“Had a son.”
“Exactly. She got pregnant, moved back to the States. They kept in touch. After Bastien was eventually discharged for the French equivalent of Conduct Unbecoming, he flew to the States to be with her.”
“And we know she died during childbirth.”
“Yes. This poor man. Can you imagine?”
“This is going to be a great story, Trace.”
“Thank you, but I’m not done. I’m sending you a photo.” She finds the saved photo on her new phone, sends it to Josh. “Okay, before you open it, know that part of paranoid schizophrenia is hallucinations driven from PTSD.”
“Just got it,” he says. “This is a gravestone.”
“Zoom in.”
“Dennison R. Morrell. Born January 7, 2009.” Josh pauses. “Wait. Died August 15, 2014?”
“I know. Bastien’s son has been dead for almost five years. Five years!”
“Seriously?”
“That photo Lilith McGuire saw in Bastien Morrell’s apartment was from his son’s first week as a first-grader. Probably the last photo ever taken of him. I checked with the elementary school, and Dennison Morrell stopped going to school about a week after school pictures that year. They gave me a copy of his death certificate.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“State Department of Health confirms it. According to documents, Dennison Morrell died of pneumonia at age five. He’s buried in Marble Cemetery, in the East Village.”
“Wait. How? Lennox knew Bastien, mentioned his son in that letter. Lilith even said Ghost had just taken his son to JFK. She saw a ‘Homeschooling for Dummies’ book in the living room, for God’s sake.”
“I checked JFK flight records. Nobody by that name. Only two minors flew unaccompanied that day, a seven-year-old girl and a twelve-year-old boy.”
Josh says nothing.
“Don’t you get it?” Tracy asks. “Lennox never saw Ghost’s son because he doesn’t exist. Bastien Morrel was mentally ill. He saw things, made up people, lived the rest of his life caring for his dead son because he couldn’t care for him when he was alive.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever uncovered.”
They both stop talking, letting it sink in.
Josh breaks the silence a little too soon. “Trace, please don’t ask West about any of this.”
Tracy gets up and starts pacing. “Can you just please pause for a second? Just one fucking second and help me remember this man as a human being?”
“Oh, I am. You gotta also remember that he helped kill Lennox, crucified Lilith to the back of his door, and he may have even killed Lennox’s sponsee, that poor little drug-addict dude.”
“Oh, the poor little drug addict? Really? What I’m asking is for you to pay attention to what I’m saying.” Tracy stammers as she emphasizes each word. “Bastien Morrell, a black man, a human being, served in one of the most physically and mentally grueling armed services on the planet, in Secret Ops no less. He couldn’t handle the pressure, snapped because of PTSD, got kicked out, found someone he loved, moved to the States to marry her, witnessed his son’s birth and his wife’s death at the same time, then raised their son alone with no money, only to watch him die of pneumonia.”
She stops pacing and calms herself.
Josh says nothing.
Tracy sits down at her computer, brings up the photo that Haylee took of Ghost at the car wash. “No wonder this poor man was involved in all of this. He wanted to protect the only thing he thought he had left.”
C h a p t e r 3 8
“WE HAVE TO get this right. Are you ready for this?” James West tucks his jacket underneath his ass to tension out the wrinkles above his shoulders.
“I’m ready.” Tracy glances at the teleprompter to make sure. Tracy can hear her co-anchor Leslie introducing the story through her earphone.
“I look all right?”
“You look fine, Mr. West.”
“You as well. Your hair looks really nice today. I love the braids.”
Tracy’s eyelids droop.
The floor manager counts them down. “We’re live in five, four, three.”
Tracy looks directly at the camera. “Thank you, Leslie.”
“SHE’S STARTING, SHE’S starting.” Josh yells from Shawn’s living room.
Shawn returns from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and a charcuterie plate, courtesy of his wife, Haylee, who’s just retired to the bedroom upstairs.
Shawn stares at Tracy on the giant television screen. “Wow, she looks fierce.”
“Don’t ever tell her that.” Josh scoots over, grabs a salami slice. “West looks nervous.”
“Shh.”
“Thank you, Leslie. Élan has been the subject of scrutiny since August of 2018, when two people who worked for different parts of the organization were murdered in the same night. Further speculation of company involvement in the murders occurred when, in an effort to exonerate his client Micah Breuer during trial, defense attorney Shawn Connelly suggested Élan’s direct involvement in the death of its CFO Lennox Holcomb. This news, coupled with the unsolved murder of Élan consultant Walter Gordon, sent its stock into a tailspin. Now, with the recent homicide of Billy Donovan, found hanging in the 79th Street River Basin with Lennox Holcomb’s hard drive around his neck, the same hard drive that suddenly went missing from NYPD evidence during Breuer’s trial, new questions have arisen regarding Élan International, sending stock plummeting once again.
“In full disclosure,” she continues, “Hard Press and Press magazine are owned by Élan International. In order to clear the air surrounding Élan, a company he built from the ground up, CEO James West has graciously given me carte blanche to ask any and all questions. And y’all know I don’t pull punches, so let’s begin. Mr. West, do you have anything you’d like to add before we get started?”
“Transparency. It’s the backbone of our company.”
“Bullshit,” Shawn says, chomps on a cracker.
“It has been since our inception.” West fidgets in his chair. “Back in the early 2000s, our original charter stated any and all transactions, both interpersonally and professionally, shall be conducted with full and absolute disclosure.
