“Yes, Allen, I’ve read it, and thank you. Again.”
Allen Pinchot sits back and relaxes. He has been Shawn’s rock-solid sideman for over five years now, uncovering things that few private investigators would even think of. He is a tall and slender man with a bit of a belly, forty-two years old with thinning dark hair that still manages to sport a wave.
He has been the unsung hero in Shawn’s meteoric rise in the New York City legal landscape. Now he finds himself struggling, trying to save the day yet again.
“I know it’s not much, but there are some new things of note, like the WiFi at Micah and Lennox’s condo,” Allen begins. “I took my laptop over there to see what networks show up, you know, see if we can find a lead to what server or hard drive may have those camera recordings. There are 72 networks that pop up, and all have passwords. All of them. I started trying to crack a few but ran out of time. If you wanna send someone out there to do the rest, that might save you some money. If not, I’d like to continue.”
“Money is not the issue. However, the timeline is. Look at this,” Shawn says, pointing to Allen’s report. “This is the first time I’ve seen Micah’s follow-up timeline next to the one he initially gave to the police. This one is the latest version of what Micah told police, which is sworn. The other one, this one right here, is the timeline he told the police right after the murder. He still has major gaps. Right before the event, right after.”
“Yeah, I wanted to make it clear that we have some work to do. The one he told the police right after the murder was a little more in our favor.”
“In our favor? Interesting. Sounds like you might not be sure of his innocence?” Shawn is half-joking, half-serious.
“Oh, I’m absolutely sure Micah is not the one who killed his husband. I think this Élan company surveilled them both for God knows how long, then found out Lennox knew too much about a financial cover up and hired someone with ties to Lennox, probably the Ghost guy, to go kill him that night. Then the poor bastard Micah got caught up in all of this in some random night of shitty luck.”
“Wrong time, wrong place.”
“Yep.”
“Any word on the missing hard drive from the police evidence room?”
“Still nothing.”
“And any follow-up to what Jenna said about the sinister corporate culture at Élan? People disappearing, shipped off overseas?”
“There are a few people who’ve taken jobs in other countries, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. Social media feeds of these former employees show everyone happy and thriving. I gotta say though, people who work at Élan are creepy. Tight-lipped. Very ‘Theranos,’ if you get my drift. Anyway, give everything a once-over. I gotta head home to the wife. She’s been baking some sort of paella all day.”
Shawn looks up from his papers and smiles.
“I know, I know. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Allen,” Shawn says. “Thanks again. Be safe out there.”
C h a p t e r 2 7
On the lower east side, between the footings of the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges, lies a vast expanse of cemented waterfront. Full of bustling life during the day, the boardwalk is the loud foreground to Brooklyn’s DUMBO skyline and its silent reflection on the East River. In the pitch of night, the shadows of the bridges, overpasses and surrounding mid-rises shield much of the area from streetlights, enabling patches of darkness to begin their nightly commerce.
Squeaks and thuds give way to a constant hum as a wheelchair glides from cobblestone to concrete. Spotted hands push the wheels from light into shadow, situating the chair at a perfect 90-degree angle to the glorious nightscape glistening in the water.
He waits.
Up the hill, a young man arises from the F train staircase at Madison and Rutgers. He clutches the right pocket of his tattered skinny-jeans and shakes his head, as if trying to rid himself of a persistent gnat.
“You got this, pussy,” he whispers to himself out loud, the sound almost echoing as the wind spits his words back at him. He scrunches his arms to bring his black overcoat closer to his body to shield himself from the cold, both real and imagined.
He turns right and walks down toward the river, remembering the emailed instructions.
Wheelchair near the waterfront. Left. Say nothing.
He walks forward, leaning into his uncertainty. His head begins to rise, and his confidence begins to build. To his left, he sees the figure in the wheelchair and approaches. He looks around, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cash.
“Not sure what this will get me.”
“Shhh,” says the figure, taking the boy’s money and pulling out a bag of heroin from his dusky tweed jacket.
The young man glances at the bag, sees a familiar emblem, and speaks again.
“Whoa, you’re the Ghost guy?” he asks, looking at the heroin. “Aw man, some cops were asking about that logo at my NA meeting the other night,” he says, reaching for his fix. “I’ve been dying to try this stuff.”
Without hesitation, Ghost takes the package and places it back in his coat. He reaches into the pocket on the other side of his jacket and pulls out a handkerchief. He unveils a bigger bag of heroin, roughly twice the size as the other.
“For my biggest fan.” Ghost offers the entire contents of his freckled hands in a passive, upward gesture.
“No way, really? Thank you,” says the young man. No ghost sticker, but he doesn’t want to complain. With cupped hands, he envelopes the handkerchief and its contents as if it were precious frankincense, pushes it deep into his pants pocket, and skip-sprints back to the subway.
Ghost closes his eyes and sighs. He turns the wheelchair and
