Matter of Trust (16 page)

‘No,' answered David.

‘Then I suppose he wants your advice on how to set Marilyn up financially. He wants to move on, but look out for her. Am I right?'

But David could not avoid the inevitable any longer.

‘Marilyn's dead, Mike,' he said at last.

Mike said nothing, his mouth opening ever so slightly, his fist now white around the cool green bottle before him. His face drained of colour. His body shivered. ‘She's dead?'

David rested his hand on his good friend's forearm. ‘I'm sorry, Mike. I know how much you . . .'

‘Yes, I . . . she . . . Oh God, David, what have I done?' The look in Mike's eyes changed to one of pure panic.

‘What is it?' asked David, alarmed at the expression on his old friend's face.

‘I could have stopped this, DC. I could have advised her differently.'

‘Advised her? Mike, I don't understand.'

‘People expect a priest to know the answer to everything, but in the end I'm just a man who's screwed up one too many times.' He took a deep breath before facing his old friend again. ‘We all had our thing, DC; Chris was the politician, you were the diplomat, Rebecca was the shadow, me the smart ass. But Marilyn, she was always the survivor, until . . . Oh God, please forgive me. She is dead . . . and this is all my fault.'

*

There was no time for David to react. Just as Mike Murphy admitted blame for Marilyn Maloney's death, David's cell phone shrieked above the low-talking voices of the handful of down-headed occupants at the other end of the bar.

‘Chris,' said David, recognising the number. David held one hand up to Mike as if to say, ‘This conversation is far from over.'

‘David,' said Chris, the anxiety in his voice clear. ‘Thank God. Where are you? I need you here, at my place, right now. Jesus.
Shit.
This is moving way too fast. They're here, DC. Jesus, they're here.'

David turned in his seat so that his voice would project away from the barman and toward Mike. ‘Who's there, Chris? What are you talking about?'

‘The police. McNally. Two cars – one issue, the other unmarked. They've just pulled up in front of my house. The fucking cop car has its siren lights on for Christ's sake. McNally's getting out. He's talking to the uniforms. Jesus. Fuck.
Christ
.'

David felt a chill rise in his stomach. Chris's panic was contagious, and David swallowed in an effort to keep his voice even. ‘Let them in. Be courteous. But don't say a thing until I get there.'

‘I . . . All right. How far away are you?'

‘I'm in Lincoln Park – with Mike.'

‘Mike is with you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Bring him too.'

David didn't argue. Chris was in trouble, and they always faced trouble together. ‘Okay,' he said, rising from his stool before throwing a twenty on the counter. ‘We're on our way.'

G
loria Kincaid could not believe what she was seeing.

Police cars – two of them, one containing two officers and the second with two who looked to be detectives, a man and a Hispanic woman wearing long brown boots.

Maybe it was just a case of them attending the wrong address. There had been several noise complaints against the Simpsons up the road, who continued to allow their builders to work on their third-floor extension throughout the weekend despite laws regarding noise pollution on a Sunday.

No, thought Gloria, this is about
her
. She could feel it. That woman was incorrigible – even now.

Gloria did the only thing she could do. She grabbed her cashmere wrap from the living room sofa, checked her make-up in the mirror over the nineteenth century Arizona marble mantelpiece and strode confidently to her front door.

A minute later she was introducing herself to the man who was obviously in charge. A minute after that, Chris was opening his front door. A minute after that, the man named McNally and the female with the boots were excusing themselves to approach her son who was standing stock-still in his doorway. And a minute after that, the TV cameras arrived.

*

‘Shit,' said David as they rounded the corner from Spring Street into the leafy Walnut Crescent. He was driving Mike's car. It was a standard brown sedan. It had a Belmont Park betting form in the middle compartment and a crucifix hanging from the rear-vision mirror.

‘Oh no,' said Mike, his face a sickly shade of grey.

‘Are you okay?' asked David.

‘Yes,' Mike answered in the affirmative but shook his head in the negative before pointing up the road before them. ‘The media.'

David looked out to see the four cars and three television vans parked in a vertical line along Chris's sidewalk. One was even blocking his drive, with a pretty reporter checking her lipstick in the van's frosty driver's-side mirror.

David spotted McNally's car and a marked Newark PD vehicle right out front, which was as it should be considering the police had gotten there first, and now a third police car rounded the corner behind them – obviously called in to keep the wolves at bay.

David manoeuvred Mike's car into a narrow space some twenty yards up the road, ignoring an angry-looking neighbour who, together with his wife and daughter, stood indignantly on their perfectly manicured lawn. Obviously a scene such as this was not commonplace in the picturesque Walnut Crescent in upper class Short Hills.

‘What's going on?' asked the man with a fresh look of horror on his face. ‘Is everything all right?' David realised he had spotted Mike's collar and perhaps assumed someone was in serious trouble in the normally respectable residence next door.

But neither he nor Mike answered as they cut across the neighbour's lawn toward Chris's open front door.

‘Where's McNally?' David asked the uniform manning the entrance. The officer looked more like a child than a bona fide cop – his black police-issue hat resting low upon his two large Mickey Mouse ears.

‘Who's asking?' The cop answered his question with a question.

‘My name is David Cavanaugh. I am Senator Kincaid's attorney.' And so it was said.

‘And I'm Father Michael Murphy, Mr Kincaid's priest.'

‘A priest and a lawyer,' smiled the cop. ‘Now there's a twosome.'

‘You guys spend most of your time mixing with criminals,' said David.

The cop shrugged as if to say, ‘Touché'. ‘Down the hall – in the living room, first door on your left.'

David and Mike pushed their way past another uniform travelling in the opposite direction. They squeezed left as the cop moved around a side table, almost knocking an intricately painted Chinese vase which sat underneath a gold-framed mirror. This first cop was followed by another, who stopped to lean against the cream and yellow-striped wallpaper so that he might dig into his pockets and put on a pair of clear latex gloves.

‘Shit,' whispered David to Mike. ‘McNally has a search warrant.'

Mike, still pale, didn't reply.

‘Detective.' David entered the living room – a large, classically furnished, high-ceilinged room decorated in various shades of red, orange and brown.

‘Mr Cavanaugh,' said McNally, this time failing to extend his hand.

‘What the hell is going on here?' asked David.

McNally's eyes flicked to David's left, and he went to open his mouth to query Mike's role in this little production. But, in the end, he just nodded at the priest and diverted his gaze back to David.

‘We have a warrant to search Senator Kincaid's home and vehicles.' McNally handed David two sheets of white paper covered in plain black type.

‘On what grounds?' David scanned the familiar form.

‘On the grounds that he lied to us,' said McNally. ‘The dead woman was his friend after all – or rather, your friend and his . . . whatever.'

David ignored the jibe. ‘The body was unrecognisable.'

‘Maybe to you, but you hadn't seen Ms Maloney in years, whereas we have evidence that your client here had . . .' McNally hesitated as if deciding how to word the rest of his sentence, ‘. . . more regular contact with the victim. I call Chris Kincaid your client because I assume that your role in regard to the senator has changed from friend to attorney.'

‘I'm both.'

‘Good,' said McNally. ‘Because before you put on your attorney hat and advise your client to continue to sit mute, you might consider, as a friend, how his lack of cooperation with the authorities will go down in court.'

‘Is my client under arrest?' asked David.

‘Not yet.'

‘Then he doesn't have to say jack to anyone – and has even less of an obligation if and when you make a second mistake by reading him his rights.'

‘And here I was thinking you were one of the few reasonable defence attorneys.'

‘And here I am giving a shit.'

David hadn't intended to be so combative, but something inside him had snapped. Chris's world was imploding and he felt a desperate need to help.

But then things got worse, as David looked across the room to see a pale-faced Chris sitting on the edge of a fancy brocade armchair, his mother, the steely-faced Gloria standing like a sentry beside him.

‘For God's sake, David Cavanaugh,' said Gloria as David and Mike approached them. No ‘Hello', no ‘Long time no see'. ‘That is not the way we do things around here.' Her words were sharp and bitter, shooting from her mouth in a volume barely above a whisper, but with the full impact of a shout.

‘Hello, Gloria,' said David, the first time he had ever called her that, an involuntary reaction to her using his full name as if he were still a kid.

‘We need to talk,' he said to Chris, grabbing his forearm and pulling him into a corner.

‘My son has no secrets from his mother,' said Gloria.

‘It's all right, Mother,' said Chris.

‘Gloria, why don't we go into the kitchen so you can make me a coffee?' said Mike.

‘You smell like you need one,' said Gloria, obviously picking up the malty scent of beer on Mike's breath.

Mike placed his hand on her elbow and guided her outside the room.

‘Why are they here?' asked David then, his face mere inches from Chris's.

‘I have no idea.'

‘Bullshit, Chris. They wouldn't be here unless they had some proof of your relationship with Marilyn. They're looking for something to tie you two together.'

‘Then they won't find anything.'

‘You were that careful?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're sure?'

‘
Yes
,' Chris raised his voice, before running his hand through his thick dark hair and lowering it once again. ‘Jesus, David.' He took a breath. ‘How do they know?'

‘My guess is McNally used that key. He went to her apartment, probably got the super to open it up.'

‘But I gave a negative ID on the body.'

‘And you lied through your fucking teeth,' David reminded him. ‘What would they have found at Marilyn's?'

Chris blinked as if trying to clear his head. ‘I don't know.'

‘Think Chris – love letters, gifts, anything like that?'

‘No, we didn't do that stuff.'

‘You ever pay her rent or give her money or . . . ?'

‘I wanted to, but she wouldn't let me – she said it would've made her feel like a whore.'

Chris's words hung thick and heavy in the air between them.

‘What about personal stuff? You ever leave anything at her place, like clothes or toiletries?'

‘I told you, we only met at hotels.'

‘So you've never been inside her apartment?'

‘No . . . I . . .' Chris was lying again. David knew it. ‘What?'

‘Earlier this week.'

‘What?'

‘When I went to see the super. I said I was worried – I asked him to let me in.'

‘You
what
?' David could not believe what he was hearing.

‘I know I should've told you that he let me into her apartment, but honestly, David, I didn't find a thing – I mean, she wasn't there, so I left.'

David shook his head, trying to clear it of the confusion. ‘Is a search of this place going to turn up anything?' he said, gesturing at the palatial living room around him.

‘No.'

‘You're telling me the truth?'

‘Yes.'

But then there was another interruption – in the form of three young
men who moved quickly into view. They stopped short at the living room doorway – a boy that could only be Chris's son Connor, and two other young men who had to be his friends.

‘What's going on?' asked the taller friend, the one with the dark hair, as he pushed past the other two and into the room.

‘Will,' said Chris. ‘Connor . . .' He looked toward his son.

Seconds after that, there was a new wave of activity as two little girls in matching pale pink Paddington Bear coats wiggled past the three boys – and they were followed closely by their mother, a look of pure horror on her narrow, ashen face.

‘C
hris, what is it?' asked Rebecca Kincaid, coming over to her husband. David noticed Connor Kincaid's eyes dart nervously between his father and his two friends. Then, at a nod from Chris, Connor wrapped his long arms around his sisters and shuffled them cautiously into the room.

‘Rebecca,' said David. ‘It's good to see you again.' He knew that she had seen him at church earlier that morning, but he also knew Rebecca had never been good at greeting people and so had not been offended by her failure to seek him out.

‘Hello, David,' she said. ‘It's good to see you too but . . . I don't understand why . . .' Her eyes returned to her husband.

‘The police have a warrant,' said David.