Chapter 43
“I wouldn’t have pegged Shirley for a murderer,” Alex remarks.
“She did hire someone to follow Siriwathi, so she’s clearly involved somehow,” Amaya says, probably offended by Alex’s insinuation that a young woman couldn’t hire a contract killer.
“Maybe she was in on stealing money with James, and the whole ‘breakup’ was a ruse,” Alex offers. This explanation feels flimsy, but the proof seems to be in the pudding, or in this case, the cell phone.
“Then what about Charlie?” I ask. “Maybe he didn’t send those threatening texts after all. I was being followed by Melissa, the amateur PI, so she knew exactly where I was. Maybe she was reporting back to Shirley, who then sent Amaya the messages.”
Charlie has been the most obvious suspect this entire time.
Brash, rude, openly wanting James dead, and having a motive to kill him.
Statistically, men are behind most murders.
A woman-run world would likely be a utopia.
But Charlie certainly didn’t have the kind of money to hire anyone.
And wanting someone dead in a fit of anger doesn’t necessarily mean you’d kill them yourself or come up with a calculated plan to have them killed.
There would probably be a lot of dead people if that were the case.
“If there’s another innocent man in jail,” I say, “we have to right this immediately.” I wouldn’t wish my experience on anyone. My protestations that I hadn’t done anything were ignored. I won’t let that happen to Charlie if, in fact, he is innocent.
“There’s one way to find out for sure,” Amaya says. “We could see Charlie in jail.”
—
While I wouldn’t normally choose to go to Rikers Island for a day out, as I sit on the city bus, I observe all the people who don’t have the luxury of that choice.
The bus is filled with mostly women, many of them accompanied by young children, likely visiting loved ones.
Alex offered to drive us to Rikers Island, but visitors can’t do that.
We all have to take the bus, which is an inconvenience, almost a punishment for wanting to visit an incarcerated person.
Even taxis aren’t allowed on the island, ensuring that the journey is made as arduous as possible.
When we finally arrive, we are immediately told to line up against the wall as drug-sniffing dogs greet all the new visitors.
We throw our belongings, including our cell phones, into a small, dirty locker.
From there we are escorted to a large white school bus that drives us to one of the several housing units on Rikers.
After a short five-minute drive, we are at our intended destination, and once inside, Amaya is given paperwork by the sour-faced guard, all to be completed by hand.
“Damn, this place needs to be digitized,” Alex announces once we all sit down, as if that is the biggest problem here.
About an hour later, we are escorted to a small booth, where we are separated by a plastic barrier, and Charlie is brought in by a guard.
“It’s you!” Charlie hisses as he sits down. He sounds angry, which I can’t fault. We are part of the reason he was arrested.
“Hi, Charlie,” Amaya says, her voice softening in that familiar way. “We just have a few questions—”
“I didn’t do this,” Charlie says, fists rattling the table in front of him. He’s so tall he makes the table in front of him small by comparison. I can see how his presence and personality could mislead someone to think him dangerous. I think about how I let it affect my own perceptions.
“Do you know why you would be connected to this?”
“I have no clue,” Charlie responds, sounding genuinely confused.
I believe him, realizing that this is probably how I sounded at the beginning.
No clue what happened, and only able to assert my innocence.
I hear all the people in my head who tell me I shouldn’t believe Charlie.
Of course he’ll deny it. They always do.
“I was angry at James, but I would never kill him. He was my best friend,” Charlie says as he buries his face in his hands and sobs, his big body heaving violently and the tough-guy facade finally fading. Rikers Island jail can break even the toughest people.
“Do you know anything about the Rolex watch?” I ask. It is the only so-called connection we have between Harvey and Charlie.
Charlie looks at me quizzically.
“I do,” he replies. His voice has a lilt to it that makes it sound almost like he is asking a question.
So I am wrong. He is involved.
“And what is that?” I ask.
“Rolex is not a very environmentally friendly company! They use about eighteen metric tons of—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but we’re not talking generally, we’re talking about one specific watch,” Amaya responds.
Charlie’s face is clouded with confusion. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. I don’t know how to prove my innocence, but I didn’t do it.”
—
Finally off Rikers Island, I still can only think of Charlie. Another possibly innocent person behind bars. My thoughts are cut off by a news alert blaring on our phones. It’s a Google alert—we all set alerts for people involved in this case.
Shirley Lee, CEO of Plastics Company, Dead at 37
I click on the article, heart pounding.
Lee was found dead in her residence of an apparent suicide.
“Suicide?” I scan my memories of Shirley’s face to see if there was some indication of her distress. She seemed to have a zest for life, but I realize that appearances can be deceiving. I’m all too familiar with people burying their feelings.
“Maybe she was involved and the guilt drove her to end her own life,” Alex remarks, head down.
“We should talk to Brett. He was her boyfriend. Maybe he’ll have some answers.” I don’t want to intrude on him again, in another moment after he has lost someone, but Shirley’s death has to be connected to this. No coincidences. I have to find the truth.
—
We arrive at New Frontier’s reception desk around 7 p.m. I’m surprised Brett is still around and even more surprised when he agrees to speak with us, and I’m ready to go in guns blazing.
Upon seeing his face, I have second thoughts.
He seems to have shrunk in just the few days since we saw him last. A dead best friend and now a dead girlfriend.
It’s horrible. His shoulders are slouched, and his once perfectly tailored suit now seems to dwarf him like he’s a coat hanger.
There are dark circles under his eyes, and his face seems plastered in a permanent grimace.
He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, and I can’t help but feel ashamed that my presence will add to his unhappiness.
I’m surprised that Brett is at work and didn’t go home after hearing the news about Shirley.
After my brother died, I let my taxi engine grow cold until we needed a paycheck to put food on the table.
“Is there something else I can help you with?” Brett says stiffly, eyeing me with unease.
“We’re sorry to bother you again; we’d like to talk to you about something.” Amaya glances over at one of the women who passes us. “Perhaps we could meet somewhere privately?”
“I’m having a hard day. Now is not a good time,” Brett responds.
“We’re so sorry for your loss…about Shirley.” I realize I need to clarify, and my guilt for all this man has suffered comes back again.
Brett’s eyes narrow. “How do you know about her?”
“She told us that you two were dating.”
“We were. I’m devastated…I didn’t see it coming,” Brett says, now crying.
“Did you know about James, what he had been doing? Stealing money from the company?” Amaya asks gently.
Brett’s face turns pale, something I’ve only seen on the Maury show when the dude was, in fact, the father. I watch as the blood drains from his face and his eyes bulge out of his head as if he were slapped. People may try to hide their emotions, but his physical reaction shows his hand.
“Let’s speak in my office.” Brett ushers us into his corner office with a beautiful view of the Brooklyn Bridge and skyscrapers shining in the setting sun.
He gestures for us to take a seat, and Amaya and I find ourselves in two chairs across from his desk, relegating Alex to the couch by the door.
I move an orange-and-black backpack emblazoned with a New Frontier logo off the chair, eager to finally have some answers.
“How did you know about James?” Brett asks. His question confirms what the USB said all along. James was stealing money. Before we can answer, Brett continues. “I didn’t know about it until the suicide letter.”
“Suicide letter?”
“Shirley and James were embezzling money. Taking it from companies with no plans to provide full services to our paying customers. I suppose I should have known what was happening in my own company, but I was busy with taking us public. With marketing. With all the flashy things when I should have been making sure everything was going to plan internally.”
I swallow. It’s hard to believe he couldn’t have known. Maybe he was myopically focused on the other things. He is a flashy person, compared to the down-to-earth and environment-loving James. I wonder why Shirley was taking money? Why would she risk her company?
Brett continues unprompted. “We don’t know how she killed herself or James in that locked taxi.
She didn’t elaborate in the letter. But my girlfriend killed my best friend.
I’m feeling pretty messed up right now.” Brett begins to cry again as Amaya fishes in her purse for what I imagine will be tissues.
Shirley did what? I think back to how sad she looked with James gone—there was love clearly still there.
She couldn’t have killed him even if they were no longer together.
“I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound right.
” I’m not an investigator, but I know when an explanation does not seem plausible.
In true crime, a conclusion must be supported by evidence, or you end up with an innocent person behind bars.
“Unwell people do terrible things,” Brett responds, eyes downcast.
“With all due respect…” I begin. I know people say that when they are about to convey the opposite sentiment. “Why would Shirley date you if she and James were the ones embezzling money?”
“Probably to throw me off the scent or something. Shirley could be a distraction.”
I’m slightly offended by Shirley being a mere distraction. She was smart enough to be the brains of the operation. I’m unsatisfied with this answer, but I don’t think probing further on this line of questioning will get me anywhere.
“Why would James be stealing money? Do you think it was his plan all along?”
“How would I know?” Brett responds, his face turning into a scowl. I’m surprised this man has so little insight into his supposed best friend.
“I still feel like something is off, possibly…”
“You won’t let this go, will you? You’re free.” Brett’s demeanor changes suddenly, and he seems angry. His fists clench, and the vein in his forehead bulges.
“Brett, don’t…” Alex says.
“Well, I guess this won’t end as nicely as I hoped.”
“What do you mean by that?” Amaya asks as we both eye the door.
Then I look at the backpack, the initials JWT staring back at me. James Wilkerson-Taylor. This is James’s backpack. The backpack that was in my taxi the night of James’s murder. The backpack that was taken by the murderer.
I glance at Amaya, and we make a run for the door.