Matter of Trust (7 page)

‘I don't mind, McNally, and to be honest even if I did, I had no choice.'

McNally knew that Curtis was referring to the accelerated rate of decomposition of drowning victims once they were brought ashore. After only a few hours on land, the appearance of the body could change completely, which was why the ME had to move fast.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?' she asked, referring to his request to sit in on the autopsy.

‘Why wouldn't I?' said McNally, who had never gotten used to people's seemingly endless need to tiptoe around him. ‘I'm sorry, Sal,' he said, after reading the embarrassment on the thoughtful ME's face. ‘But according to my bosses, this new gig in homicide means I have to look at the bodies inside and out – kinda like the obligation a surgeon takes on when he hangs his shingle on the operating room door.'

‘Except the doc usually goes in knowing his patient will be all the better for it,' smiled Salicia, as she pushed her long brown hair behind her shoulder, the diamond stud in her right earlobe catching the light of the harsh white fluorescent above them.

‘At least we get the chance to nail the asshole who put her on that slab in the first place,' countered McNally.

‘Lucky us,' she replied, rolling her eyes to the ceiling before returning them to McNally once again. ‘So what else have you got?' she asked.

It wasn't commonplace for an ME to ask a lot of questions about the progress of a police investigation, many preferring to detach themselves from the details of the case so that they could give an unbiased assessment during the autopsy, but over the years Sal had earned the respect of every cop in the department, and often came up with insights that assisted them in their fight to bring a perp to justice.

‘Like I said,' replied McNally. ‘All we have is the key we found in her dress pocket, and her watch which stopped at 2.10 am when, presumably, she was thrown into the Passaic.' The victim had been wearing a Timex which froze at 2.10 in the early hours of Sunday, January 13. It was a fact the police had decided to hold back from the media and those not immediately involved in the investigation, in order to give the investigators a jump on any suspects who may try to establish an alibi.

‘You're lying,' said Sal as she reached down to take off her high-heeled shoes before tossing them toward the now slumping skeleton model in the corner. ‘You have more than that and you know it, McNally.' She gave him her
Don't you dare hold back on me
glare. ‘You may be new to this detective gig, but I've seen and heard enough about your work over the years to know that stubborn mind of yours has already started picking this case to pieces.'

McNally nodded, the slightest of smiles on his face. ‘Well, there is one other thing,' he said.

‘What is it?' she asked.

He took a breath before going on. ‘Those things are expensive, right?' He pointed to the shoes that sat almost ridiculously near the skeleton's bony feet.

‘Sure,' she said, her raised eyebrow indicating she was not too sure where this was going. ‘They cost a fortune and hurt like hell, but they
look fantastic with a pair of straight-legged jeans.' She attempted a smile.

‘Right, and it seems to me our Jane Doe felt the same way.'

Sal shook her head. ‘Lots of women love shoes, McNally. And besides, I thought her shoes came off in the water.'

‘One came off. The other one – a fancy stiletto – was caught on her right ankle, even though most of the rest of her foot had been devoured by the river's greedy sea life.'

‘So this shoe was expensive?' asked Sal.

‘A Malono,' he said, unsure if he'd pronounced the name correctly.

‘The vic was wearing a Manolo Blahnik?'

‘Yeah, that's the one,' said McNally. ‘Torres said they cost a whole month's salary.'

‘For most people,' she said, her brow now starting to furrow. ‘You're thinking this woman had money?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Did you check the labels on her clothing?'

‘Yes,' said McNally, thinking that this was what a decent investigation was all about. Sal was a good sparring partner, even if she wasn't on the payroll of the Newark PD. ‘But she was only wearing a dress and the label was missing.'

‘No overcoat – at this time of year?'

McNally knew Salicia had leapt ahead to the next crucial point he was just about to make. ‘None – which means she could have been killed elsewhere and then driven to the river. In my experience, perps – even the smart, rich ones – trying to rid themselves of a body are not too concerned about their victim's chances of developing hypothermia.'

‘True, but given the condition of the body, there's no way I can speculate as to the degree of trauma until we take a look inside.'

‘The condition of the body tells us someone wanted her dead, Sal. People don't dump other people in freezing cold water to preserve the evidence against them.'

‘Okay, okay.' Salicia held up her hands. ‘But I don't want you going into my autopsy room with any presuppositions. My profession relies on the facts, McNally, not on jumping the gun. This could have even been a suicide, you know. We've seen it before.'

‘Right again,' said McNally. ‘But something tells me not.'

‘So you're talking to dead people now, McNal—' she began, obviously regretting it the moment the words left her lips. ‘I'm sorry, Harry,' she offered, her cheeks red with embarrassment. ‘That was completely inappropriate.'

Despite his discomfort, McNally managed a smile. ‘Megan would be pretty pissed if I didn't check in with her every now and again,' he said, wondering why he was confiding in this woman. Truth be told, he did talk with his dead wife, late at night when the clock slowed to a standstill and the sheets were cool and empty beside him.

Salicia smiled before nodding ever so slightly to indicate that was enough said and it was time to move on. ‘You can suit up in the men's bathroom just beyond the autopsy bay,' she said. ‘The sterile gowns come in blue, blue or blue.'

‘You went to all that trouble to match the examination garb with my eyes?' he asked, grateful for her attempt at humour.

‘I figured this was your first autopsy, so it was the least I could do.'

Boston, Massachusetts

M
iracle of miracles. Lauren had slept through.

David had been woken by her gurgling at 6 am, instinct seeing him jump from the sofa and head to her room. The nursery in their twenty-third floor Downtown Crossing apartment was a pretty, sundrenched room, and while said sun was yet to make an appearance, the peaceful place still seemed bright and inviting, most likely because of the smile now plastered across his baby daughter's face.

‘Hey you,' he whispered, careful not to wake Sara who deserved a Saturday morning sleep in.

‘How's my beautiful girl?' he asked, as he reached into her cot and picked her up, the warmth of her skin comforting against his cheek.

‘You up for some breakfast?' he asked, wrapping a baby blanket around her and carrying her into the kitchen. ‘Let's see how you do for Daddy. Maybe we'll surprise your mom by managing an entire meal without your usual antics,' he smiled, before placing her in the highchair and kissing her on the nose.

David considered himself a pretty competent human being professionally and personally – he helped out with the cooking and the housework
on a regular basis. But feeding Lauren was harder than trying to talk a judge into granting a murder suspect bail. She saw the feeding process as entertainment, and had developed a martial arts-style arm movement that deflected any incoming spoon with speed and efficiency, resulting in much of the goop ending up on the feeder, or the tiled kitchen floor, or even on the odd occasion, the ceiling, which still bore the stains of an incident involving a tin of bright orange pureed pumpkin mixed with a blend of peas.

Twenty minutes later, with baby cereal and tinned pears now forming a Jackson Pollack-style mural on the kitchen cupboard doors, David opted for Plan B. He knew he had to speak to Joe this morning – to tell him about Chris's reactions, to ask if he had any more news on their unidentified drowning victim and, most importantly, to tell him about the commitment he had made last night. Despite the fact he had told himself not to dwell on his decision, he had spent most of the night justifying it by telling himself he would be ‘in and out'. Of course, Joe might have another take on things – but David would assure him that he was not the man he used to be; that he was a husband and father with responsibilities, who had learnt the importance of saying no.

So he decided an outing to the Mannix household was exactly what both he and Lauren needed. David could talk to Joe, Sara could sleep in, and Marie, Joe's incredible wife and mother of four, could try her hand at shoving some form of nutrition down his baby daughter's throat.

 

Forty-five minutes later, David was enjoying a strong hot coffee in Joe Mannix's living room while, under Marie's supervision, the four Mannix boys, whose ages ranged from seven to fourteen, took turns at attempting to feed David's daughter, in between quarrelling over who would claim the free toy at the bottom of the Crispy Flakes box.

‘Makes you wanna dive straight back in and produce your own battalion of kids – am I right?' smiled Joe as he tilted his head toward the noise coming from the kitchen and took a sip of his own black brew. Despite Joe's attempt at sarcasm, David knew his detective friend was more than happy with his lot in life, even if he was nothing short of exhausted at the end of every day.

‘Something like that,' said David. ‘As long as we could ask you and Marie to babysit.'

‘No way. Four's my limit,' said Joe. ‘And besides, I don't think they'd survive.'

‘I don't think
you'd
survive,' countered David.

Joe laughed. ‘So, what's up?' he asked after a pause, cupping his mug in his two large hands, the steam rising slowly from its surface.

‘I spoke to Chris,' said David.

‘And?'

‘And he was in shock, Joe. He may not have said as much, but I know the guy, and he is terrified McNally's vic and his girlfriend of almost twenty-five years are one and the same.'

‘So he admitted they were sleeping together?'

‘No.'

‘But you're sure they were?'

‘Pretty much.'

‘They ever fight?'

‘Not that I know of. When we were kids, they were so in love with each other it was sickening.'

‘So how come they didn't end up together?'

It was one of those questions like, ‘Why do we have to go to war to keep the peace?' or ‘How come people cry when they are happy?'

‘It was never going to happen,' said David.

‘What? Didn't she pass your friend's “perfect politician's wife” exam?' asked Joe, with just the slightest tinge of disgust.

‘The girl didn't fit anything. She wasn't made to fit, Joe. Her entire persona was built on shocking people – with her beauty, her brazenness, her honesty.' David noticed he'd said ‘was'.

‘So the guy marries a June Cleaver replica?' asked Joe.

‘Not exactly.' David tried to find the right way to describe the complicated situation that was Chris Kincaid's love life. ‘You see, Chris's mom – she always had this set idea about who Chris should date and, more importantly, who he should marry.'

‘And his current wife fitted that bill.'

‘No – at least, not at first. From what I can gather – and you have to remember I had left Newark for Boston by then – Marilyn and Chris had some sort of temporary falling out and Chris . . . well, somehow he ended up taking revenge on her by sleeping with her best friend.'

‘Jesus,' said Joe. ‘The wife and the lover were . . .'

‘Inseparable at school,' finished David. ‘Rebecca was always the follower, lost in Marilyn's shadow. So then, of course, fate steps in and Rebecca falls pregnant – and Gloria, Chris's mom, who is all about appearances, takes charge and talks her son into marrying the girl, and then spends the next ten years grooming her to be the ideal political partner. Gloria's husband Daniel was Governor of New Jersey, so Gloria kind of had the dutiful wife routine down pat.'

Joe nodded.

‘So is there any news on McNally's drowning victim?' asked David after a pause.

‘Nothing new, but they've scheduled the autopsy for today.'

‘On a Saturday?'

‘The body was in the water for close to two weeks. They have a narrow window here, David,' said Joe, his eyes suggesting he did not want to upset his good friend. ‘Besides, McNally and the ME go way back . . .' he added and it seemed to David like Joe was about to go on, his mouth open as if there was something else to say. But then Joe sat back in his worn armchair and took a long, slow sip of his coffee.

‘What?' asked David.

‘What what?'

‘You were going to say something else.'

But Joe said nothing for a time, before finally putting his drink on the low-standing coffee table and meeting David's eye.

‘McNally's wife died about six months ago,' he said.

‘I didn't know,' said David, feeling sorry for the cop who he always found to be smart, efficient, helpful. ‘She was a cop as well, wasn't she?'

Joe nodded. ‘She died on the job, last summer. During those hurricanes that belted the east coast. She was trying to rescue this kid from a storm-water drain in Belmont.'

‘She
drowned
?' David was unable to hide his shock.

‘She managed to drag the kid to a safety ramp before being carried away by the current.'

‘Jesus,' said David.

‘I know,' said Joe.

‘So do you think . . . ?' David began before Joe broke in.