Chapter 6 - Back in New York
Cole landed at Newark Airport late Christmas night on a middle-seat commercial ticket he had to purchase using his driver’s license and an old emergency debit card with eighty dollars left on it.
The humidity of New York’s winter slush clung to his coat as he took a battered yellow cab straight to Park Avenue.
He didn't care about the restraining order. He didn't care about the headlines. In Cole’s mind, everything could be fixed if he could just get Lauren in a room, look her in the eye, and use the voice he had perfected over five years—the calm, authoritative, guilt-tripping tone that had always reduced her to tears.
*She loves me,* he told himself as the taxi sped through the city. *She’s emotional. She’s overreacting because she’s lonely. I’ll apologize, tell her Sierra meant nothing, hold the babies, and she’ll fold. She always folds.*
The cab pulled up in front of the limestone tower on 74th and Park.
Cole practically kicked the cab door open and stormed toward the revolving doors. But before he could take two steps into the marble lobby, two towering private security guards stepped out from the shadows, flanking the entrance.
"Mr. Whitmore," the head doorman, Hector, said in a quiet, flat voice. Hector had worked in the building for fifteen years; Cole had routinely ignored him or tossed him his keys like a servant. "You are barred from entering the premises."
"Hector, don't be stupid," Cole sneered, stepping forward. "I own Penthouse A. Move out of my way before I have you fired."
Hector didn't flinch. He simply reached into his breast pocket and unfolded a laminated document bearing the blue stamp of the Manhattan District Attorney.
"Penthouse A belongs exclusively to the Bennett Estate Trust, sir. Mrs. Lauren Bennett Whitmore rescinded your residential authorization at 6:00 a.m. today. Your personal effects—clothing and toiletries—have been packed into four cardboard boxes and sent to a storage unit in Queens."
"What?" Cole’s voice cracked. "My watches! My art collection! The Basquiat in the dining room!"
"All acquired using trust distributions," a calm voice came from behind the guards.
Arthur Harris walked through the lobby doors, flanked by two uniformed NYPD officers. He stopped five feet from Cole, looking down at him with the cold scrutiny of an exterminator assessing a roach.
"Cole Whitmore," Arthur said. "You are officially served with an emergency order of protection and an eviction decree. If you take one step onto this sidewalk again, Officer Miller here will escort you directly to Rikers Island. Do we understand each other?"
Cole looked at the police officers. Their hands rested near their utility belts.
May you like
"Where is she, Arthur?" Cole pleaded, his arrogance finally cracking into frantic desperation. "Just let me talk to my wife! Let me see my son and daughter! It’s Christmas!"
"You forgot about Christmas at 11:47 last night," Arthur said coldly. "Now turn around and walk away. While you still have your freedom."
