn’t make sense. If it recorded the murder, you need to find it.”
“We’re still working on it, but if it makes it into the trial, it could swing against us. I think the defense would suggest the recordings were part of some Élan company conspiracy in which Lennox could have been involved. It could sway the jury.”
“I heard about that. No evidence. Go on.”
“The only other thing besides presence of the camera, but lack of video evidence, is the absence of a murder weapon. As you know, we’re sure that the knife used to stab Lennox thirty-three times was a knife matching a set found in the apartment. Now, we have a photo of Micah leaving the condo that evening, and he is carrying his bag, his briefcase. Not sure why he’d need that at a formal event, so we checked and double-checked. The DNA from the case showed nothing abnormal. No blood, no hair samples, just Micah’s fingerprints. Plus, witnesses corroborate that he always carried that bag. He considered it his purse. We still think he may have carried the knife with him and disposed of it somewhere along the way to the event. However, the actual knife was not and is not anywhere in the vicinity.”
“Obviously, he’s hidden it somewhere, and CIU is too stupid to know where to look.”
“I’ll pass that information on to them. Now, for the good news. Four-prong attack: motive, opportunity, DNA, and confession.”
“Oh, I like the sound of this.”
“I thought you would. Motive. One, Micah was resentful of Lennox’s affair, as evidenced by witness testimony. Two, a life insurance policy was taken out to the tune of one point five million dollars with Micah as the beneficiary. We will call attention to that number as being exorbitant. Next is opportunity. Micah’s recollection is all over the place, with pretty big omissions, up to almost an hour here and there. Our timeline will show that Micah was the last to see Lennox alive, had ample opportunity to almost kill Lennox, dispose of the murder weapon and anything else linking him to the crime, go to the party, come back to find he hadn’t completed the job, kill Lennox and subsequently try to fool the police into thinking he was trying to save him. We even have a moment we will pull out at trial about the lights being on in the apartment when Micah got home, when he swears he couldn’t see a thing.”
“Like Perry Mason,” Wallace Holcomb says.
Elaine replies with a swift and pointed Shh!, which is barely audible except to her husband.
At this point, Astrid realizes she is divulging way more than she should, but she is enjoying the ego boost from the reactions on Elaine and Wallace’s faces.
“DNA.” Astrid continues. “Lennox’s DNA is all over Micah’s body. It was all tested, and it all points back to Lennox and Micah. No other relevant DNA was found at the scene, not a speck.”
“Not true, they had a housekeeper.”
“Yes, I said relevant. The housekeeper’s DNA was there, and she was taken into consideration. But she was ruled out as a suspect. She was in Cuba with her family at the time. Verified.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Lastly, there’s the confession. Micah has confessed that his so-called ‘life-saving’ techniques ended up killing your son. So even if we get a gullible jury, which Shawn Connelly is known for, and they can’t see the connections with all the evidence we present, we have Micah on criminally negligent homicide, plain and simple. Done. That’s a given. Boom. One to four years.”
“That’s not enough, but I get it. Backup plan. No plea bargain, right?”
“None will be accepted.”
“And if all this goes wrong, we’ll still sue in civil court.” Elaine is somewhat satisfied, yet feels the need to have a backup plan for the backup plan.
“It won’t go wrong.”
C h a p t e r 2 6
“Right. Here’s everything.”
Shawn drops a huge box on the closest desk he can find.
“Get to work,” he says, motioning to the gaggle of paralegals waiting to devour the new discovery files.
The Lyte & Morgan law firm offices are considered by most in the legal world to be “old school,” like the firm itself. Herbert Lyte, the founding partner, is approaching 65 years old, and although he is no longer part of the day-to-day operations of the firm, he still has a solid vision for it. This overarching brand strategy is one of timeless trust, and that philosophy trickles down to who he hires, who he selects as clients, even how the office is decorated.
Even though Shawn’s tastes have evolved to a more streamlined look, he can appreciate the old-school mentality. Being a Harvard graduate, and having grown up with a father who appreciated the classic and timeless, he feels equally at home here as he does i
n Brooklyn.
The paralegals’ corral is a massive, ornate, hand-carved wooden cylindrical half-wall for which there is one entrance. All the desks are arranged to interact with each other, to foster camaraderie and collaboration. Shawn is enjoying the energy, is fueled by it even.
“Comb through everything you can find, and if you can’t find what you need, find it,” Shawn orders. He chuckles to himself at his repetitive word choices as he walks back to his office.
“I guess that speech makes you one of the finding fathers,” jokes his private investigator, who has been eavesdropping from Shawn’s office. He looks more disheveled than the last time they met.
“Maybe I can find you a shower.” Shawn closes the door to his office.
Dimly lit except for the extraordinary view of the Midtown skyline, the office is encased in floor-to-ceiling walnut built-ins on the remaining three walls. The bookcases are filled with sports memorabilia, countless reference materials, and of course framed photos of any celebrity Shawn could talk into taking a selfie with him.
“I know you have everything under control here,” the P.I. says. “And I’ve hit everything you’ve asked me to cover, and then some. All there in my report.”
“Yes, Allen, I’ve read it, and thank you. Again.”
Allen Pinchot sits back and relaxes. He has been Shawn’s rock-solid sideman for over five years now, uncovering things that few private investigators would even think of. He is a tall and slender man with a bit of a belly, forty-two years old with thinning dark hair that still manages to sport a wave.
He has been the unsung hero in Shawn’s meteoric rise in the New York City legal landscape. Now he finds himself struggling, trying to save the day yet again.
“I know it’s not much, but there are some new things of note, like the WiFi at Micah and Lennox’s condo,” Allen begins. “I took my laptop over there to see what networks show up, you know, see if we can find a lead to what server or hard drive may have those camera recordings. There are 72 networks that pop up, and all have passwords. All of them. I started trying to crack a few but ran out of time. If you wanna send someone out there to do the rest, that might save you some money. If not, I’d like to continue.”
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