Micah closes his eyes.
“Look. I don’t want to alarm you.” Shawn begins to explain, knowing he has little time before Micah is taken back to the Tombs. “But in case you didn’t notice, the standing ADA in there didn’t say a word, which is extremely odd, especially when discussing bail. And even then, bail was denied. I thought we had a shot, but I can see Elaine’s influence is a little deeper than we thought.”
Micah remains steadfast in his silence.
“Whether you want to talk about it or not, Elaine is holding an open memorial service,” Shawn continues, “and she’s probably going to try and block your request with the detention complex. However, since we are applying for leave on compassionate grounds, I’m hopeful they will find that compassion and let you attend.”
Micah is escorted away, staring straight ahead as he’s led down the hallway.
C h a p t e r 2 2
Shawn looks out the window of his Midtown high-rise office, pondering his next move. Having removed the coat and tie he had worn at arraignment, he now leans back in his large black leather chair with a pen in his mouth, arms and hands behind his head. His sleeves are rolled up just past the elbow, revealing an antique Rolex with the time reading 8:28pm. A photo of his wife rests on a shelf in the library behind him, a half-empty beer bottle in front of him, and his unopened gym bag next to his feet. A file box full of documents is strewn across his desk.
His private investigator sits across from him, flipping through a large mound of paper, held together by a struggling black clasp.
“In addition to the files the prosecution and police provided, which I pored over at length to develop points of exploration,” the P.I. says, “I spent over a day and a half going through all the files printed off of Lennox’s work computer, and there is absolutely nothing here that suggests foul play or any sort of cover-up,” he says.
Shawn says nothing.
“As far as we know, the weird ghost-looking emblem is part of a small heroin operation on the Lower East Side. Promising leads from friends of theirs who have used this guy, but apparently this dealer is a pro at covering his tracks. Funny that someone who brands his heroin wants to keep a low profile, huh?”
Still nothing.
“The ex-boyfriend Josh Harrison has a solid alibi, but he’s still on my radar. The transcript from his police interrogation is pretty alarming, don’t you think?” Again, he receives no response. His questions seem rhetorical at this point. “I mean, your client seems to have quite the temper, based on this confrontation about the affair. Not to worry though, there’s plenty of dirt on this Josh guy. Many skeletons in his closet, mostly from when he was in one. I’ve got a man following him to see if he spends any time with shady characters.”
Shawn is listening to every word. This silent contemplation is how he works when he feels overwhelmed. He is methodical, meticulous, and dangerous in his planning, according to those who have pitted themselves against him.
Shawn’s detective is used to this, even amused by it.
“And here’s a photo of the video camera that may have recorded the entire episode. You’ll notice it’s very small and not very advanced, which means it may not leave a trace we can pursue. However, we have contacted the manufacturer to determine all direct purchases in the last six months, and of course information on who distributes them at large. I have that info right here. It’s a lot.”
He dumps the folder on Shawn’s desk with a loud thud that makes Shawn jump.
“Shawn, the bottom line is that there are many leads in different directions, so I feel confident we have a good shot at directing our defense in at least one of them, if not two or three.”
“It was this Ghost guy. I can feel it,” Shawn says. He picks up his land line.
“But the Ghost letter you told me was in Lennox’s files isn’t there. Not with the police either. We have no way to find the guy at the moment, and we have nothing substantial connecting this man to the murder.”
Shawn puts his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and whispers, “Except the warning of a dead guy.”
Shawn uncovers the mouthpiece and says to his assistant, “Sandra, set up a press conference on the Breuer case. Yes, as soon as possible. Yes. Great, thank you.”
He returns the phone to its cradle and turns to the detective.
“Let’s see if this Ghost appears out of thin air.”
C h a p t e r 2 3
Shawn’s cab parks in the cobblestone parking lot of the Manhattan Detention Complex, known to most New Yorkers as the Tombs, a foreboding nickname given to one of the previous buildings that stood in its place back in the 1800s. Being an architectural history buff, Shawn is always disappointed as he approaches the building, a tall rectangular reddish-brown monstrosity.
Looks more like self-storage, hoarding away people’s big-ass furniture that won’t fit into their tiny apartments, he thinks, rather than the Roman masterpiece that actually used to look like a tomb.
Careful not to make eye contact or talk with the cab driver this time around, he swipes his credit card and gets out. The wind is both warm and cool on his face in an autumnal stasis. He walks up one of two sets of corner stairs leading up to the brownish-gray stone courtyard and enters through a grid-like glass-and-metal entrance, noting the decades of grime accumulated on the glass panes.
He signs in, hands over his bag to an awaiting officer, places his keys and cell phone in one of the small gray metal lockers to his left, and walks through the airport-like security structure. Everyone he approaches is silent, carrying out their jobs like Stepford wives in some sort of mechanical rote.
A
