Matter of Trust Read online

  ‘Is there anything wrong, Christopher?’ she asked, understanding there was no way he would confide in her – at least not about this.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, escorting her off the stage and toward the rest of his family. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, knowing he would be fine in the long run – better than fine if truth be told. ‘Look, why don’t I ring the Governor and tell him you’ll pop into the lunch briefly? And then I’ll instruct Denise to hold your calls for the rest of the afternoon so you can focus on clearing your backlog, and start tomorrow afresh.’

  10

  Newark, New Jersey

  Chris Kincaid knew the house would be empty. Thursday was the day Rebecca took the girls to ballet class – and Connor had basketball practice from six till eight.

  He used to look forward to Thursdays – when he’d finish work early and meet Marilyn at one location or another, hotel rooms scattered about the city, all dark and discreet.

  Despite what most people would assume, it was never about the sex. Of course they made love, but not every time. In fact, more often than not of late, their meetings had been spent sitting, talking, holding each other warm and tight until 10 pm approached and Chris would head for home.

  She never asked him to drive her home. She said that if they had a car accident or got pulled over by the police there would be too many assumptions made and too few ways to explain them. She was like that – always thinking of everyone else except herself. And to some degree he knew he took advantage of her selflessness, by having his cake, and eating it too.

  But he was paying for it now. Despite all the responsibilities of work and family, Marilyn Maloney was all that he could think about – Marilyn and David, and what his attorney friend might reveal when Chris finally got the chance to return his call.

  It was almost seven. The corporate heads of technology lunch had dragged on until four, after which several of the more influential diners had suggested a few quiet whiskies in the Sheraton’s private bar. And despite Chris’s desperation to call his old schoolfriend to see what he’d discovered, he had done what was expected of him and turned off his cell so that he might listen and respond and smile and impress and lay the foundations for the next chapter in his flourishing political career. But all the time, all he could think of was the sparkle in her eyes, the sweet smell of her hair and the warmth of her body as she lay her head against his shoulder and told him that she wanted nothing from him bar his love – and that she had resolved long ago where she belonged and where she didn’t, and that she was grateful for the little they had.

  ‘Dad,’ said Connor Kincaid as his father switched on the kitchen light and saw the three boys sitting on the granite-topped kitchen counter before him. He had obviously given his son a start – which was more than understandable given Chris was home much earlier than usual and the boys were sitting in the semi-darkness cupping three cans of ice cold Buds.

  ‘Basketball got cancelled and I . . .’ Connor trailed off, obviously not sure how to explain himself. Chris felt an almighty wave of nostalgia – for those three other kids, all those years ago, who used to steal the odd beer or two from their parents’ refrigerators, and sit comforted by the dark in some out of the way household corner, feeling nervous and courageous at the same time.

  ‘Is there another one of those in the fridge for me?’ he asked, and he saw his son’s shoulders relax.

  ‘Sure,’ said Connor, jumping from the bench, a look of confusion and relief on his dark narrow face. Connor was not used to anyone giving him a break, and Chris decided then and there that was one of many things that had to change around here. Life was short, after all.

  ‘Hi, Mr Kincaid,’ said the boy nearest him, and Chris took the opportunity to focus on his son’s two guests – once again finding a strange sense of comfort in the identity of the two boys sitting before him.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, moving into the kitchen proper and extending his hand toward the good-looking, brown-haired kid before him. ‘Will,’ he said, turning to the second boy – a taller, darker, older kid who was eighteen but could pass for twenty-five. ‘It’s good to see you both. Did you boys catch up at Saint Stephen’s this morning?’

  It was a fair question. Jack Delgado and Will Cusack were not part of Connor’s usual private school crowd. The three boys had met in September 2002, when Chris had helped organise a fundraising rally a year after the 9/11 attacks. The rally honoured the ‘Brave 37’ men of the New York/New Jersey Port Authority Police Department who had died on that fateful day – men who included George Delgado and John Cusack. What made it worse, at least in Jack’s case, was the fact Jack’s brother had been killed as well. George Delgado had been freelancing for extra cash as a part-time security officer at the World Trade Center – and he had taken Jack’s twin brother Joshua to work with him that morning because the boy had a lunchtime appointment with an orthodontist in Manhattan.

  Jack and Will had grown up as friends – their parents enrolling them in the same Catholic elementary and high schools. And when, at the 2002 fundraiser, Chris recognised their school uniforms as the one he had worn as a kid, he’d introduced himself to their mothers and invited them around for dinner. And despite his own mother’s protests that this was way beyond his political obligations, Chris was glad that he had, for Connor had struck up a friendship with the pair – a friendship that had continued despite their social and economic separation.

  It was Will, the more confident of the two, who answered Chris’s question. ‘We cornered Connor after your speech, Senator,’ he said. ‘And he invited us around for a . . .’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Chris, finding a strange comfort in being surrounded by kids from his old neighbourhood. ‘But, if you don’t mind, I am going to take my beer into the study.’ All these memories were reminding him of the task at hand – the need to return the brief message left by his old schoolfriend late this afternoon.

  ‘I’ll assume that was your one and only Bud, though.’ He managed a smile as he met Jack Delgado’s eye. ‘I know both your moms, and I don’t think they’d appreciate my serving a trio of underage boys some icy-cold Buds before dinner.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Will. ‘You’re a champion, Mr K, and your secret is safe with us,’ he added.

  Chris could have sworn Connor shuddered.

  ‘You know, Will, you are one of the few people in this city who feels comfortable enough to call me Mr K,’ he responded, with what he hoped sounded like a light-hearted chuckle. ‘And you have to promise me that whatever title they end up putting before my name, that you will never call me anything else.’

  He looked at Connor, whose dark, brooding face managed a rare smile.

  ‘You got it, future Mr President. Oops! I mean, Mr K,’ said Will.

  Chris grinned, thinking this kid probably had the makings of a President himself.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Connor then, and for the slightest of moments he thought he detected a trace of sadness in his son’s dark eyes.

  ‘No problem, son,’ he said as he took the beer from Connor’s outstretched hand, their eyes meeting for just a second before Connor dropped his gaze.

  Unable to help himself, Chris drew his son into a tight and unexpected embrace – Connor’s body taut and stiff, obviously not used to such open displays of affection in a household devoid of physical shows of emotion.

  ‘I love you, son,’ he whispered into his oldest child’s ear, before releasing him once again, and moving quickly, quietly from the room.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  It was barely eight but Sara had already fallen asleep horizontally across the bed, exhausted from hours of trying to get an over-energetic Lauren to drift off for at least an hour or two. David sat quietly in the living room, the only light coming from the unusually strong moon beam and the muted TV whose colours danced like rainbows across the kitchen annexe wall.

  His cell was resting on the sofa beside him, and he sa
w it light up before the ringtone had a chance to kick in. He scooped it up quickly and pressed the receive button so as not to disturb the peace around him, the only noise coming from the hum of the dishwasher, and the unusually loud beating of his heart.

  ‘Chris,’ he said.

  ‘DC,’ his friend replied.

  After Chris had apologised for not having had the opportunity to return his call sooner, David started from the beginning and told his friend everything Joe had shared with him earlier in the day. Chris did not interrupt, David hearing his even breathing on the other end of the line.

  And then when David had finally finished, Chris asked the question that David had known he would. And despite his promise to himself, David found himself answering the only way that he could.

  11

  Newark, New Jersey

  It was early Saturday morning and Detective Harry McNally was seated in Salicia Curtis’s Norfolk Street conference room – the Chief Medical Examiner was dressed down in jeans and a cable knit sweater, but still looked uncannily like Angelina Jolie.

  ‘Thanks for coming in on a Saturday, Sal,’ said McNally.

  ‘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.’

  12

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Miracle 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.