by Carrie Smith
He kicked the toppled-over chair with his left foot. “Stop!”
“She broke your heart. Admit it. It’s not a crime.”
He punched his fist into the plaster wall and let out a loud angry cry of pain that wasn’t purely physical. She stood and went around the table and put her hand on his shoulder. He turned from her and pressed his forehead against the wall.
“You knew she’d never want you the way she wanted him. She wanted things that you couldn’t give her, didn’t she?”
His head shot up. “I wouldn’t want to give her those things. I would never mistreat her like he did. I would never tie her up or hit her or choke her like he did.”
“You were angry. You felt betrayed.”
He didn’t speak.
“Did you kill her, Brandon?”
He whipped his body around to face her. “No!” And there was nothing hollow about that denial.
CHAPTER 58
Haggerty had already claimed a corner table when she and Muñoz arrived. He stood and kissed her cheek. She turned her face to touch his lips with hers, and in that instant she imagined Brandon wanting to kiss Baiba that way, and she felt a little sad for him—for what he’d wanted but never received. Muñoz was staring at them so she asked, “What?”
“Nothing. I’m just getting used to this new development.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, when do we get to meet your new development?”
She took a seat against the wall so she could look out. Haggerty and Muñoz ordered beers, and she asked for Perrier. While they studied the menus, Haggerty said, “You’ll be interested to know that the local news now has a name for your case. The Park Manor Murders.”
“That’s not very creative,” she said. “We could put our heads together and do a lot better than that.”
She pulled off her jacket as Haggerty asked, “So are the deaths are related?”
Codella scanned the other tables in the dimly lit room. The music was loud and no one was sitting close enough to hear their conversation. She leaned in and told him about the interviews at Manhattan North. “Brandon, Merchant, and Baiba Lielkaja were part of one very unhappy love triangle. Before Lielkaja turned up dead, I wondered if she might have been responsible for Lucy Merchant’s murder. I was starting to buy Brandon’s theory that she murdered Lucy so she could have Thomas Merchant all to herself. Now this so-called suicide note suggests that she and Thomas conspired to kill his wife. But if they worked together, then why was Lielkaja murdered—because I’m telling you, she didn’t kill herself.”
“Maybe Merchant didn’t conspire with her out of love,” suggested Haggerty. “Maybe he was just sick and tired of being chained to a woman with dementia. Think about it. He wants his freedom. He wants her out of the picture, but he can’t get the job done alone. So he wines and dines Lielkaja. Makes her feel special. Promises she’ll be the next Mrs. Merchant. And as soon as Lielkaja does her part, he gets rid of her, too.”
“And types the suicide note,” finished Muñoz.
“Right.” Haggerty sipped his beer.
Codella pictured Merchant in the interview room hours ago. Was he a murderer? “We know they were having an affair,” she said. “We know he sexually assaulted at least one woman in the past. And we know he went to Lielkaja’s apartment yesterday because a neighbor saw someone leaving the building who matched his description perfectly. Assuming Brandon told me the truth, then Merchant is the last person we know of who entered that apartment. The question is, would he really go to all that trouble to get rid of his wife? What’s in it for him to take a chance like that?”
“Maybe he really did love Lielkaja,” Muñoz suggested, “and they killed the wife together, but then Baiba got cold feet and threatened to go to the police.”
They considered this for a moment. Then Haggerty said, “And there’s the other possibility, of course.” He was warming up to his favorite game of what if, Codella observed. How many times had she and Haggerty played that game over the years? His mind was agile, and he could spin scenarios faster than anyone she knew. “Let’s still assume Baiba killed Lucy Merchant. Let’s say she acted alone, that she wanted Lucy out of the way so she could seduce Merchant and marry him. There’s plenty of motivation for that—billions of dollars’ worth. But then Brandon Johnson finds out about her affair with Merchant, and he murders her out of jealousy.”
“But Baiba’s the one who told Brandon about the affair,” Codella countered.
“According to Brandon,” Haggerty replied. “But maybe that’s just what Brandon told you. What if it didn’t really happen that way? What if he found out on his own, went over there, and took his revenge.”
Codella stared across the restaurant and remembered Brandon’s forceful denial just an hour ago. Was he a far more calculating individual than she had assumed him to be? She remembered Constance Hodges’s merciless deconstruction of his psyche. She reviewed the simple and damning facts: He had loved Baiba. He had felt crushed by her betrayal. He had gone back to her apartment last night and told no one about it.
She shook her head. “No. It didn’t happen that way.”
“What makes you so sure?” Haggerty asked.
“Think about it. Would he let himself be seen by residents of the building if he were on his way to kill her?”
“Maybe he didn’t know he was going to kill her until he got up there. Maybe he lost control.”
Codella couldn’t think of any way to counter this. She sat in silence for several seconds. Why was she so determined to believe he was innocent? Why did she find herself rooting for him? What if he had lied to her about everything? What if her instincts about him were dead wrong?
“I need to know a lot more about that kid. I just wish there were someone other than Constance Hodges to talk to.”
“There is,” said Muñoz. “There’s a personal reference in his employment file.”
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 59
Merchant scanned the Wall Street Journal first. BNA Banker Requests Postmortem on Wife. Well, that story was in his favor. The New York Times had the headline NYPD Probes Broadway Legend’s Death. That was neutral enough, and Baiba wasn’t even mentioned. Then he saw the cover of the Daily News on the car seat, and his heart sank. There he was walking down the front steps of Manhattan North after his meeting with Codella last evening. And in the photo right next to his was a thin, hooded figure exiting the same Manhattan North door. Someone had tipped off the press.
He picked up the tabloid and stared at the headline. Banker and Trans Caregiver Questioned in Park Manor Murders. He threw the paper across the back seat of the Escalade and shouted, “Goddammit!” His worst fear was happening. The tabloids were going to butcher him.
Merchant pulled out his phone and made the call.
“Park Manor.” Constance’s voice was steady and professional.
“Good morning, Constance. How are you holding up?”
“Better than you, I imagine.” Her voice had a little edge. She had read the headlines, too. She was enjoying his discomfort as much as his daughter probably was, he thought. He spoke in a low voice into his phone.
“They’re going to slaughter me, Constance. You know I had nothing to do with these deaths. I need your help.”
She was silent for several seconds. Then she said, “I need some help, too.”
He knew what she meant. “Okay, let’s talk,” he said. “Let’s help each other. Have lunch with me today.”
She didn’t answer right away, and he could hear the thoughts running through her mind. Was he really innocent? Should she help him or should she let him dangle in the wind? Could she trust him? “Noon,” she finally said.
“Four Seasons,” he responded.
He sat back and felt the vibrations of the Escalade’s wheels as the car sped down the West Side Highway. He stared at the lights of Hoboken across the river. On September 11 of 2001, he had taken a ferry to New Jersey hours after the World Trade Towers
fell. He had weathered so many crises in the past, and he would weather this one as well, he assured himself, but he felt very alone. Lucy was gone. Baiba was gone. His daughter had caused this trouble with her anger and paranoia. He was going to have to look impervious all day while people watched him for signs of weakness and guilt. He did not look forward to walking through the revolving doors of BNA ten minutes from now, but to hide would be much worse.
He took a deep breath and mentally slipped into his invisible armor.
CHAPTER 60
Codella had gone to sleep thinking about Brandon Johnson, and he was still on her mind as she made her way to Manhattan North at seven thirty AM. She felt sympathy for the young man. She didn’t want him to be guilty. She wanted to believe that he was like her, someone who had defied the odds and not succumbed to the dire expectations of norms and statistics. She knew there was the danger of letting her feelings cloud her judgment, but she wasn’t going to rush a verdict against him. When she got to her office, she left a voicemail message for Judith Greenwald, the reference Brandon Johnson had listed on his Park Manor job application. Not until Ms. Greenwald called her back did she realize that the woman was his clinical psychologist. “I’d like to speak with you in person,” Codella said.
“I’m sorry,” Greenwald replied. “But I don’t discuss my clients.”
“You’ve seen the papers, I’m sure,” said Codella. “Your client is in trouble. Let me come and see you.”
There was silence at the other end.
“Please. When can we talk?”
“I can fit you in for fifteen minutes at eleven o’clock,” Greenwald said. “But don’t expect me to violate my oath of confidentiality. It’s not going to happen.”
Greenwald’s office was below sidewalk level in a building on Christopher Street between Seventh Avenue and Waverly Place. She buzzed Codella inside, and the detective followed a narrow corridor that led to a small waiting room where the only window was near the low ceiling and she could see feet and legs passing by on the sidewalk above.
Greenwald appeared and invited Codella into her office. As Codella sat on the olive couch, she had the eerie impression she was about to become the patient in a therapy session. Greenwald occupied what was obviously her usual chair. Then she watched Codella and waited.
Codella got straight to the point. “Two homicides have occurred, Ms. Greenwald—or should I call you doctor?”
The psychologist shrugged. “Take your pick. It’s not important to me.”
“Two people are dead, and your client has been placed at the scene of both deaths. He is currently the most compelling person of interest we have.”
The other woman did not hide her concern.
“I’m here because I need more insight into him.”
“You’re asking me to share information that was given in confidence. I already told you I’m not going to do that. I have a responsibility to Brandon, not to you.” She said this without any rancor.
“Can you tell me anything that would help me eliminate him as a suspect?”
Greenwald leaned forward. “The American Psychological Association code of ethics would compel me to report any child or elder abuse I had learned about in my sessions. That is an exception to my confidentiality that I tell my clients about when we begin our therapeutic relationship.” She crossed her legs and stared at Codella with soft, intensely brown eyes. “I have not reported any information about child or elder abuse in relation to my client.”
Codella nodded gratefully. “So I can assume he never confessed to Lucy Merchant’s murder in front of you.”
“That would be an accurate deduction,” she said.
“Can you tell me anything about him? Just give me some insights.”
“No,” she said bluntly. “But I will speak in general terms about the transgender community, if that would help.”
Codella nodded.
“As a whole, they are as diverse in their interests, ambitions, and emotions as members of the cisgender community.”
“The what?”
“The community of people whose biological gender matches their self-identity. It’s the opposite of transgender. But transgender individuals do have some greater challenges.”
“For instance?”
“They’re more prone to depression. That is a fact corroborated by many studies. And they have a much higher suicide rate—more than forty percent by some estimates. They are routinely harassed on the job. They’re denied employment, often rejected by their families, and often subjected to domestic violence from family members, too. That is the world Brandon Johnson is part of.” Greenwald stared into Codella’s eyes, and Codella understood her unspoken message. Brandon Johnson had suffered these challenges.
“You said they’re more prone to suicide. Are they also more prone to homicide?” Codella asked.
Greenwald shook her head. “People like Brandon feel self-hatred and hopelessness. They lash inward, they punish themselves—even when they deserve to punish others.”
“Did Brandon ever talk to you about a love interest?”
Greenwald looked at her watch. “That question falls into the category of information I will not share.”
“I think he was in love with a young Park Manor administrator who we found dead yesterday. Baiba Lielkaja. I think he was in love with her and became very upset when he found out she was sexually involved with someone else. I need to know if he felt enough anger toward her to harm her.”
“I only have a few more minutes, Detective,” Greenwald said. “Let me be clear about this: If I knew any of my clients had the intent to harm others before they acted on it, I would be obliged to inform the police. I did not do that. If, on the other hand, I learned about something illegal that my client had done after he did it, I would be bound by confidentiality not to tell you.”
Codella knew this, too, but she had hoped Greenwald wouldn’t be so rigid. Brandon had chosen an excellent advocate, but in this case, she wasn’t sure whether his advocate was helping or hurting him. Codella made one more effort. “If your client confessed to murder, you couldn’t tell me, but if he didn’t confess, you could tell me that, couldn’t you, and put my mind at ease?”
Greenwald stared at Codella for a long time before she said, “Answering yes might put your mind at ease, Detective, but it would be a violation. My clients need to know that I live up to my part of the bargain in here. I’m working with a very vulnerable clientele. It would ruin my work with them if they didn’t trust me. I will only say this: I have had no conversations with Brandon since he left my office on Tuesday morning, and that is before this death occurred. Brandon has worked hard in here. He has been through a lot. I respect him tremendously. And I am more than confident he has done nothing to harm anyone.”
She had come as close to answering the question as she would, Codella knew. She stood. “Thank you very much, Dr. Greenwald. I appreciate your time.”
CHAPTER 61
Julia Merchant lifted her phone from the bedside table and scrolled through the dozens of private Facebook messages she had received. Most of them were texting acronyms and emoticons expressing her friends’ shock and disbelief about what was happening. The senders, she realized, had beaten her to the morning papers.
She reached for her laptop on the floor beside her bed and went from website to website reading the stories about her father, her mother, and Baiba Lielkaja. She stopped when she got to the Daily News headline. This one, she knew, would enrage her father. She stared at the side-by-side photos of him and Brandon Johnson. Her father would not be amused by the juxtaposition.
She closed the laptop and returned it to the floor, thinking of her father’s words on the phone yesterday. Do you have any idea what my life will be like when the press gets their hands on this? She imagined him now, sitting in his executive suite. He always got to his office by seven AM, so he would have read the articles hours ago in the backseat of the Escalade while Felipe drove. For a split
second, she felt sorry for him. He was alone and under siege. And she had the impulse to pick up the phone and say something kind. But what? I believe in you? I know you didn’t do this? I’m sorry I started all this? But she wasn’t sorry. He deserved whatever embarrassment and discomfort he was feeling right now. He had earned it so many times in the past. He undoubtedly assumed she did not remember that past or that her memories of it were so impressionistic that she could not grasp their significance. Otherwise, how could he look her in the eyes now? But she remembered all too well.
She pulled the fluffy duvet up to her chin and pressed her head into her soft down pillow. She thought of him offering to pay for her to see a therapist—maybe she should take him up on his offer. She could talk out the disturbing memories, exorcize them from her brain, and move on with her life. But wasn’t it too late for that? Wasn’t the damage done?
She pulled the covers right over her head. She did not want to get out of bed. Maybe she would stay right here until Detective Codella made an arrest and this was all over.
CHAPTER 62
Brandon could feel all their eyes staring at him. They had seen his picture in the paper. They were probably texting about him right now or surreptitiously taking his photo and Snapchatting it to their friends. They would be wondering if he was mentally ill. They would be watching for signs that he might pull a gun and start shooting at them. And he felt like doing just that.
When the instructor dismissed them, he rushed out of the lab, flew down the stairs, and burst through the doors to the street. He crossed the highway and stood in his usual spot overlooking the river and New Jersey beyond. How many times had he stood here eating his lunch and staring into the churning waters? Had he known on some level that these waters would be his eventual escape route? Had he always known that he was supposed to leap into these waters on one of the coldest days of February and end his misery?
