Matter of Trust (50 page)

‘Then maybe you owe her. Maybe you need to fix this thing so she can rest in peace.'

They looked down at Lauren again.

‘Will you hug her for me when she wakes up? I need to shower and get down to County.'

‘You want me to come with you?' she asked.

‘No. I guess, in the end, I knew it would come down to Chris and me. He trusts me, Sara. If I suggest it, he will go for it, no matter how much it hurts.'

‘I'll hug her tight then,' she said. ‘And I'll tell her to save the return hug for you.'

‘L
ong time,' said Salicia Curtis as she sat down at the café table across from McNally. The ME was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and looked like a fresh-faced supermodel. She smiled and McNally felt the warmth of it. He had missed her, he realised, and he wasn't too sure what to make of that.

‘How are you, Harry?' she asked, genuine concern in her dark brown eyes. ‘I left you a message after that thing with Marshall, but when you didn't return my call, I figured maybe you needed some time.'

McNally knew that in a way Sal was right. Time was both his enemy and his friend. It was fading the memories of his wife, but it was also making the heartache that much easier to deal with.

‘I'm sorry, Sal. I should have called.'

‘That's okay. You're here now and . . .' She studied him then. ‘You look good, Harry, as if your burdens have eased a little.'

‘I still miss her,' he said then, surprised he was able to speak of it.

‘Of course you do. But Megan wouldn't want you to mourn forever, Harry. She'd want you out there, working, doing what you do best. Have you spoken to your lieutenant? When do you think you'll go back to . . . ?'

But she must have seen it then, the ‘I haven't been completely honest' look on his face.

‘Harry,' she said, as the waitress placed a skinny cappuccino in front of her, ‘what have you been up to?'

McNally nodded in thanks for his strong hot black before waiting for the white-haired waitress to leave their table. ‘You're gonna think I'm crazy,' he said.

‘I already think you're crazy, McNally,' said Curtis. ‘I just want to know the specific kind of crazy you are talking about.'

‘I'm still on the case,' he said, not knowing how else to put it.

‘What case?' But then she shook her head and McNally knew Sal understood exactly what case he was referring to. ‘Jesus, you're working the Kincaid thing? Seriously, Harry, does Marshall know about this? Well,
obviously
he doesn't know about it. He kicked you off the case in the first place. So you're investigating things solo. But to what end? I mean, the trial begins tomorrow and from what I hear, Marshall's case is solid and Kincaid's lawyer is an out-of-towner, so . . .' It came to her then. ‘Oh no, Harry, please tell me you're not working for the defence?'

‘I'm working for the truth.'

She shook her head again as she reached across the table to cover his hand with her own – and he noticed it was warm from her cupping her cappuccino.

‘I know you mean well, Harry, and believe you me I completely understand your wanting to conduct an investigation away from that narrow-minded FAP. But working with Cavanaugh? As soon as Marshall finds out, you will lose your job.'

‘So maybe we have to stop him from finding out. It's worked so far.'

‘But if you're investigating the case, Cavanaugh will want to call you.'

‘Cavanaugh is a good guy, Sal, he hasn't asked me to give testimony. My role so far has been completely behind the scenes.'

Sal looked at him then, lifting her hand to return it to her coffee mug. ‘I want to ask you why you're doing this, Harry, but to be honest I'm afraid of your answer.'

‘Kincaid is innocent,' he said.

‘And there you go.' She took a sip of her coffee. ‘Do you have proof?'

‘Not exactly.'

She sighed.

‘But I've been a cop for a long time, and I know the difference between innocence and guilt.'

She looked at him once again. ‘So do you know who did do it?'

‘I think so.'

‘But you don't want to share . . . ?'

‘If I tell you, you become part of this, Sal, and Marshall will have your job as well.'

‘Marshall is an ass.'

‘Marshall is still the second most powerful prosecutor in the county.'

‘So he's a powerful ass.' She managed a smile.

‘No argument there,' he said, returning the smile before leaning an inch closer toward her. ‘It's good to see you,' he said.

‘You too, Harry, but my guess is this little rendezvous has a dual purpose. If you want my help, all you need to do is ask for it.'

‘I won't ask for anything that will get you in trouble.'

‘You want to rob me of a chance for a run-in with Marshall?'

‘I want to protect you is all.'

And she smiled again. ‘What is it you need?' she asked after a time.

‘A copy of the DNA report on that unidentified fingernail sample.'

‘You have someone to run it against?'

‘Not exactly,' he said again.

She took a long slow drink of her coffee.

‘You want a couple of slides to go with that report?' she asked after a pause. ‘I still have several in storage.'

‘The actual slides could help.'

She nodded. ‘Today is Sunday. If you drive me up to Norfolk Street, we can retrieve them while the office is quiet.'

‘Thanks,' he said, placing his own hand over hers and squeezing.

‘I'm not doing this out of pity, Harry,' she said, perhaps a little embarrassed by his tenderness. ‘I'm doing this out of professional responsibility. I work for the victim not Elliott Marshall.'

‘Me too, Sal. Me too.'

C
hris Kincaid sat opposite David – leaning in so that their faces were no more than a foot apart. David had started with McNally's good news from last Friday night – how he'd located Robert Jones and how Jones had subsequently ID'd Will Cusack. Then David mentioned how McNally was working on getting a tap on Cusack's phones, and he'd just started to reiterate the importance of having George Brewster on the jury, before Chris finally saw through his stalling.

‘You went to see Connor,' he said.

‘How did you know?'

‘Rebecca said you asked about Connor's whereabouts.'

David nodded, knowing there was no point in denying it.

‘So how is he?' asked Chris – beyond anger and now only interested in knowing how his son was coping.

‘He's not doing so good, Chris,' David answered honestly.

Chris lowered his chin and nodded. ‘Did he help you with your case against Will?'

‘No.'

Chris nodded again. ‘I didn't think so. Does he think I did this?'

‘I'm not sure,' David answered.

‘I haven't earnt his trust, David.'

‘But you will.'

‘From prison?'

‘It doesn't have to be that way.'

‘I know you've done your best, DC – but the time for platitudes is gone.'

Silence, until, ‘This is not how it is meant to go, Chris. This is not where you get to give in.'

Chris looked up to meet his eye, his cheeks flush. ‘I'm not giving in, David, I am just being realistic.'

‘We have Marilyn's cell and Will's use of the alias at the hotel – and Jones' indisputable ID.'

‘So Will was at the Hilton on the night of Marilyn's death – under a name that has precarious links to me. A good prosecutor might even argue that it was me who put Will up to it – offered to give him a previously agreed sum for getting back the $100,000. And when he failed, when Marilyn didn't show, I took matters into my own very capable hands.'

David went to respond, but he was not too sure what to say.

‘We believe Will Cusack taped Marilyn's confession, but we have no proof.' An increasingly agitated Chris got to his feet. ‘We suspect he went to her apartment when she didn't show at the Hilton, but we have no evidence that he was anywhere near the building. We're assuming that Will used Rebecca's car even though my son has provided him with an alibi – and . . . here's one last gem to light your fire, DC,' Chris was getting worked up. ‘If Will was at that apartment, if he
did
rape and murder Marilyn, if he
did
manage to procure that blessed $100,000, then why the fuck is he hanging around? If he's a rich young man, then why in the hell hasn't he run?'

More silence, as the cold clarity of Chris's reasoning hit home.

‘Marshall, on the other hand, has proof of my adulterous relationship, he has the curse-covered satchel found in Marilyn's apartment and he has my telephone records showing I tried desperately to reach Marilyn on the day of her death. He made sure my involvement in Lorraine Stankovic's death was made admissible, which means he'll have proof that my mother used her contacts and her chequebook to get me out of a very serious jam, which he'll then use to show pattern when it comes to my paying off Marilyn to get her out of my life in an effort to advance my political career.' Chris was on a roll and it was making David sick to his stomach.

‘Finally, Marshall has my visit to Marilyn's apartment giving me the opportunity to take back the money, he has the lies I told to McNally on that very first day at the 3rd Precinct and at the morgue, he has evidence that I have a propensity to violence because of the altercation with that thug here at County, and . . .
and
 . . . he has that goddamned fucking shoe.'

‘Chris,' David began. ‘I—'

‘No, DC,' Chris interrupted him. ‘You and I are smart men. We may have played out our legal careers on opposite sides of the fence, but we both know that I am fucked. The only positive in all this is that my case is playing out now, instead of a few years ago when capital punishment was still on the table, because then I would be facing death by lethal injection, instead of a life behind bars.'

Chris collapsed back in his chair, his anger making way for despair at the complete futility of his case. Tears started to track silently down his face even though his body showed no other signs of crying, as if he had given up making the effort, as if he had been milked dry.

And in that moment, David knew Sara and Arthur had been right. Marilyn was gone and nothing they could do or say would bring her back. This was about saving Chris no matter what the cost to Marilyn's memory, and so David placed his hand on Chris's forearm and said, ‘There's one other option, Chris – you're forgetting the two pieces of evidence that act in our favour. The evidence of rape and the still unidentified DNA from under her fingernails – no matter what, they prove someone else was with Marilyn on the night of her death.'

‘But we have no way of finding him,' said Chris, his head down.

‘Then we paint a picture that he was one of many, and that Marilyn . . .' David swallowed, unable to say it.

Chris looked up. David knew this strategy must have crossed his mind, but the fact that David was voicing it made it all the more deplorable.

‘You want to go into court and paint Marilyn as a slut, despite the fact that we know she was
raped
before she was killed? You want to tell the world she was a nothing better than a prostitute, a goddamned whore who spread herself between a married politician and any other john who was willing to—'

David knew there was no avoiding it, so he cut his friend short. ‘It
might be the only way, Chris. At the very least it will create doubt in the jurors' minds – we don't know the identity of this mystery rapist, but if we can convince them that he was one of many, that Marilyn put herself at risk every time she picked up a guy at that nightclub she worked at, or when she was out drinking herself into a stupor . . . ?'

But Chris was shaking his head. ‘No, I won't do that to her, DC. And even if I wanted to it wouldn't work. The jury would need to see these men. We'd need to throw as many lovers as we could in front of them on that witness stand and convince them that she lived her life like a tramp.'

‘We may have one,' David said then, his heart stinging at the words.

Chris's brow knotted. ‘No we don't, Marilyn
did not
sleep around.'

‘Not in recent times, Chris, but she did once – years ago – which is why you ended up sleeping with Rebecca.'

It had been decades since they'd spoken about it. In fact, David recalled, they had not really spoken about it, even back then.

‘You want to unearth the guy who slept with Marilyn when we were in our final year of college?'

‘I know it's a long shot, Chris, but if this guy will come to the party, we can use his testimony and back it up with evidence of Marilyn's drinking problem, her suspension at work. If we try hard enough we can do it, Chris. As much as I hate to say it, Marilyn being who she was, her reputation was there to be ruined; even
she
knew that, all those years ago.'

But Chris was shaking his head. ‘No,' he said.

‘But this could be our only chance, Chris.' David's frustration was all-encompassing. ‘Why won't you even consider it?'

‘Because your arguments are tenuous at best, because this has a ten per cent chance of working, and most of all, because
enough is enough
.' Chris curled his hands into fists. ‘How many lives has this thing destroyed, DC? How many hearts has it broken? Marilyn's, mine, Rebecca's, Connor's and the twins, Jack Delgado's, Mike's, yours? No, the chances of this working are too remote. I won't drag another innocent man and his family into this mess on those odds David, last-ditch effort or not.'

‘He slept with your girl almost twenty years ago, Chris. Maybe he'll be okay with coming forward, and even if he's not, you don't have any obligation to protect him.'