As he walks down the subway stairs, he wipes the dog slobber off his face with his sleeve.
C h a p t e r 1 8
SHAWN PUTS DOWN the half-eaten pizza slice on the cardboard, wipes his hand on his pants, then inserts the SSD in his laptop. “Now, where were we?”
“You asked him where he got that oval thingie.” Jenna licks her fingers.
“From Kimberly,” Josh says. “At least we think it was Kimberly. Jenna found it.”
“You sure you don’t want the last piece?” Shawn asks Josh.
“Lactose intolerant, gluten free, I told you.”
“I know.” Shawn laughs. “Who’s Kimberly, and how did she get this?”
“It’s he,” Jenna says.
“Kimberly is a he?”
“Kimbo,” Josh adds. “He goes by Kimbo. He used to be James West’s assistant.”
Once the drive appears on his desktop, Shawn opens it. Three folders appear: one named SURV, another named 4JFK, and the third is simply named with an underscore symbol. He selects all of them and hits the enter key. Only the folder named SURV opens. Thirty-seven subfolders are inside, organized by what he deduces are last names.
“The SURV folder is the only one that wasn’t encrypted,” Josh explains. “These folders contain hundreds of videos of employees, all working for Élan in some capacity.”
“There’s only thirty-seven folders. Élan has thousands of employees.”
“Near as we can tell, they were only keeping tabs on upper management, although a few are just regular folks, like assistants and managers.” Josh says. “Go ahead, click Tracy’s. It’s Heissman, right below mine.”
“I wanna see yours.” Shawn moves the cursor up one folder to HARRISON.
“That’s fine, but mine is only me in my office. Tracy’s has footage from her office and her home.”
Shawn clicks HEISSMAN instead. Hundreds of tiny videos begin to appear across the screen, popping like fireworks. Some are from Tracy’s work computer, some from the corner of her living room.
“Do these have sound?” Shawn asks.
“Yes,” Jenna says. “All of them.”
Shawn looks at the top of the folder. “There’s no Ancelet.”
“I was already gone,” Jenna says. “They started all this surveillance shit right after I left.”
“Jenna, that’s not entirely true,” Josh says. “West knew what you and Lennox were up to, remember? He called you back to Élan, asked you about the account.”
“We don’t know he was surveilling us, though.”
“Uh, the camera in Lennox and Micah’s apartment.”
“Those recorded to my computer.” Jenna voice sounds annoyed. “And they didn’t have sound.”
“I’m gonna take this to a guy,” Shawn says. “He can open the two encrypted folders no problem.”
“That is not leaving my possession,” Josh says.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because—” Josh searches for an easy explanation. “Well, here’s the story, which starts the Monday morning after Lennox and Walter were killed.”
Shawn closes his eyes. “Oh God.”
“Last story, I swear.” Josh begins again …
C h a p t e r 1 9
AFTER A BRISK walk in the rain through Hell’s Kitchen Park, I arrived at the existing Élan corporate headquarters at 45th and 12th. I went through the revolving door, aggravated by its lack of mobility.
“Jesus Christ,” I said under my breath as I finally pushed hard enough to break through to the lobby.
“I know, I hate those things.” It was Kimberly Nicholson, CEO James West’s assistant, who was passing through the turnstile to the elevator foyer. “But we won’t have to deal with them much longer.”
“Thank God.”
Kimberly noticed my frustration. “How are you, Josh? I was thinking for sure you’d take today off.”
I nodded, then pushed through the turnstile while trying to retract my flimsy New York five-dollar umbrella.
Kimberly took the moment of silence to greet me with a hug. “No, seriously, I want to know. How are you, man? Quite a weekend, huh? Lead story, Times online, Nightly News, ABC, NBC. Then yesterday? Front page news, Sunday New York Times. Not too shabby.”
“Right. Glamour, entertainment, publishing, murder. Now that’s a party.” The overdue click of my retracted umbrella finally came to fruition. “Hey, Kimbo, you think Mr. West could carve out some time for me this afternoon? I really need to talk to him about the grand opening.”
“Sure, no problem. He’s got a full schedule today but let me work my magic.”
Kimbo could definitely work magic. That’s one of the things I loved about him. A southern-born work acquaintance, Kimbo was a short, striking, feisty forty-four-year-old going on thirty who took to me the moment we got sloshed together after a company party two years ago. He’d revealed that he’d grown up in a small Louisiana town called Tallulah, right across the Mississippi River Bridge from my hometown of Vicksburg, Mississippi.
We’d also talked about our mutual fascination with spy movies, drunkenly quoting Mission: Impossible lines, both from the movie and the television series, adding “in your pants” to whatever we were quoting.
“This is your mission, should you choose to accept it.”
“In your pants.”
“I’m going to disavow you.”
“In your pants.”
We thought it was hilarious. Boom, friendship accomplished.
That same night, Kimbo also divulged details about his hush-hush executive assistant world, where the word assistant didn’t even begin to describe what these people did. Literally living for their bosses, organizing their personal and professional lives, knowing every single nuance of their boss’s personality, anticipating their every move, and staying two steps ahead of them, executive assistants were less like admins and more like special plenipotentiaries that were among the top paid executives at the organization. Up to that moment, I guess I’d been naïve as to what an executive assistant actually did.
After swiping our cards through security, I thanked Kimbo, and we both got on the elevator that had just arrived. I hit the button reading “Élan, Floor 30,” where my office was located. Kimberly pressed the button labeled “Executive Suites, Floor 31.” We stood there in silence. We were alone.
Kimbo broke the tension. “Horrible about Walter.”
“Yes. And poor Hillary. I can’t even imagine.” I continued looking straight ahead.
Kimbo nodded in agreement. The elevator opened and I stepped out, searching for my security card to get through the next set of doors. As the elevator began to close, I saw Kimbo turn to me, then heard him say one last thing.
“You know Walter Gordon was working with us, don’t you?”
C h a p t e r 2 0
“DEAR GOD, MAN,” Shawn says. “What was the point of all that?”
“I think it was to let you know they have a thing for each other,” Jenna says.
Josh looks at her. “We’ve talked about your mouth.”
“Can we concentrate?” Shawn slaps the table.
“The point was Kimbo told me about Walter Gordon,” Josh says.
“That’s not news,” Shawn says. “One of the first reports the night he was murdered said that Walter was an employee at Élan.”
“He was a consultant, actually, but what Kimbo was saying is that Walter Gordon was brought in to work directly with his boss, James West.” Josh’s eyes widen.
“I don’t get it,” Shawn says.
“You gotta understand our office,” Josh explains. “Not to mention the vow of silence that these executive assistants follow. Normally Kimbo would never even think of telling me that. He’d never let me in on anything James West would do. It’s almost forbidden. But this? This little quip in the elevator? It was pointed. It was like he was saying, I choose you to know this.”
“What Josh is saying is this.” Jenna leans forward. “Josh
and I had met just the day before, talking about Lennox and the murder. Remember, Josh, at that restaurant? With the cool sign that changes from AM to PM, and then back again?”
“Yes.”
“It was the day of the big thunderstorm; the day Micah was officially arrested. After Josh and I left the restaurant, we took a walk up to Thompkins Square Park, chatting about the weirdness of the company. At that time, it was only raining a little bit, sprinkling, lovely.”
“I remember that day,” Shawn says.
Jenna nods. “I was fresh off of hanging out with Tracy the day before, where we’d shared all the weird things we both knew about Élan—bugging phone conversations, following people, documenting their private lives, employees shipped overseas. Shawn, do you remember me telling you all these things during the storm? I called you shortly after.”
“Vividly,” Shawn says.
“Well, Josh and I had just talked about all the strange company behavior,” Jenna says, “then Kimbo tells him this oddly intimate thing on the elevator the very next day. We knew Kimbo knew a lot more than he was saying.”
“And now Kimbo’s missing,” Josh says.
The room goes silent.
“Tell him about the email,” Jenna says.
“Kimbo sent me an email right before he disappeared.” Josh pulls it out of the red folder, passes it to Shawn.
“Looks like a normal message.” Shawn reads it out loud.
Hi Josh, just wanted to say I may go on vacation soon. I’ll contact you when I get back. Love, Kimbo.
“Read the bible verse below his name,” Josh says.
The key is in the details. John 4:17.
“That’s not a bible verse,” Josh says. “Trust me, I know. John 4:17 says ‘So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.’”
“Sounds like a guilt trip to me,” Shawn says.
“But why the key thing?” Josh asks. “The key is in the details. What the hell does that even mean?”
“You said you both liked spy shit, so there ya go.”
“Shawn, you’re missing the point. This was the last correspondence I ever had with him. The fake bible verse means something. Something important. He’s gone, and nobody knows where he is.”
“Let me guess, shipped overseas,” Shawn says.
“That’s what we thought at first, but to this day, not even West knows where he is,” Josh says. “I only know this because I was in a meeting with him yesterday about the upcoming grand-opening event, and he asked me point-blank if I’d seen or heard from Kimbo. I could tell he was genuinely puzzled on where he’s been the past few weeks.”
“You’re throwing another big event?” Shawn asks.
“I thought I told you.” Josh looks confused. “My story earlier. The grand opening? It’s a benefit, with all sorts of celebrities and their causes, like Augustine—”
“Oh yes,” Shawn says. “It all just came screaming back to me.”
“Not just celebrities, politicians too. West had me invite the former vice president Roger Maddox.”
“Oh, I love that man,” Jenna says.
“Right? I miss him.” Josh turns to her. “He accepted.”
“No.”
“Yes. Now I may have to deal with Secret Service in addition to everything else.”
“Secret Service? For a former vice president? I don’t think that’s true.”
“Well, if I do, I’m going to go absolutely—”
Shawn snaps his finger. “You were in West’s office—”
“Sorry, yes, I was in West’s office and noticed he had yet another temp up there answering his calls. I asked him where Kimbo was, and I honestly believe he had no idea. Or he’s a good liar. Like really good.”
“He is,” Jenna says. “I’m convinced he killed all three of them. Lennox, Walter, and Kimbo.”
“We don’t know that.” Josh places his hands on his red folder. “Although the more we find out, the more I could be convinced too.”
Shawn looks at his watch, stands up. “Okay, that’s enough for today.”
“Wait, what does that mean?” Jenna says, halfway standing.
“You believe us, don’t you?” Josh asks.
“I believe there’s a lot of paranoia.” Shawn takes the SSD out of his laptop, hands it to Josh, then puts his laptop in his bag. “And rightfully so. You guys have both been involved in a pretty fucked up company. Jenna, you all but admitted to me a few weeks ago about you and Lennox siphoning money into an offshore account on behalf of West. And I see evidence on this SSD that they are illegally surveilling people. That’s something. But it’s not nearly enough to help you, Jenna, which is why I came here.”
“The SSD.” Jenna points to it. “We never told you where I found it. It all of a sudden showed up on my doorstep about a month before I was arrested, no return address, no nothing. Somebody’s out there. An ally. Maybe Kimbo. Maybe Micah. Somebody.”
“When you find more, let me know,” Shawn says.
“You said you have a guy,” Josh says. “Somebody that could help open those other folders on the drive?”
“Yeah, I can text Jenna the number.”
“They took my phone,” Jenna says.
“Oh, that’s right.” Shawn almost giggles. “Here’s my phone, Josh; punch in your number. If you have anything else, give me a buzz.”
Josh takes Shawn’s cell, enters his information. “I’ll call or text. We have more, I swear.”
“Call me.” Shawn takes his bag and leaves. The door slams on the way out.
“See?” Jenna says, arms refolded.
“Why didn’t we tell him about all the stuff in your guest bedroom closet? The disappearing and reappearing laptop? The printouts? The account informa—”
“I don’t wanna talk about that closet.”
“So the fact that the laptop wasn’t there the night we went through your old work files—then all of a sudden when there’s an explosion at your apartment weeks later, and the laptop magically reappears, full of all this evidence against you—this isn’t something you want to talk to Shawn about?”
“We both know Ghost was trying to frame me,” Jenna says. “The detective says there’s evidence on the laptop that Ghost set up the camera. But I’m screwed because the detective also says he knows I’m the one who hired Ghost. Those emails are also on the laptop.”
“Which Ghost took from your apartment, then replaced it. That’s the only explanation.”
“I guess.” Jenna leans back.
“Then all we have to do is link Ghost to James West, right?” Josh asks. “West is probably the one who emailed back and forth with Ghost, using an email account that looked like it belonged to you.”
“It’s all so convoluted, Josh. It’s confusing him. We’re confusing him.”
“Let me simplify. West hired Ghost to kill Lennox, which he did. Ghost used that laptop to frame you for the murder. That laptop is what got you here, Jenna. You’re in jail right now because of it.”
“The laptop, the bloody clothes, the murder weapon. It all got me here, Josh.” Jenna’s voice shifts from frustration to mockery. “But, ‘oh, the laptop wasn’t there, and then it was.’ Do you realize how crazy that sounds? No one is going to believe us.”
Detective Penance enters. “Mr. Harrison, time is up.”
“Well, I don’t accept that,” Josh says to Jenna. He shoves the SSD in his pocket and places his red folder under his arm. “I already lost Lennox and Kimbo. I’m be damned if I’m gonna lose you too.”
C h a p t e r 2 1
“WELL, I’LL BE damned.” Hillary Gordon opens the door of her Chelsea brownstone and invites Josh inside.
“Sorry, been visiting with Jenna; ran a little long.” Josh brings in four bags of groceries, heads to the kitchen. “Didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
Walter and Hillary’s three-story home is a throwback to old New York City. A true brownstone, made of brick with a brownstone
façade, the Gordon home opens directly into a rounded foyer with a mosaic marble floor. In the middle of the foyer rests a wooden drum table, topped with a dusty faux-flower arrangement in a slender vase. A staircase leading to the second and third stories ascends to his right, next to a study closed off by French doors. To his left, through massive oak pocket doors, is the renovated living room, with an upholstered Chippendale sofa, two leather club chairs and a rocking chair in the far-right corner next to a faux window.
Josh enters the chef’s kitchen, opens the refrigerator built into the antiqued shaker cabinetry, and begins to put Hillary’s groceries away.
“They didn’t have any of the coconut swirl this time, so I got two butter pecans. I’ll put them in the freezer.”
“Don’t worry about the rest of it, sweet boy. I’ll put it away.”
“I’ll just help with the refrigerated stuff, how’s that?”
“Thank you.” Hillary walks back to her chair in the living room, grabs a knotted cashmere blanket, and pulls it over her. “Every two weeks like clockwork. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Well, I’m not sure how much longer I can do it. We’re getting really busy at work, with the grand opening and all.”
“That’s okay. I understand. You’re young. You have responsibilities.”
“Have you been walking around the block like we talked about?”
“What’s that, dear?”
Josh speaks a little louder. “Have you been walking around the block like we talked about?”
“Some,” she answers.
“Some? The doctor said it would be good for you.”
Josh meanders his way to the living room, sits down with a sigh.
“You look tired, dear,” she says.
“Ugh.” He slaps both sides of his face. “Just met with a lawyer. It was long. Very long.”
“I thought you said you were with Jenna?”
“Jenna and her lawyer. She was arrested a couple of days ago for Lennox’s murder. We were meeting with a potential defense lawyer for her.” Hillary’s Turkish Angora cat begins to figure eight between Josh’s legs. He strokes her fur. “Hi, Adele.”
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