Matter of Trust (20 page)

Chris did not argue, simply hung his head in shame.

‘How many clandestine meetings have there been, Chris?' asked David, not wanting to rub salt into Chris's wounds but needing desperately for his friend to see just how serious his situation was. ‘How many waiters and housekeepers and concierges and fellow guests do you think recognised you and your mistress as you slipped from hotel to hotel, from lobby to room?'

But still Chris said nothing.

‘I know you loved her. I
know
. But can't you see that this is playing right into the FAP's hands? After all these years, Marilyn just happens to die on the very night of the very day you finally break it off with her.'

‘I did love her,' Chris lifted his head, ‘but, DC, my mother was right.
If I was going to succeed – to go
on
succeeding . . . I mean, Marilyn, she wasn't part of our plan.'

‘
Our
plan? You dropped the love of your life because your mother told you to?'

‘Yes . . . I mean,
no
, of
course
not. It was my decision. In fact, when Mother first suggested it, I told her to go jump. But when it came down to it, it wasn't a career decision. I know that sounds trite, but in the end, I did it for Rebecca and the kids.' Chris did not continue, perhaps sensing David had every right to distrust him, even if what he was saying was grounded in truth.

‘So, where did you go after you left the hotel?' asked David, deciding at this stage it was best to keep Chris on track.

‘To the office to return some emails for an hour or two, and then home, where I stayed, for the rest of the night. Rebecca left about seven to take the girls to a movie and Connor was holed up in his room with an economics assignment. So I went to my study and shut and locked the door and drank a whole bottle of Black Label Johnnie Walker in front of a muted TV.'

‘You were in the study all night?'

‘Yes.'

‘You got drunk?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you locked the door?'

‘Yes. It was second nature. I often locked the door when I had to make important calls. The girls had a habit of bursting in when I was in the middle of critical conversations so it . . . became part of my routine.'

David took a breath. ‘You didn't go up to bed?'

‘At some stage I fell asleep on the study sofa. I woke there at about eight the next morning when the sun came through the windows. I was hung-over, I felt foolish. But in all honesty I sensed, deep inside, that I'd done the right thing – for my family, that is.'

David nodded, buoyed by his friend's honesty but shattered by the stark reality that Chris had no alibi to speak of. ‘Let's backtrack a little,' he said, knowing there was no need to point out to an ex-prosecutor that a lack of alibi was a massive setback for the defence. ‘The night before, did Rebecca take her own car to the movies?'

‘No, she took my Mercedes. We were having our drive re-paved and I'd moved the BMW to the end of the road earlier in the day. The Mercedes was parked right out front, it was raining a little and Connor was helping her with a large bag of clothes she wanted to drop at the Good Will on the way. It was just easier for her to take my car.'

‘And did she check on you when she got home?'

‘No, I heard her come in, but she went straight to bed.'

‘Was that unusual – for her not to say good night, I mean?'

‘No.'

David nodded. ‘What about Connor? Do you think he might have come down to see you?'

‘He's a teenager, David. He only comes out of his room to piss or to eat. And even if he did try to enter the study after I'd passed out, he couldn't because I'd—'

‘Locked the door,' finished David.

A defeated Chris nodded.

‘What about any other visitors to the house that night? Does Connor have a girlfriend for example?'

‘No. He spends most of his time with his two friends from Saint Stephen's, but I'm pretty sure they weren't at our place on the night in question.'

‘They were the boys I saw at the house?' said David, remembering how protective the dark-haired boy seemed to be toward Connor and his family.

‘Yes, they're tight – which I encourage. Connor lives a life of privilege and I think Jack and Will keep him grounded, remind him how the other half live. In a way, they are to Connor what you and Mike were to me when . . .'

‘I'm not ashamed of my middle-class upbringing, Chris,' said David, needing to make the point.

‘I would have thought you'd be proud of it,' replied Chris.

David nodded. ‘So there's no-one else who could account for your whereabouts late Saturday night or early Sunday morning – you didn't make any calls or send any emails?'

‘No.'

David felt a knot of frustration beginning to form in his gut.

‘So in theory, Marshall could claim you left the house in your wife's car, went to Marilyn's apartment, fought with her, knocked her out, panicked and dumped her body in the Passaic undetected.'

‘Yes,' said Chris.

The knot tightened.

‘How do you think Marilyn's shoe got into Rebecca's car?' There it was – the sharpest nail in this evidentiary coffin.

‘I don't know,' said Chris. ‘The only explanation I can offer is that someone killed her and wanted to frame me. But once again, I have to be honest with you, I have no real enemies. Sure, I have political rivals but no-one who'd do something like this. People like me, David – I'm basically a nice guy. I cheat on my wife and lie to my children but I'm basically a . . .' Chris's voice faltered.

David shook his head ever so slightly before lifting his chin to meet his friend's eye. ‘We'll find a way to beat this,' he said.

‘I'm not sure, DC,' his friend answered. ‘We're not seventeen any more.'

‘T
hat man is an ass,' said Detective Harry McNally, hanging up the phone from Elliott Marshall and leaning back in his chair to lift his feet up onto his overcrowded desk.

‘The man's too small to be an ass,' said Carla Torres, who after an early morning discussion with her lieutenant had now been given official permission to work with her old partner on the high-profile Marilyn Maloney case. ‘He's more like a Shetland pony or that horse from St Louis who made the
Guinness Book of Records
for never growing past the seventeen-inch mark.'

‘There's a horse in St Louis that's only seventeen inches tall?'

Carla nodded. ‘Her name is Thumbelina.'

‘I'd like to give Marshall the Thumbelina.'

Torres smiled. ‘Now, now partner,' she said. ‘We're meant to be on the same team, remember?'

McNally shook his head. ‘Not if Marshall has anything to do with it.' McNally went on to explain that Marshall had just told him that he had already briefed his homicide squad on the particulars of the case.

‘You think he's gonna freeze us out?' asked Carla.

‘I think he considers me a geriatric rookie and he'll do everything he can to stop me from stuffing up his case. He has a little more respect for you, though – considering your extensive experience in the NYPD.'

‘I never worked for the NYPD,' said a now puzzled Carla.

‘Sure, but you grew up in Brooklyn and if the FAP misconstrued my reference to your origins, then . . .'

‘Jesus, McNally, Marshall thinks I'm your superior?'

McNally shrugged as Carla grinned.

‘Well, I suppose what he doesn't know won't hurt him,' she said.

‘My feelings exactly.'

Torres lifted her feet onto McNally's desk, using the heel of her boot to clear a stack of manila case files to the side. ‘So what else did Marshall say?' she asked.

‘He wants us before the grand jury at three.'

‘
Jesus,
' she said, bringing her feet to the floor once again and leaning forward in her chair. ‘The guy is keen.'

‘He went to the attorney general, told her he wants to get an indictment before tomorrow's arraignment. He wants to walk into the courtroom with the grand jury's backing in hand so he can make sure Kincaid doesn't make bail. He wants to show this city just how serious he is about nailing the good senator to the wall.'

‘But the forensics won't be in until . . .'

‘He thinks he has enough to get the indictment without them.'

‘Does Cavanaugh know about this?'

‘Marshall has no legal obligation to tell him, so I'm gathering not. He'll find out with the rest of the world – at tomorrow morning's arraignment.'

Carla nodded, before swivelling in her chair and reaching back behind her to pick up the telephone ringing on her new, uncluttered desk.

McNally shifted in his seat and closed his eyes, the busy homicide unit now buzzing with activity around him. There was something about this case that wasn't sitting right. Sure, the evidence against Chris Kincaid was mounting nicely, but that was part of the problem. By all accounts, Chris Kincaid was a very smart guy – hell, he was an ex-prosecutor with years of experience in criminal law. So why would a clever man like Kincaid – with everything to lose – be stupid enough to concoct a ridiculous reunion story, leave Maloney's shoe in the trunk of his wife's car, and then front up and ask the super to open Marilyn's apartment mere days after her murder? And if Kincaid had taken the money, why did he leave the satchel, and why had the Newark PD's crime scene unit failed
to find a single print belonging to Kincaid in the whole goddamned place?

‘That was Marshall again,' said Carla, jogging McNally from his thoughts which had now moved on to Kincaid's Boston-based attorney.

‘Again?'

‘He wanted to check I was available to front up before the grand jury also.'

McNally sighed. ‘Geez, the guy doesn't even think I'm capable of passing on a message.'

‘Well, I am your superior after all.' She smiled, then her brow furrowed.

‘What is it?' she asked, now leaning forward across his desk and to nudge his feet with her elbows.

‘Nothing.'

‘Bullshit, McNally, I know that look. You've got a bee up your butt about something.'

McNally took a sort of strange comfort in knowing that despite his wife's death, there was still one person on the planet who knew him inside out.

‘I was just thinking about Cavanaugh.'

‘What about him?'

‘He's got some reputation. I met him a few years ago – did a favour for his mom. He seemed like a straight-up guy.'

‘So . . . ?' asked Carla, obviously not sure where this was going.

‘He's also close to a friend of mine who runs Boston PD homicide. In fact, I called Joe Mannix last night and he vouches for him big-time. Says Cavanaugh's the real deal. Says he has this thing about only defending clients he believes to be—'

‘Innocent?' finished a disbelieving Carla. ‘Oh come on, Harry, every defence attorney thinks his client is innocent, or at the very least is smart enough not to ask. You were the one who told me how Cavanaugh lied about the reunion thing.'

‘Not exactly, Cavanaugh never told the lie, he just didn't contradict his client.'

‘Isn't that the same thing?' asked Carla, picking up an elastic band from McNally's desk to twist in her fingers.

‘Not exactly,' replied McNally, and Carla's brow knotted once again.

‘Come on,' she said, stretching the band from hand to hand. ‘There's
something else niggling at that nit-picking brain of yours, so you might as well come clean. You know I'll shoot you down if I think it's bogus.' Carla smiled, perhaps sensing that Harry needed some encouragement to get this one out.

‘Well,' McNally began, ‘after I spoke to Mannix last night, and he gave me his take on Cavanaugh, I remembered something – about Cavanaugh and Kincaid when I took them to ID the body.'

‘Okay,' said Carla. ‘What was it?'

‘When Sal pulled back the curtain, I was determined to watch Kincaid's expression – you know, to get an instant take on what he was thinking.'

‘And?'

‘It took him a few seconds to register – but once his eyes shifted down her body and over her belongings I saw it – the shock, the horror, the fear. Kincaid knew that body was his lover the moment he laid eyes on her.'

‘And Cavanaugh?'

‘Well that's just the thing. Cavanaugh's first reaction was uncertainty, but then I saw him look across at his friend to gauge his reaction – and as soon as Kincaid shook his head, there was genuine relief in Cavanaugh's eyes, like he trusted the man completely.'

‘So he was glad of his friend's negative ID?'

‘Maybe, but even so, Cavanaugh believed Kincaid's lie, whereas with the reunion story it was obvious he was extremely uncomfortable with Kincaid's telling of one falsehood after the other.'

Carla took a breath. ‘Cavanaugh hadn't seen Maloney for over a decade, Harry,' she said, the look on her face telling McNally that she'd guessed how obsessed her partner was becoming with this high-profile case. ‘He knew Kincaid had seen her recently. And her body . . . it was . . .'

‘I know,' said McNally.

Carla wrapped the elastic band around her wrist before leaning toward McNally once again. ‘Listen to me, Harry, I know you like to think of yourself as a crusader for good, but it isn't your job to worry about whether or not Cavanaugh is being hoodwinked by his politician friend. We represent the victim, remember? And it seems to me that Marilyn Maloney would like nothing better than for us to squash Kincaid like a bug for belting her senseless before dumping her body in the Passaic.'

McNally nodded. ‘You're right,' he said, lifting his feet off the desk,
grateful that Carla had stepped into the role his wife once played – tempering his concerns and stopping his brain from going off on irrelevant tangents. ‘Cavanaugh's not my concern,' he said.