Matter of Trust Read online

  Vicki took a swallow, her russet eyes finally finding her son’s similarly pale brown ones. ‘Honey?’ she said. ‘You look a little tired. Are you okay?’

  It was one of those questions that did not do justice to the answer.

  ‘Sure, Mom,’ smiled Jack, placing his hands on the counter and pushing himself up off the stool. ‘I’ll just go shower and change. Will’s coming too, said he’d meet us here before ten.’

  ‘That’s great. He’s a rock, our Will,’ she said as she placed her bread-crumbed plate in the dishwasher before kicking it shut with the toe of her high-heeled left shoe. ‘And you might want to ask Will his opinion on how to approach the senator. Will may not get the grades you do, Jackie, but he sure has a way with words. And I think maybe you should wear your blue pants so you can take the matching jacket in case people are wearing suits – and you could text Will and tell him to bring a jacket also. And Jackie,’ she said, catching his attention once again as he turned to leave the room, ‘I know there are a million other things you and Will would probably prefer to be doing today. So, you know . . . thanks for agreeing to come, for doing all this stuff for me. Seriously, sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re only seventeen. You just seem so . . .’ she hesitated, a rare moment for Vicki Delgado, ‘grown up!’

  And Jack smiled, despite himself.

  ‘I love you, Jackie,’ she said, moving around the kitchen island to give him a kiss, a proper one this time, on his smooth left cheek.

  ‘I know, Mom,’ he said, her kiss burning his cheek with a smarting of shame. ‘I love you too.’

  23

  Five minutes later, just as a dutiful Jack Delgado was pulling his navy blue suit from his oversized closet, another son sat with his own mother in a small but tidy kitchen several miles south-east.

  This kitchen sat at the back of a five bedroom family home – a two storey plus attic conversion, cream-painted timber house with brown trim and a small patio supporting three white plastic chairs out front.

  David’s family, and his father’s family before them, had lived in the Down Neck wood shingle on the curve of the Passaic for over a century – before the area became known as the Ironbound – in an era when it was populated by Irish and German migrants who found work at old breweries such as Ballantine Beer.

  His mother was already dressed in blue slacks, white shirt and an embroidered beige cardigan, David still in his old Boston College T-shirt and sweat pants a size too big. And they enjoyed the ebb and flow of their conversation as the heater ticked and the windows rattled against the cold morning chill beyond.

  David had arrived at his mother’s home late last night – hugging her tightly before apologising for not calling earlier. He had explained briefly that the trip home was a last-minute decision, that Sara and Lauren were still in Boston and that he got tied up with a friend and it was late and he would tell her everything in the morning.

  And Patty Cavanaugh, being who she was, asked for no further explanation before lending David a pair of sweats his older brother had left at the house before sending him to bed with an extra blanket and a cup of hot cocoa.

  The rain outside was getting heavier, but the coffee inside was hot. David sat at the same kitchen table he’d eaten at for close to twenty years – the same red-topped, metal-legged six-seater where he’d rushed his breakfast, played with his dinner, done his homework and watched his dad lay down newspaper before cleaning his black leather boots.

  Patty Cavanaugh sat and listened, no doubt understanding that her son was not telling her everything, as he had promised her the night before – not because he didn’t trust her, but because telling the whole truth was kind of upsetting, and more to the point unnecessary given David knew his mom understood the Kincaids better than most.

  ‘I remember Marilyn,’ said Patty after a while. ‘She was so pretty, so confident. She used to come on in and walk straight to the fridge and grab herself a soda and toss one to you and to Chris and to Mike and her quiet friend, then turn to me and ask if I wanted one too as if I was a guest in my own house.’

  David smiled.

  ‘I also remember how much Chris Kincaid adored her. That strapping athletic boy was like a puppy in her presence. And Mike . . . he hated it when they clung to each other. And you played diplomat while the quiet girl sat in the corner and Lisa annoyed the lot of you by demanding she be filled in on everything you were talking about.’

  David realised just how much his mother saw beyond what she could actually see.

  ‘So Chris is sure it’s her?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause as Patty Cavanaugh shook her head. ‘Did I ever tell you how I met her?’ she asked after a time, and David knew she was no longer talking about Marilyn, but about a woman who had not yet been mentioned, but was part of the conversation nonetheless.

  ‘It was church, wasn’t it? She asked you to some sort of charity luncheon?’ he replied, knowing that for some reason his mother had difficulty discussing anything to do with Gloria Kincaid. ‘At her house in Short Hills?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patty, taking a small, slow sip of her tea. ‘Sean was just a baby and Gloria came up to me after mass.’

  Patty Cavanaugh was still a Sunday morning regular at Saint Stephen’s – David’s father having given up the habit long before David was born.

  ‘I always found it strange that she worshipped so far from her home, but I think her husband liked the idea of his family mixing it with the average Joes. It was Daniel Kincaid who insisted Chris attend a working-class school after all, and I think that, even now, Gloria only encourages her family to worship at Saint Stephen’s because she is concerned that snubbing the church might impact negatively on her son’s career.’

  David had been right. His mom did see more than she saw.

  ‘Anyway,’ Patty Cavanaugh continued, ‘Gloria said she knew who I was, said her husband had once introduced himself to your father at a rally for some shipworker’s strike Daniel Kincaid was helping the Governor put an end to at the time.’

  ‘That was around the time Dad was laid off, wasn’t it?’ asked David, remembering his brother had once told him of their parents’ struggle to survive on their father’s odd handyman jobs and their mom’s meagre teacher’s aide wage until their dad found permanent work once again.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, clasping her cup that much tighter. ‘And to be honest, given our lives were rather routine back then, an invitation like that was . . . well, it’s stupid, but it kind of lifted my spirits, gave me a chance to dress up.’

  David nodded, feeling sad as he realised he could not remember a time when his mom had actually dressed up and gone out. ‘So you went?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And let me guess, the Portuguese maid served cucumber sandwiches while you all drank tea and Daniel Kincaid passed through to shake everyone’s hand, and in doing so secured himself a good thirty votes in the process.’

  ‘Close, but not quite.’ She managed a half smile. ‘The sandwiches were cucumber, and Daniel Kincaid did make an appearance, but the maid was not from Portugal.’

  And then he realised what she was saying. ‘Gloria asked you to play maid?’

  ‘Yes.’ Patty Cavanaugh made another attempt at a smile, but this time her effort was tinged with a humiliation powerful enough to still smart today. ‘As soon as I arrived, she grabbed me by the hand, thanked me for coming and said there was a uniform that would fit me hanging in the pantry. She also said there was no need for me to thank her as she knew how hard-up we were, and that while Daniel had plans to ease the economic burdens of all in New Jersey, that they both believed that charity began at home.’

  ‘Jesus, Mom,’ said David, feeling both angry and somehow responsible. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he offered.

  But Patty was already shaking her head in a gesture that said, ‘It was not your fault’.

 
; ‘Anyway, she went to pay me and I refused and made up some story about your dad having three job offers he was currently considering.’

  ‘You lied?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Didn’t feel so good at the time, especially when, not long after that, she offered your father six months of solid work, doing some renovations around her house, and he accepted, because we had no choice and, well . . . let’s just say that every morning he left for her Short Hills mansion, it took every ounce of self-restraint for me not to drag him back inside.’

  ‘The woman is a bitch, Mom.’

  ‘That woman is determined, David,’ she said, her tone thickening more than just a little. ‘She knows what she wants and she goes after it with little or no regard as to who she may hurt along the way.’

  David’s brow furrowed as he noted the intensity in her voice – his mother rarely showed even the slightest tinge of anger.

  But then Patty’s face relaxed as she changed tack to ask him, ‘So, you plan to see Detective McNally again tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I’d rather do it today, but it’s Sunday and Chris has some fundraising function in New York and besides all that, he said he thought he’d look panicked if we tracked McNally down at home and asked him to come in on his only day off.’

  ‘Chris isn’t panicked?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s shitting himself,’ he replied.

  She nodded. ‘Well, at the very least his decision to delay means I can claim you for the day.’ She reached across the table and patted his hand as if she’d just agreed to drive him to the park for ball practice.

  ‘You can,’ smiled David. ‘Although somehow I . . .’ He hesitated.

  ‘What is it?’ his mother asked.

  David wasn’t sure how to voice what he was thinking without hurting his mother’s feelings. ‘Part of me wishes I wasn’t here, Mom,’ he said slowly, ‘that Chris had never called, that I was at home with Sara and Lauren instead of here trying to work the hell out what I am supposed to do.’

  Patty Cavanaugh nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘But now that I’ve made the promises I have, I can’t help but think there are things I should be doing. Part of me believes that I know Chris better than anybody, but the other part feels like I’ve missed something in the past decade or two – that he’s changed in ways I don’t understand.’ David looked across at his mother. ‘The thing is, I feel like I have to get to know him again, Mom, to re-learn how to judge when he is telling me the truth and . . . well, hiding something or flat-out lying to save his precious skin. And if I’m going to do that, if I’m going to see through Chris Kincaid the star politician . . .’ David could tell that once again his mother understood.

  ‘You’ve been away a long time, David,’ she said, knowing he would read between the lines. ‘People change.’

  He nodded, feeling a tinge of guilt at his own failure to keep in touch.

  ‘Let’s kill two birds with one stone, then,’ she said, perhaps sensing his self-disappointment before collecting his empty mug from the table and getting to her feet. ‘If you’re not here for long, I’ll enjoy the limited time we have together. But if it turns out you need to stay a little longer, well . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’ll have to hurry though, it’s almost nine-thirty.’

  ‘You plan on helping me investigate this case, Mom?’ he asked, offering her a smile.

  ‘I plan on taking the horse to water,’ she said. ‘It’s Sunday, David. And we’re going to church.’

  24

  David was wrong about at least one thing that morning.

  McNally was not having a day off.

  In fact, he was currently standing outside a dark brick apartment building in University Heights, his faded grey raincoat dripping water on his worn black shoes.

  After wiping the water from his face he bent down to read the names on the rectangular security buzzer. As usual, only half of them were filled in and his guess was that most of those were old and irrelevant in any case. The rental turnover in places like these was huge, as people moved from one Lego-like construction to another, leaving unpaid bills and/or violent exes or, in some lucky cases, the promise of a house in suburbia that they could call their own.

  McNally removed his hand from the warmth of his raincoat pocket to press the button labelled ‘Super’, but then hesitated, finger poised, as another option entered his head. It was Sunday and it was early and chances were that the man the faded writing identified as Paul Sacramoni was probably still asleep. So he figured there’d be no harm in delaying hauling Mr Sacramoni from his bed – at least for another moment or two.

  Instead, McNally fished into his pants pocket for the item he’d taken from the police evidence bag late last night – a large gold security key which, if he was right, should slide into the lock before him like melted butter over corn.

  Seconds later, as the door swung open to reveal a rather docile-looking dog now peering at him sleepily from the other end of the lobby, McNally felt a paradoxical sensation of both satisfaction and regret – satisfaction in knowing that his instincts had been right, and regret that now that he knew what he did, Marilyn Maloney was just the first casualty in the inevitable mess to follow.

  Rebecca Kincaid hated going to church. It wasn’t the ritual that disturbed her; she actually enjoyed its peaceful servitude. It was more the fact that her presence at Saint Stephen’s always required a leap of faith on her part. She needed to swallow her nerves and put on her best politician’s wife face – by greeting the priest at the door, by moving reverently but confidently to the front pew that was always left empty for her and her family, by smiling and conversing with members of the congregation who would swarm around her with interest – every time leaving her wondering how in the hell she had become an object of such attention.

  She had done her best to fulfil her spousal obligations – playing her role as the supportive wife during campaigns and working hard for local charities. Raising a straight-A son and two over-scheduled twins wasn’t always easy, but at the very least she would like to think she had done a reasonable job of overcoming her chronic shyness so she might be seen as a stable and positive asset to Chris’s cause. All this despite her mother-in-law’s constant insistence that her tentativeness was seen as ‘weak’ and ‘disengaging’.

  Chris was in New York. She had offered to accompany him and leave the children with their grandmother, but Gloria suggested that as it was the feast of Saint Stephen, and the Star Ledger would have a photographer at the church, it would be better if she, as the senator’s wife, stayed at home, so that all bases were covered.

  Which was probably for the best in any case, given Rebecca was never quite sure what to say at those crowded fundraising events, given she had missed the gene for mingling, and given Vicki Delgado would be there and her personality would have outshone Rebecca’s like a beacon next to a candlestick.

  But still, something inside her said it was an opportunity missed, as she had imagined she and Chris sharing a quiet lunch together somewhere in New York after the fundraiser. They had to start somewhere – after all.

  Rebecca Kincaid handed her son a hymn book just as the organist began. And in that moment it struck her just how much Connor looked like his father – or rather, how her husband used to look all those years ago. Connor had the face of a man-child whose head was filled with too much information. He was smart, like Chris, but also like his father before him, he had no idea what thoughts to hold on to and which to let go.

  Connor was having sex. She was sure of it. The item in the trunk of her BMW SUV had told her as much. But, surprisingly, this did not worry her. In fact, in many ways she was glad her son, despite his intensity – and a self-consciousness she was sure he had inherited from her – appeared to have avoided her own sexual timidity. Connor had spent much of the past year concentrating on his sporting and academic responsibilities and spending time with his two public school
friends, so it would be nice for him to have a girl in his life – a girl who, considering the expense of the item in question, Rebecca guessed to be the pretty Tremont teenager from next door.

  She had not removed or mentioned the item, figuring Connor or the Tremont girl would eventually find the opportunity to retrieve it, undetected. She was all too familiar with the sting of embarrassment in her own youth, and did not wish such discomfort on anyone, least of all her own similarly self-affected son.

  And so, as the choir burst into a hearty rendition of ‘On the Good and the Faithful’, Rebecca said a private prayer for the tall boy standing beside her, then turned slightly to look for the altar boys who would precede the popular parish priest up the aisle.

  And that was when she saw him standing next to his mother. And that was when he met her eye. And that was when she knew that all was far from well, as she turned away, her heart now beating double time, the congregation singing of the virtues of love, the promise of salvation, and the wickedness of sin.

  25

  Will Cusack was the third of the three. Well, strictly speaking he was the first of the three, but just appeared to be the third of the three because he wasn’t, at least on paper, as ‘accomplished’ or ‘connected’ or ‘popular’ or ‘good-looking’ as the other two. But as his asshole father used to say before he got himself buried under a billion tonnes of rubble, Will was a dark horse just waiting to break loose from his stable. It was the only back-handed compliment his father had ever offered him, given most of the time the back of his hand was used for something else.