Matter of Trust Page 21

  ‘It’s Paulie. Everyone calls me Paulie.’

  ‘Paulie.’ McNally smiled as the super pushed at the heavy double front doors. ‘Do you remember what Ms Maloney was wearing on her feet on the last night you saw her?’

  ‘Sure. She was wearing a pair of those black shiny boots – the ones that zip up – with heels.’

  McNally felt the air rush out of him, just as the cold wind from outside finally met his face. ‘Boots – you’re sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. I remember her almost falling over when she went to take them off,’ said Paulie. ‘She looked just like Nancy Sinatra, except prettier as far as I was concerned. Monroe was something special, Detective. Despite everything that had happened to her, she still had class.’

  45

  That night, a memory came to him.

  David was a small boy, maybe seven, and he was sitting at the kitchen table, just as he was now. Except at the time there was someone else in the room, someone who spoke little but said a lot, and David had a question to ask him, so he plucked up the courage to say, ‘Why didn’t you finish the job, Dad?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ asked his father, glancing up from the detached oven part he had been concentrating on all evening. ‘I’m trying to finish it son, but the coil is burnt out, so I’ll probably have to go to the hardware store and . . .’

  ‘No,’ said David. ‘Not this job, the one at Chris’s house.’

  His father lifted his chin.

  ‘They have a huge bookcase next to the fireplace in their living room, and Chris said there was meant to be a matching one on the other side. He says you built the first one but you didn’t come back to make the second one, and so they got another man to make it but it doesn’t match the same.’

  ‘Chris told you this?’

  David nodded. ‘He said his mother said that you . . . um, that you failed to fulfil your responsib . . . responsibiliti . . .’

  ‘That’s exactly what I didn’t do, son,’ said his father, his head bowed to the oven part once again. ‘Fulfil my responsibilities, that is.’

  ‘Didn’t Mrs Kincaid pay you?’ asked David after a time, pushing the issue a little further.

  ‘She paid me,’ said his father.

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘Enough,’ his father replied.

  ‘But you always tell me I should finish what I start,’ said David. ‘And you always say that even if it’s hard, you don’t give up on something.’

  ‘I didn’t give up, David,’ said his father then. ‘I gave in.’

  ‘You gave in?’ repeated David. ‘To who?’

  ‘Not to who – to what. I gave in to my conscience. It told me I was needed at home so I suggested Mrs Kincaid get someone else to build the second bookcase.’

  ‘Mom needed a bookcase?’ asked David.

  ‘Not a bookcase,’ replied his father. ‘Something else.’

  David nodded. ‘Are you sorry you didn’t finish it, Dad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you glad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because the new bookcase man was better than you?’

  ‘Because at the time, anyone was better than me,’ his father replied.

  And that had been enough for David. ‘Okay, Dad,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

  David took another sip of his lukewarm coffee. It was cold in his mother’s kitchen – or what could now be referred to as his office, given he had nowhere else to pitch his tent and this was the address he had given the court when it came to delivering legal documents relevant to the case.

  He was staring at a pair of photographs supplied to him by the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office in relation to the obligatory provision of discovery in the case of the State of New Jersey versus Senator Christopher Daniel Kincaid.

  The first showed an old pewter ring – identical to the one David still had at home in a bottom drawer somewhere. The evidence report said the ring had been found on the floor of Marilyn Maloney’s living room, next to the evidence portrayed in the second photograph.

  The second image showed a large white satchel, also bagged by the Newark Police. It looked to be empty, but was creased and stretched as if it had once held something of substantial bulk. On the outside the figure $100,000 was scrawled along with other expletives that suggested the money was payment for services rendered – the payee identified as his client, and the recipient the woman who was killed.

  In that moment, his discussion with Mike still fresh in his mind, David felt an all-encompassing sensation of helplessness, for even if he wanted to help Chris, he was no longer sure that he could. He was certain Chris wasn’t a hardened killer, but if he’d been involved in any way in Marilyn’s death, no matter how accidental, David was not sure that he could ever forgive him – let alone stand up for him in court.

  Maybe my father was right, he thought to himself then. Maybe this is all too close. Maybe I need to learn when it is time to walk away – back to my wife and my daughter, who need me back at home.

  In the end it came down to one simple truth – this wasn’t who David had set out to be. He didn’t defend the guilty, and as much as he wanted to believe in his friend’s innocence, as much as he wanted more than anything for something, someone to tell him that Chris was merely a victim of his own inability to grow the hell up, he could not in all consciousness defend the man who may well be the killer of a fellow teenage friend.

  And so, as if knowing the only way he could consolidate his decision was by speaking it out loud, he called Mike and left a message explaining that he had decided to tell Chris he was resigning as his attorney. And then he placed another call to Sara, this one also going through to voice mail, before packing his briefcase and leaving it by the door. He went to bed and set the alarm early so that he would have time to swing by County on his way to Penn Station first thing in the morning. And then he contemplated the fact that he was about to do something he had never done before – David Cavanaugh was going to quit.

  PART TWO

  46

  Boston, Massachusetts; four months later

  ‘Sara,’ called David from across the office, the receiver held away from his ear. ‘Stacey’s on the phone. She wants to know where you left Lauren’s Dora doll.’

  ‘It’s here, lad,’ interrupted Nora, who had been buzzing around reception for the past half hour and had shuffled backwards from the filing cabinets to stick her head in through David’s office door.’

  ‘She left it in your office last Friday morning.’ Nora heaved a large pile of files onto her left arm so that she could walk to her desk and open her bottom drawer with her right. ‘I put it in my drawer for safe keeping,’ she added, holding up the somewhat worse for wear-looking doll. ‘I forgot to give it to Sara when she left on Friday night, sorry lad.’

  ‘No problem,’ said David, putting the phone to his ear once again. ‘It’s here, Stacey,’ he told their nanny, a sunny, bright-eyed girl by the name of Stacey Gilmore. ‘Just divert Lauren’s attention to “Chops”,’ Chops was Lauren’s stuffed lamb. ‘Tell her Dora’s gone exploring but she’s expected back tonight. You’re still okay to stay late tonight, aren’t you?’ he asked, and then, ‘Great. It’s just a birthday dinner so we should be home by eleven.’ Another pause before, ‘Stacey says happy birthday, Nora.’

  ‘Tell Stacey thanks,’ smiled Nora, just as Sara emerged from her office.

  ‘Did I miss something?’ she asked.

  ‘No lass, but I’d put this in your bag right now so that I am not accused of kidnapping a national icon.’ Nora handed Sara the doll.

  ‘Thanks, Nora.’ Sara smiled before moving toward David’s office door. ‘Hey,’ she began. ‘I just had a call from CTU’s lawyers. I think they are ready to deal.’

  ‘Who’s ready to deal?’ asked their boss and good friend Arthur Wright, now moving into the reception area from his own large office with a walking stick by his side.

  ‘CTU,’ repeated Sara, stepping back to include all thr
ee of her colleagues in the conversation.

  ‘That’s great news,’ replied Arthur. ‘What are they talking?’ Her latest case involved a civil suit against a large insurance company who’d failed to pay the hospital bills of a sick child.

  ‘I’m not sure as yet, but it’s definitely in the realm of six figures.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Arthur, and David and Nora joined their boss in the congratulations. Arthur glanced at his watch. ‘That gives us two reasons to celebrate. But if we don’t get a move on, we’re going to be late. I booked La Cirque for eight.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Nora.

  ‘Me too,’ said Sara.

  ‘Just let me grab my cell and we’re out of here,’ said David, retrieving his phone from its charger. ‘And you can leave your car here, Mrs Kelly. I’m driving you home tonight so you can hit the champagne.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t hit me,’ said the prim and proper Nora Kelly.

  David grinned back. ‘There are no guarantees in life, Nora.’

  At dinner, David felt relaxed for the first time in months. Life was good. So good in fact, that his decision to leave the Chris Kincaid case was finally sitting evenly, if not comfortably, on his shoulders. He was following the case, of course. By the sounds of it, Chris had hired a competent replacement attorney and the case was heading relatively smoothly toward trial – which was scheduled for some time next month. After the initial flurry of stories around Chris’s arrest and arraignment, the media attention had settled into a steady flow of updates. There were no reports of any startling new evidence and the prosecutor, Elliott Marshall, seemed to be lying low. Chris was maintaining his innocence, and the community seemed willing not to judge him until a jury was empanelled to do the job for them. As for Detective Harry McNally, according to Joe he had taken some sort of sabbatical – to deal with the death of his wife.

  ‘Another?’ asked David, retrieving the bottle of French champagne from its silver bucket and holding it above Nora’s glass.

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ she said, her hand now hovering over the crystal receptacle. ‘Any more and I’ll be fit to be pickled.’

  ‘Well, I won’t say no,’ said Sara. David was pleased to see she was well and truly enjoying herself. Now that Lauren was almost ten months old, things were getting a little easier.

  ‘You did say you were the designated driver, didn’t you?’ Sara turned to David with a smile.

  ‘Just call me Parker,’ he said. ‘In fact, all I need is the hat and the uniform and . . .’ But he was interrupted by the ring of his cell. ‘I should have left the damn thing on its charger,’ he said.

  ‘But it might be Lady Penelope needing a lift to her country estate,’ joked Arthur.

  ‘Well, in that case.’ David picked up the call to say, ‘Cavanaugh.’

  ‘Cavanaugh? Oh gosh, I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number.’ There was a laugh at the other end of the line.

  ‘That’s okay, who were you after?’

  ‘Well, this is going to sound silly, but . . .’ The voice sounded like that of a young girl, probably about eighteen. ‘I was hoping you were Rob Lowe – you know, the actor.’

  The breath went out of him, just like that.

  ‘How . . . why?’

  ‘We found this cell phone, me and the other housekeeper. It was kinda water damaged but my boss told me to soak it in alcohol which sounded kinda hokey to me but I guess it worked.’ The girl took a breath. ‘Anyway, I used one of the office chargers to charge it and try and find out which guest it belonged to. It’s one of those regular Nokias. People leave them in the rooms all the time – and hardly ever come back for them.’

  ‘You said it belonged to a guest?’ asked David, trying to take it all in.

  ‘Yeah, I’m in housekeeping at the Grand Summit.’

  ‘In Newark?’ asked David, and he noted Sara’s eyes flash toward him.

  ‘Yeah. So like I said, I charged the phone and we scrolled through the contacts which were a little faint but still readable. And I was trying to pick one to ring – you know, to see if I could locate the owner and it was a toss-up between you and Matt Dillon.’

  And in that moment he knew exactly who the phone belonged to.

  ‘I think it belongs to a friend of mine,’ he said then, trying to keep his voice even. ‘The movie star thing was her way of giving people nicknames.’

  ‘You look like Rob Lowe?’

  ‘She used to think so.’

  ‘Well maybe I should keep your number in my phone as well.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry, I kind of have this weird sense of humour.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ said David.

  ‘You wanna call her and get her to pick it up?’

  ‘I would but . . .’ David hesitated. ‘Listen . . . um, Miss . . .’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said the girl. ‘My name is Garner, Garner Hancock, but people call me Gigi.’

  ‘Okay, Gigi, my name is David Cavanaugh and I’m an attorney from Boston. The woman who owns the phone, she’s away right now, but I could give it to her when I see her – if you don’t mind posting it to me.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gigi. ‘I guess that would be okay.’

  ‘Thanks Gigi,’ said David before giving her his address. ‘Just one more thing, Gigi. Where exactly did you find my friend’s phone?’

  ‘Behind the bedhead in room 302. It’s probably been there for some time. We only took the bedheads down as part of the refurbishment. The hotel’s looking hot.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said David. ‘Do you think you could send the cell express?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Gigi. ‘If you tell me one more thing.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Does Matt Dillon really look like Matt Dillon – and if so, is he available?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ David hesitated. ‘Yes he does, Gigi – but no, no he’s not.’

  47

  Boston, Massachusetts; two days later

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ replied David. ‘Come on, Joe. It’s not like you’ll be doing anything illegal here. All we need you to do is make a few enquiries. That’s all.’

  It was Wednesday and David and Sara were in Joe Mannix’s Boston PD headquarters office. Marilyn’s cell had arrived by express post earlier that morning and they’d spent the past two hours scrolling through her text messages – which were enlightening and frustrating all at the very same time.

  ‘This isn’t my case, David. In fact, it isn’t yours either. You need to hand that cell over to the Newark PD, and you need to do it now. It’s part of an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘No, Joe. It should be, but it’s not,’ said David, now sitting forward on Joe’s office sofa. ‘You said it yourself. McNally was locked out of this case by the FAP. Elliott Marshall is gunning for Chris Kincaid, and my guess is, this cell doesn’t play into his strategy.’

  ‘How do you know this Marshall didn’t requisition Maloney’s cell phone records as part of his investigations? He doesn’t need the actual cell to do that, David. If I was the lead investigator on the case, I would—’

  ‘But you’re not, Joe – and McNally was benched, and Marshall has Chris’s phone records showing he was trying to locate Marilyn on the day and night of her death, so the last thing he wants is someone throwing another possible suspect in the mix – thorough investigation or not.’

  Joe took a breath. He was perched on the edge of his birch laminate desk. The moral dilemma facing him was clear on his olive-skinned face.

  ‘Listen, David, nobody feels worse about McNally than I do. He’s a good cop – the best, but he didn’t exactly elaborate as to why the FAP got him bumped from the investigation.’

  ‘But he did tell you he had some reservations about the restrictions that were placed on his enquiries.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I don’t know what those enquiries involved. Maybe he was overstepping his mark. Maybe his wife’s death had taken its toll on him. This Marshall has his own squad on the case, so—’
<
br />   ‘You don’t believe a word you’re saying, Joe.’

  In the end Joe had to concede. ‘I guess not.’

  There was silence until Sara chimed in. ‘Listen Joe, at first I tended to agree with you. I wanted David to hand the phone over to the Newark PD, figuring Marshall already had Marilyn’s cell records – in which case, we had nothing to gain or lose. But then I did some research into the average longevity of cell phone records – and believe it or not, due to all the cell congestion, it stands at barely a matter of weeks. So even if Marshall did look into Marilyn’s cell history, chances are, considering she wasn’t identified until weeks after her death, the records he requested wouldn’t show what we have here, Joe – which is definitely something.’

  Joe’s brow furrowed.

  ‘All we ask is that you listen to us, Joe,’ Sara continued, pushing the point. ‘Just let us explain why we want to investigate this ourselves, before we share the information with others who might not have Marilyn Maloney’s best interests at heart.’

  David looked at Sara with pure admiration. He was so grateful to hear her utter the word ‘we’, for he had feared the reintroduction of the Kincaid case into their lives would cause her nothing but angst. But when he’d asked her straight out what she thought he should do, she’d not only told him that she did not want him to change himself for her or Lauren’s sakes, but that he should take on any case his conscience told him too. She also indicated that she had no intention of letting him do such chasing alone – they were a team, she had stressed, and always would be – and for that, no-one was happier than David.

  ‘All we’re asking is that you listen, Joe,’ Sara repeated.

  ‘You guys kill me,’ Joe finally said with a nod.

  And so Sara began at the beginning.

  Upon trawling through the cell phone’s memory, David and Sara discovered there had been nine messages sent to Marilyn Maloney’s cell phone on the day of her death. All were received after midday. Three appeared to be voice mails from Chris Kincaid’s home phone number and two were texts from his cell.