Matter of Trust (30 page)

‘Why, yes. Does your dirty mind have a problem with that, Mr Marshall?'

Whoa
, thought Marshall. The woman's certainly grown some balls over the past few months, diminutive exterior or not.

‘We know he was cheating on you, Ma'am,' he said at last, figuring if he said it often enough he might actually break through the ridiculous facade she was attempting to hide behind.

‘Do you?' she asked, her grey eyes steely. ‘And tell me how is that? Did you find them in bed together, Mr Marshall, or are you simply making an assumption based on your sexually deprived fantasies and your dogged desire to solve this case?' She took a breath. ‘As you may have already deduced, Mr Marshall, I am not a stupid woman and, now that you've gotten to know me a little better, you might also understand that I'm not the type of woman who would put up with a philandering husband.'

‘Maybe there was nothing you could do to stop it?' he said, frustrated by the flushed-faced woman's determination. ‘Maybe you knew your husband always had a thing for your old friend and—'

‘Do you see this, Mr Marshall?' she interrupted, holding up her left-hand ring finger.

He noted that her hand was shaking – just a little.

‘This four carat diamond ring came from Tiffany's, a store I am sure you are familiar with if for no other reason than your mother dragged you to the Audrey Hepburn movie as a child. Please note that this ring sits on
my
finger, not on that of the poor woman still lying in the morgue. Chris made his choice a long time ago, Mr Marshall,' she said, rising to her feet to dismiss him. ‘And if there is one thing I am sure about when it comes to my husband, it is that he has always had a very clear view of which direction his future was going to take. So, if you will excuse me,' she turned her back on him and took a series of short, quick steps toward the door, ‘I have to pick up my daughters and you have a murder to solve. Good day, Mr Marshall, and I make no apology when I tell you that you are not welcome here, ever again.'

*

Seconds later a furious Elliott Marshall was making similar short tippy-toe steps across the Kincaids' dewy front lawn. His head was down, his leather briefcase tucked under his left arm as he grappled for his car keys in his right pants pocket.

‘Shit,' he said, as he almost tripped over a bag of cement plunked unceremoniously across the far end of the drive. ‘Someone could hurt themselves on that,' he called at the grimy-looking workman now crouched over a pile of pavers.

‘Not if they look where they're going,' returned the brazen young tradesman, a ‘just try me' expression on his too-sunburnt face.

‘Are you the paver?' asked Marshall then, an idea blossoming in his tick-tock mind.

‘Well I ain't the stockbroker, if that's who you're looking for.'

But Marshall dismissed the barb as he hiked his double-cuffed trousers and stepped over the concrete bag to make his way toward the workman. ‘I thought this drive was paved back in January?' he asked.

‘It was,' said the man.

‘Then why are you . . . ?'

The rather robust workman stood and took a step forward and looked at Marshall with a decided expression of distaste. Marshall instinctively pulled back, before opening his mouth to say, ‘I'm sorry, it's just that I need to pave my driveway too – and I was wondering how long it takes? There's no parking in my street so I don't want the work to drag on forever, because I don't like leaving the car out at night and—'

‘Normally only a couple of days,' interrupted the man, his demeanour softening as he sniffed the opportunity for another job. ‘But this one, or more to the point part of it, had to be done twice.'

‘Why is that?' asked a genuinely intrigued Marshall.

‘Mrs Kincaid was instructed not to drive on the wet pavers for a good day or two after laying, but as you can see,' he pointed to two areas at the top of the drive where several tiles lay cracked and misshapen, ‘she forgot. And then it poured pretty much non-stop for close to a month, and then I had several other jobs lined up, so it's taken me a while to get back here.'

‘How soon would someone have had to have driven on the newly laid pavers for them to squash like that?' asked Marshall.

‘Within the first twenty-four hours, that's for sure. I use an A-grade
adhesive that dries hard and relatively fast so the woman must have driven her Beemer up here not long after I left,' he said, rolling his eyes in frustration.

‘You're sure it was the BMW, not the Mercedes?'

‘Sure I'm sure. The four-wheel drive has thicker tyres and they ploughed into the adhesive.'

Marshall nodded. ‘When did you start the job?' he asked, needing to confirm it.

‘Saturday the twelfth,' said the man.

Marshall knew this concurred exactly with the senator's and his wife's testimonies.

‘I remember because it was my kid's third birthday and I missed his party because of the job – which was why I was probably so pissed when Mrs Kincaid forgot what I told her. She is a nervous sort, which was why I pressed the point.' The man shrugged. ‘It was a long day, and I didn't finish until late. And I remember Mrs Kincaid left before I did – she said she was taking her kids to the movies which pissed me off even more given her kids were whining about the outing and my kid was home missing his dad.'

‘But she took the Mercedes?'

‘Yes. It was raining. Her older kid was helping her with a big bag of clothes and stuff so she took the car that was right out front. She said she wanted to move her car back into the drive as soon as possible as she didn't like leaving it parked all the way up the street and I told her to wait another twenty-four to thirty-six hours but, well, obviously, like I said, she forgot.'

Marshall nodded again before moving forward to shake the man's gloved hand. ‘Thank you, Mr . . .'

‘Hogan,' he said. ‘Pete Hogan.'

‘And might I have your card, Mr Hogan?'

‘Sure.' Hogan handed him a business card with the company name ‘Pete's Paving The Way'.

‘And here's mine,' said Marshall, handing him his Essex County Prosecutor's Office identifier.

‘You're a cop,' said Hogan, scanning the card.

‘No, I'm a prosecutor investigating a murder. Didn't you know this was Senator Chris Kincaid's house?'

The penny finally dropped. ‘This is the senator's house?' Hogan repeated, as if saying it made it so.

‘Used to be, until he killed a woman and downsized to County Correctional. You don't watch the TV news, read the newspapers, Mr Hogan?' he asked, the ignorance of the masses never failing to amaze him.

‘I don't get time to watch or read about anything but the sports, Mr Marshall,' said Hogan, before his blue eyes widened a fraction further. ‘Is that why you asked me so many questions about the driveway? Geez, you need me to testify in court or something?' He seemed excited by the prospect.

‘That is a strong possibility, Mr Hogan.'

‘Cool,' said the paver, his face breaking into a smile for the very first time. ‘Cool.'

‘H
ey,' said Detective Carla Torres, hanging up from a phone call the minute she saw her ‘missing-in-action' old partner Harry McNally walk into the second-floor homicide hub.

‘Hey,' said McNally, giving slightly embarrassed nods to various members of the squad, men and woman who he hadn't seen for months, old friends who obviously felt sorry for him – which made matters even worse.

‘How have you been?' asked Carla. ‘No, wait . . . I should still be angry with you for blowing me off last week.'

She was right; in fact, McNally had blown her off at least three times in the last few months, including failing to drop in at her son's twelfth birthday party – a no show he still felt guilty about given the kid's dad was still serving somewhere in Iraq.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I guess I . . .' He stopped, having no idea how to explain himself.

‘It's okay, Harry,' said Carla. ‘Here,' she added, swivelling in her seat to pull out the chair that used to be his. ‘My new partner's having some personal time,' she said, referring to a fellow female detective by the name of Angela Pellegrino.

‘How's it going with that?' asked Harry, reluctantly taking the seat.

‘Angela's cool. She's got a stick up her butt the size of a barge pole, but her heart's in the right place.'

McNally nodded. ‘That's good.'

There was silence until, ‘So what's up with you, McNally?' asked a genuinely interested Carla. She wheeled herself forward, creating a huddle for two. ‘I mean, straight up, Harry. What's going on?'

‘Not much. I've been taking on a few odd jobs as a handyman. Painted my neighbour's garage, fixed their guttering and patched their roof.'

‘Jesus, McNally, you're a homicide cop not a tool for hire.'

‘FAP Marshall might argue they're one and the same thing,' said McNally, and he could tell by Carla's expression that she felt for him, and the sting of pity was just as sharp as ever.

‘You never told me what happened,' she said, ‘. . . when you went to see Marshall, just before he kicked you off.'

‘It doesn't matter,' said McNally. He looked around the office and saw two detectives leaving – no doubt to follow up on yet another investigation he was missing out on.

‘Yes, Harry,' she contradicted him. ‘I think it does. I'm not going anywhere, partner. It's deathly dull in here today. No pun intended,' she smiled, ‘and my ear could use a little bending.'

And so McNally began at the beginning – taking Carla Torres back to that disastrous meeting in January . . .

 

Elliott Marshall's jaw stretched wide open, but he remained speechless. He looked like one of those carnival clowns, the ones with mouths that acted as receptacles for ping-pong balls which ended up in a series of numbered slots that either won you a prize or sent you home empty-handed.

McNally was going home empty-handed. He could feel it. He'd had his reservations about fronting Marshall without more evidence to back up his theory, but he was at the stage where he needed Marshall's clout to follow through on the leads he was tracking, and so he had finally gone to see him – hat firmly in hand.

‘Are you on drugs, Detective?' said the crimson-faced prosecutor after listening to McNally's latest revelations. ‘What do you think this is – an episode of
Scooby Doo
where a gang of inexperienced kids get to play pick the perp? I'd like to blame it on the fact that you're a detective rookie, but
you've been loitering in uniform for most of your life, McNally – and at your age, you should know better.'

‘Look,' said McNally, deciding to try a new approach and appeal to Marshall's so-called sense of civic duty. ‘This isn't a matter of me trying to sabotage your efforts, Mr Marshall. It's a matter of what this fresh evidence tells us. There are too many inconsistencies here – the woman's final words to the super about her supposed rendezvous with the actor, her change of shoes, the possibility of rape, the unidentified DNA sample.'

‘This is bullshit. You expect me to waste my homicide squad's valuable time on proving Kincaid is innocent?' Marshall threw his hands up in despair.

‘But what if these new leads can be substantiated?'

‘What new leads?' snapped Marshall. ‘Maloney didn't meet with anyone after her shift at that nightclub except for Chris Kincaid. According to you, she told the super she had no intention of rendezvousing with her imaginary Hollywood date in any case.'

‘But what if this Matt Dillon came after her – when she didn't show at the hotel?'

‘The last time I checked, Matt Dillon was scouring for decent scripts in Hollywood, McNally – which could be an opening for you by the way, given you seem to like a good piece of fiction.'

McNally took a breath. ‘Listen, Marshall,' he said. ‘I'm not here to waste your time.'

‘No? Well you seem to be an expert at wasting your own. What happened to your enquiries regarding the unidentified DNA?'

‘The ME and I have been . . .'

But Marshall was holding up his hand. ‘You're getting the ME to do your work for you while you're off interviewing supers and fantasising about movie stars?'

‘Of course not. It's just that, if anyone had the inside line on who would want to kill Marilyn Maloney, it's Marilyn Maloney, and if she mentioned this movie star guy, if she said he was expecting her to—'

But Marshall had obviously had enough.

‘News flash McNally,' he interrupted, bringing his clenched fist down on his desk. ‘Let's call a spade a spade, shall we? One of the hardest things about this job is listening to all the warbling about the innocence of
the victim. Nine times out of ten these people ask for it, McNally, and Maloney was no exception.

‘The woman was a lush – a drunken whore who slept with a lying politician just so she could get off on having a famous man's dick in her pussy. She reaped what she sowed, McNally, and when it comes down to it, she has to share some of the responsibility for ending up a big dead fish in a rubbish strewn pond.'

McNally flinched.

‘But as much as that rubs me up the wrong way, I respect this office enough to do my job and nail the asshole who killed her so that he won't turn around and do the same thing again. And I will put him away, McNally – with or without your help.'

And then, silence until . . .

Snap
.

Just like that.

McNally could actually
hear
it – the switch that flicked over in his brain. All of a sudden the months of grief and loss and embarrassment and pity and loneliness and frustration and anger and regret finally caught up with him, engulfing him in a wave of rage which rushed directly toward the FAP.