“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
