“Did she ever press charges on this guy?”
“Nope.” Josh turns again in his seat, staring straight ahead at the fragmented view through the cracked windshield. “She was never quite the same after. Quit school. Did odd jobs for several years just to make the rent. Starbucks, J.Crew, Duane Reade corporate. Then she started working for Lennox at Élan. I’d just started with Élan as well. That’s when we met. In orientation.”
“Then what? I mean, it’s terrible what happened to her, but it’s no excuse for what she did.”
“Lennox and Jenna became very close. To be an executive assistant at an up-and-coming publishing company was a huge deal for her. She was in charge of Lennox’s professional and personal life, and she was good at it. Lennox got sober. He quickly made VP, gave Jenna a huge raise and gigantic bonuses. She was making enough money to finally get a place of her own; she even got a two-bedroom condo. Of course, she picked a building close to Lennox. I guess Lenny made her feel safe for the first time in a while. But she didn’t like being alone. She spent several nights a week with Tracy, with me, and even Lennox and Micah every now and then. I told her to get a roommate, that spending five grand a month on an apartment she barely used was just stupid. But she liked having it. It made her feel a part of New York. And I was more than happy for her to be with me, any chance I could get.”
“So why didn’t you move in with her?”
“Single gay man. New York City.”
“Oh.” Shawn pauses, squinches his brow. “Oh.”
“Do you see what I’m trying to say here?” Josh bends over, picks up the folder from the floorboard. “How could a woman who barely spends time at her apartment, who feels safe with Lennox and loves him with all her heart, turn around and plan an intricate scheme from said apartment, frame the company, Micah, and Ghost at the same time, then kill Lenny with her bare hands?”
Shawn soaks in the information, like a sea sponge forced onto the shore of an uncharted island. When all the evidence found in Jenna’s closet was brought to light, he’d hopped on the “Jenna is guilty” train, along with most of Manhattan and the rest of the world. Haylee, his loving wife, had her doubts that Jenna could have done this alone. And now this Josh fellow? Why should he trust …
“I know you don’t trust me,” Josh says. “That was clear at Micah’s trial. But aren’t you curious?”
Shawn glances at the red folder. “A little.”
“At NYU, Jenna studied to be a lawyer. The whole time you were defending Micah, Jenna was trying to help you. If you’ll give us a chance, we’ve got quite a story to tell.”
Shawn looks at Josh, then at the cracked windshield, then the red folder. He looks up, breathes in, and lays his head down on the steering wheel. “God help me, let’s try this again.”
C h a p t e r 6
JENNA RAISES HER head as the door to the holding room opens to three men in silhouette coming through the doorway.
“Josh Harrison and Shawn Connelly, once again.” Detective Penance lets them through. “I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Connelly.”
“Appreciate it, Detective. If you don’t mind, some universal privacy?” Shawn looks up at the camera in the corner and its blinking red light.
The detective pounds on the two-way glass. The red light goes dark. “If you need anything, I’m just on the other side of this wall.”
Shawn nods to the detective, then sees Josh place the folder in front of Jenna.
“Before we get started,” Shawn announces, “I have a few things to go over. By being here, it does not commit me to take your case, or represent you in any way. However, this is still covered under attorney–client privilege as I am evaluating your case. Anything you say is covered by this privilege. So be honest.”
“Yes sir.” Josh drumbeats his hands on the table.
“Jenna, I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I apologize. I’m guessing you guys have uncovered some information that may absolve you from any wrongdoing here. I promise to listen with an open mind.”
Jenna nods, but remains silent.
“Where should I start?” Josh sees that Jenna is not going to take the lead.
“I have no idea what you guys are about to tell me,” Shawn says. “But Jenna, I’d love to hear from you.”
Shawn knows from his experience at trial that Josh can embellish on his storytelling.
“Jenna, do you mind if I take this?” Josh asks.
“Go ahead.”
“Well, it all started the night Lennox was murdered.”
Oh, great, Shawn thinks. He braces himself for Josh’s slanted story …
C h a p t e r 7
I LOOKED AROUND in awe, marveling at the red-carpet frenzy and the gathering crowd. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect New York evening. The mid-August air was crisp with a rare pre-autumn chill, and the lights from the paparazzi added just the right touch to Manhattan’s midtown nightscape. Several news outlets had already coined it “The Event of the Decade,” so I was praying the evening would go smoothly. I considered this particular event my high society debut. I hoped I’d thought of everything.
Nothing could taint this night.
I turned to my date, Jenna Ancelet, the most beautiful woman in the world, and I smiled. She took my arm, and we began walking toward the entrance, both of us gushing at the turnout. As we entered the lobby, I looked around at the bustling swarm of entertainment’s elite and publishing’s power players.
“Great event, Josh!”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“How did you come up with all this?”
The compliments circled all around me, calming my anxiety, sure, but there were so many accolades, it began to make me feel a little uncomfortable.
C h a p t e r 8
“CAN I JUST stop your little flashback right there?” Shawn says. “I understand it was a wonderful night for you, Josh, but at that point, my best friend was bleeding out from thirty-three stab wounds.”
Shawn looks at Jenna, who doesn’t look back.
“He was my ex, don’t forget,” Josh says. “But I get it. It was my first huge event, so I apologize if I was being grandiose. Sorry, really, I’ll try to be more succinct. But bear with me, I need to share context.”
“I’ll keep interrupting then,” Shawn says.
With a twinkle in his eye, Josh takes a deep breath and picks up right where he left off …
C h a p t e r 9
I SHRUGGED OFF the compliments and began focusing on frivolous details. Was the red carpet red enough? Were the photographers getting too many closeups of the celebrities, or were they getting the sponsor backdrop in the photos as well? Gotta keep the sponsors happy. I recognized the familiar downward spiral of my thought process and stopped myself.
“Josh, can you believe this?”
Breaking through the choking fog of my own anxiety was the deep, smoke-beaten voice that could only belong to Jenna, the scantily-clad but flawlessly-appointed goddess on my arm. Jenna was looking up at me with her soul-piercing brown eyes, her dark hair perfectly positioned around her shoulders.
Jenna and I had known each other since we started our first job in publishing on the same day at the same company eight years ago. We’d met in orientation, both feeling an instant connection, lifelong from the start. Now that we were each thirty-four years old, we worked for competing publishing companies, with a vow to never let business interfere with our beautiful, dysfunctional, Will and Grace–style relationship.
Josh and Jenna. Friends always address us with a perpetual rolling of the eyes.
“I mean, Josh, look around you,” Jenna said. “Over there. Meryl Streep, Bradley Cooper. Augustine Trudeau? How’d you get the entire A-list to come to your party? Cooper Harlow is gonna flip.”
“There will be no talk of Cooper Harlow tonight,” I said. “This is about Élan.”
“No competition talk. Got it.”
“Your left boob is about to pop out of that
dress.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Jenna took her right hand and resituated her bosom. “Gonna run to the bathroom and fix this. These.”
I nodded and continued through the crowd alone, chatting with celebrities I recognized, making sure they knew they were seen and appreciated. I then walked down the large staircase that connected the “meet-and-greet landing” to the “party pit,” two terms I’d concocted to help with event flow.
Just above the music and spirited strum of the gathering crowd, I noticed determined footsteps growing louder from behind. Suddenly a man with wavy blonde hair bumped into me somewhat forcefully. I grabbed the stair rail to keep myself from falling. I looked to see if I recognized the man.
Yep. Micah. Micah Breuer.
I wasn’t surprised. As you know very well, Shawn, Micah was the husband of Lennox Holcomb, Vice President of Finance at Élan. But to me, Lenny was the tall handsome man with whom I’d fallen in love during a brief but intimate affair just two years prior while working on a big-budget project together.
Anyway, I sloughed off Micah’s purposeful, childlike jab.
Nothing could taint this night.
I continued through the crowd in the party pit, nervously running my fingers through what Jenna calls my Matthew McConaughey hair. I was a bit nauseous, approaching freak-out mode. This was a huge night not only for me, but my company as well. After all, I’m the executive creative director at Élan International, the hugely successful New York–based consumer publishing house that had recently grown to surpass the magazine giant Cooper Harlow.
The media had coined the moniker “Pub War,” describing the all-out catfight between two publishing giants, Élan International and Cooper Harlow. Élan’s women’s fashion magazine Alta had eclipsed Cooper Harlow’s iconic Voire. Élan’s flagship men’s publication, aptly named Élan, had risen so much in international popularity that its subscription base and advertising revenue was now greater than HQ, Press and J’Sais combined. The publishing business aside, both companies were now in an all-out war to purchase other giant media companies to grow their empires.
In the Pub War era, I hoped this event would reflect that Élan was winning.
“Josh Harrison, there you are! I have someone I’d like you to meet.” James West, Élan’s CEO, the man ultimately responsible for the organization’s dramatic success, approached me. James West had lured me from Cooper Harlow with a salary and bonus package in the mid-sixfigure range and tailored a creative position to perfectly suit my talents. It was an offer I couldn’t have refused.
“Josh, I’d like you to meet Miss Trudeau,” he said.
“Oh, you need no introduction, I’m a huge fan of your films. Congrats on your third Oscar.” I shook Augustine Trudeau’s hand. “I always said if my mom’s prayers for a straight son were ever answered, you’d be the first woman I’d go for.”
My inappropriate comment came out before I could filter.
“Thank you, I get that a lot. But from the looks of it, you’re doing just fine.” Augustine smiled and looked at Jenna, who’d just returned from securing her boobs.
“This is my beautiful friend Jenna Ancelet,” I said. “She used to work for Lennox Holcomb, vice president of finance here at Élan, before she was lured away by that awful Cooper Harlow.”
“Cooper who?” Augustine laughed at her own joke, meant specifically to make James West gush. “Are all of Élan’s employees this gorgeous?”
“You too!” Jenna said.
Leave it to Jenna to get her reactions confused. I almost choked on my drink.
“Josh is responsible for the creative execution of tonight’s events,” James West said. “His concept, start to finish. He’s one of our brightest here.”
“Well, Josh,” Augustine said, “it’s amazing.”
“Thank you; wait until you see the grand-opening party next year. I’ve got some big ideas I’d love to talk with you about. A change in focus. A benefit for the cause of your choosing.”
“Anything to shift the focus to something that matters,” Augustine said. “Thank you, I can put you in touch with my manager.”
“Mr. West here is the one who ultimately needs to give the greenlight.” I patted West on the shoulder. “We want to celebrate what y’all do in real life, so if we can work together, the ‘thank you’ would be very much … reciprocal. Right, Mr. West?”
“You guys have a great evening.” James escorted Augustine toward the VIP reception area.
“Really nice meeting you both,” Augustine added as she walked away.
“Reciprocal?” Jenna asked out of the side of her mouth.
“You too!” I replied.
“Not sure about this music, Josh.” Jenna walked beside me, then spotted a cockeyed flower arrangement. “Or the flowers.”
“Shocking.”
“I’m sure you saw Micah. He told me he bumped into—”
“Jenna, let’s not.”
“Okay, okay, God, you two are like oil and water.”
“Good job on the metaphor.”
“Hey, do you see Tracy anywhere?”
“No, I don’t. She’s coming, right?” I scanned the crowd. “She should be here by now.”
“I’m gonna call her.” Jenna maneuvered through the crowd as she pulled her phone from her Chanel clutch.
C h a p t e r 1 0
“SERIOUSLY, JOSH, IS there a point to this story?” Shawn leans back, sighs. “I’m missing my wife’s doctor’s appointment, for Christ’s sake.”
“Nuance, Shawn, all these little details are crucial,” Josh says. He hears Jenna spout a judgmental cough. “Well, most of them.”
Shawn shifts his attention. “Jenna, would you pick up from there, or start over completely, with about a tenth of the words?”
“I’m just getting to the important part,” Josh says. “Now, bear with me. This next little sequence is how I imagined it in my head. We’ve pieced the Billy Donovan part together from news stories and eyewitnesses, including Tracy’s knowledge of the guy’s name.”
“Tracy Heissman?” Shawn asks. “And who the hell is Billy Donovan?”
“Hold your horses. I’m about to tell you.”
Josh begins again …
C h a p t e r 1 1
ACROSS TOWN, BILLY Donovan’s heart was racing out of control as he bolted through the crowd in Union Square. Billy was young, maybe twenty-seven, tall, very attractive, light-brown hair in a crew cut, ice-blue eyes. He was frantic. Confused. Out of breath. Afraid for his life. Was he being chased? He didn’t understand what could’ve happened. And not by just one man, but two?
Finally having outrun the two men, Billy looked behind him to make sure they weren’t there, then spotted an open door to an apartment building foyer right off the square. He ran inside the first set of double doors and ducked out of sight.
The two men who were chasing Billy looked around. The older of the two, a distinguished-looking gray-haired gentleman, brushed his tux with the back of his fingers as he caught his breath. He took out his phone and dialed, while his bodyguard continued to search.
“I think we lost him.” The bodyguard walked ahead.
The older man looked around to see if he could find the man they were chasing, then spoke into his phone. “Hillary, honey, there’s, uh, been a holdup at work, I’m running a little late and I …”
He stopped speaking. He began gasping for words, choking on the blood coming up through his throat, waving his other arm to get his bodyguard’s attention. He dropped his cellphone and fell sideways to the ground. A small crowd gathered. Suddenly a few began to scream, noticing the blood collecting in a pool on the sidewalk underneath the man. The bodyguard rushed to his boss’s side.
MEANWHILE, BACK AT the party, I heard someone behind me mocking a southern accent.
“Why, Josh Harrison, you son of a gun.”
I turned around. “Why, Miss Hillary Gordon, as I live and breathe,” I overly mocked her mocking me.
W
e hugged.
“This is all your doing, right? You handsome southern devil? 1 knew tonight was going to be amazing when I got this lovely invitation in the mail.”
She reached into her purse to find it.
“You should see the gift bag,” I replied, anticipating Hillary’s ooh, aah moment over the invitation.
Hillary was the fifty-seven-year-old wife of Walter Gordon, one of the pioneers of the interactive Internet commerce revolution. Time had recently awarded him “Man of the Future.” In most business circles, he was considered one of the smartest men in the world, a former think tank member under Obama … respected, rich, and indispensable to many Fortune 500 clients who grew to benefit from his revolutionary tactics that consistently stayed ahead of consumer trends. Whenever Gordon announced a new idea or product, it made headlines. People flocked to it, and his clients made money. And Hillary was his perfect wife—the constant, loyal, and proud companion. Poised, graceful, and personable, she was also one of Josh’s biggest fans. And vice versa.
“Oh, lookie here,” Hillary said, pulling out her phone instead of the invitation. “You know, Walter is running late, and I think I just missed his call. Will you excuse me, please?”
I nodded, turned around, and began walking through the enormous crowd at the event. So many celebrities, so much media, I thought. Damn, this is good.
Not paying attention to where I was walking, I bumped into Jenna. She was standing perfectly still. She looked pale, withdrawn, disengaged.
“Jenna, what’s wrong? Is Tracy okay? What?” I’d never seen her like this. “Talk to me, please.”
She slowly scrunched her brow, trying to make sense of what she was about to say. She took a deep breath. “She was at Union Square waiting for a cab outside her apartment, just … talking to me.”
Jenna’s face lost all expression.
“What happened?” I moved closer to her, rested my hand on her shoulder. “Jenna, you’re scaring me.”
“Then Tracy started screaming. She told me a man in a tux just fell down … dead … practically in front of her. He’d been shot in his back.” She began to speak in a whisper. “Tracy said there was blood on her shoes.”
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