Matter of Trust (36 page)

‘You heading toward the study hall?'

It looked as if the boy was not sure how to answer. ‘Yes, Father,' he conceded.

‘Then I'll walk with you. I have to drop by Father Patrick's office in any case. He's got a bee in his bonnet about my encouraging some of the boys to wear iPods in the library.' Mike gestured for the obviously reluctant Jack to follow him. ‘I don't see the problem really. I think music helps you study. CDs used to work for me.'

Jack offered a nervous laugh in response.

‘Your mom sounds good,' Mike went on as they stepped out onto the sun-filled quadrangle.

‘Yeah,' replied Jack.

‘She still flat out with all her—'

‘Yeah,' Jack cut in. ‘The more she does, the more that needs doing, at least that's what she says. Mom's always got something going on.'

Mike couldn't help but wonder if Vicki Delgado had failed to notice what was going on with her own son in recent weeks.

There was a moment's silence. ‘How's your brother?' asked Mike. ‘He still kicking butt on the basketball courts at UNC? I tell you, Jack, if anyone deserved that scholarship, it was Eddie. Not that you don't deserve the Harvard scholarship Jack, because I know how hard you've worked and—'

‘I didn't end up going for the scholarship, Father.'

‘You
didn't
?'

This was news to Mike; in fact, Mike had been the one who had helped Jack investigate the possible scholarships in the first place – written him the reference, helped him with the form. Harvard scholarships were notoriously restrictive – largely because the application criteria were often set by the family trusts that established them. Mike stopped in the centre of the quadrangle, forcing Jack to face him.

‘But the Louis and Ida Tatelman Award suited you down to the ground. It's given to those who've shown exceptional personal courage in the face of adversity – and given your dad's sacrifice for his country, and your and your mother's tireless efforts to help those affected by 9/11 . . . ?'

Jack's eyes jerked up from the bitumen to meet Mike's own. ‘Lots of kids' fathers died in 9/11, Father. Will, for example. He's suffered just as much as I have, maybe even more, but you don't see him coming to you for references, you don't see him complaining when things fail to go his way.'

The boy stopped short, as if realising he had said too much.

‘Will is a good friend to you,' said Mike, not sure how else to approach this. ‘I know he would never begrudge you applying for that scholarship, Jack.'

‘My decision on Harvard has nothing to do with Will,' Jack countered without missing a beat. ‘It was my mom who told me not to apply for the award, Father. She says there are others out there more worthy. Besides,' Jack went on in a rush, ‘my father set up a college fund. He put money away for me. So I'm going to pay my own way, just as my dad intended.' He exhaled, as if in punctuation to his final remark.

Mike replied with a nod. ‘Well, that's good news,' he said, patting Jack on the shoulder – noticing Jack give an involuntary shudder. Mike decided he couldn't hold it in any longer. ‘Listen son, if you ever need anyone to talk to . . .'

‘No.'

‘I mean, about anything,' Mike pressed on. ‘You know I have your back, Jack – and anything you tell me would be kept in the strictest of confidence.'

‘There's nothing to say, Father,' replied Jack, his eyes back on the bitumen. ‘I really need to go. I have a history final to study for.'

‘And I have an angry principal to placate,' smiled Mike, knowing there was no point in pressing the point – at least not yet.

Jack managed a smile. ‘Okay, thanks, Father – and good luck with the iPod thing.'

‘iPods work for you – right, Jack?' Mike asked, going for one last try.

‘Not sure anything works for me, Father,' replied Jack, but immediately his face showed he regretted it. ‘I'm sorry, Father, I have to go.'

And Mike watched as the boy walked, then jogged, and then ran, trying to get as far away from Mike as was humanly possible – as if his life depended on it.

‘O
ne hundred thousand dollars.'

Will took one look at the crystal chandelier above him and the millions of dollars worth of artwork on the double-height walls and knew he could easily have upped the ante – but that was not what this was all about.

‘Get out of here,' responded Gloria Kincaid, walking him back toward the door.

They had barely made it to her living room when he had started the conversation with the six figure sum. Something about this entire situation made him feel like Tony Soprano – minus the gut, the wife beater, and the open silk robe.

Gloria turned to see that Will was not following her. ‘I need you to leave my house
now
,' she reiterated, her left heel clicking in punctuation on the polished marble floor.

‘I don't think so,' said Will. ‘In fact, I think you kicking me out at this point would be a huge mistake on your part.'

‘On the contrary, I think—'

‘Tell me something, Mrs Kincaid,' interrupted Will, determined to stick to the plan. ‘What do you think is the one thing that will make this mess go away?'

‘My son is innocent.'

‘You think?' asked Will, his eyebrows rising in punctuation. ‘From what I hear, his girlfriend was pretty pissed about the money.'

He heard the woman's breath catch.

‘I have to give you credit, though – a hundred Gs was a good offer for someone like Maloney. But then I suppose it's all relative. I mean, just think of the trouble she'd have caused if she'd have gone public – which ironically, in the end, I guess she
did.
And now the captain is going down with the ship.'

Gloria Kincaid swallowed as she strode back toward the living room, her eyes darting from left to right as if to make sure her housemaid was not within earshot. ‘How do you know all this?'

‘I know a lot of things, Mrs Kincaid. I know that your son had been screwing that woman senseless for decades. I know that his wife knew about it. I know that the girlfriend was in love with him – and that she believed he loved her back.'

‘That girl was a whore.'

‘And an expensive one by the sounds of things,' responded Will. ‘Which means your son might have done you a favour. Because, in all honesty, women like that, they have a tendency to keep showing up with their palms upturned.'

‘My son did
not
kill her,' she said, her porcelain cheeks now burning.

‘In all honesty, I don't really give a crap,' he said, drawing her into the living room and toward the chintz-covered sofa. ‘But the authorities
do
, Mrs Kincaid. In fact they've got a hard-on for your boy and as my dearly departed dad used to say, there's nothing worse than a prosecutor with a hard-on – which is what your son
used
to be.' Will knew he was pushing it, but sensed that unless he took the upper hand, the woman would throw him out. ‘A prosecutor, that is. The hard-on – well, that was what got him into trouble in the first place.'

She was on him then, advancing quickly to slap him squarely across the face. But she stopped short of asking him to leave – and Will forced himself to smile.

‘There's only one thing that's going to save your son, and that's providing the police with proof that he was nowhere near that apartment on the night of his girlfriend's death,' he said, deciding it was time to cut to the
chase. ‘Your son has no alibi – but imagine if he did? Imagine if the police had reason to suspect the real killer was still out there laughing in your famous son's face?'

Gloria said nothing, but he could tell her mind was ticking over.

‘You have a solution to my son's lack of alibi?' she asked after a time.

Will didn't reply, simply fished into his pocket and produced the item he had convinced Connor to lend him last night. It hadn't been hard – Connor would have given him the entire family fucking fortune if it meant saving his selfish father's neck.

Her reaction was instantaneous. ‘Where did you get that?'

‘You know where I got it. Your son has kept it in his glass-doored study cabinet ever since you bought him that mansion next door some twenty odd years ago. I've never been one for old shit myself, but Connor once told me this shiny timepiece was worth over 20,000 bucks, so . . .'

‘I don't believe this. You're admitting to me that you are nothing more than a common thief.'

‘Not so common – your average thief would never have been so careful. I waited over a year for the opportunity to swipe this fancy pocket watch. And you can thank your lucky stars that I just happened to choose the night of January 12 to do it.'

‘You stole it the night of the murder?'

‘Connor and Jack were upstairs doing some assignment. I was downstairs watching some stupid DVD. Connor had said earlier that his dad was stressed and had holed himself up with a bottle of bourbon in the study. I took a chance that he'd passed out, and I went to the study to . . .'

‘The study was locked,' she countered, obviously assuming she'd found a hole in his story – her face reading victory and disappointment all at the very same time.

‘And the spare key to it sits in a drawer on the far left-hand side of the kitchen pantry.'

‘You knew where Chris kept the key?'

‘Like I said, I'm anything but common.'

He could tell by the look on her face that she no longer doubted it.

Silence.

‘Was he there?' she asked.

In that moment, Will realised the old bird actually believed her son was
capable of murder. No – she was
sure
he had done it – but was holding on to some fine thread of hope that Will would tell her something to the contrary.

‘Does it matter one way or the other?'

‘Yes,' she said.

Will hesitated. ‘Then he was there.'

And she gave the slightest of shivers of relief – which was when Will knew it was time to move in for the kill.

‘Listen to me. I may not be a lawyer but my father taught me enough to know that justice is all a matter of perception. Reasonable doubt, Mrs K – that's what it's all about. All you need to do is establish that there is a possibility your son is innocent. The people of this fine state like your son, Mrs Kincaid. They want to believe he didn't bang that woman and dump her still breathing body into the freezing cold waters of the Passaic.'

He saw her start at his knowledge about the ‘still breathing' part, but she was beyond questioning how he did or did not know things.

‘I will come forward and admit I stole this stupid fucking relic.' He held up the watch again. ‘I'll even face the court hat-in-hand and ask God to forgive me for hiding my evil deed for so long. But like I said, it'll cost you 100K, the same amount that you and your son offered to the whore – which is really quite a bargain when you think about how much is at stake.'

Will noticed the mini bar in the corner, and proceeded to walk over and pour himself half a glass of Gloria Kincaid's finest vodka. And she did not protest, merely stood there as he downed the strong clear liquid in one smooth swallow.

‘The prosecution will claim I paid you to say this,' she said.

‘You did, but so what. They won't be able to prove it.'

‘How do I know this conversation won't come back to bite me?' she asked.

‘You don't,' he said, pouring himself another drink.

And then she did the strangest thing – she turned on her heels and walked from the room – leaving Will, his heart now beating in double time, wondering if she had dismissed him, or worse still, gone to another room in her fancy mansion to call the fucking cops.

But then she was back, a thick white envelope in her hands.

‘Here is $10,000 in cash.' She held out the envelope in the very tip of her fingers, so that his hand would not connect with hers. ‘And there will be no more until you have given your statement to the police. And if you ever mention this conversation to anyone, if you ever even contemplate saying this meeting took place, I can assure you I will deny it and bury your bastard ass faster than you can say “son-of-a-drug-addict-whore”.'

Will flinched.

‘That's right, William, there is very little I don't know about the people around here. Not that this situation is a surprise, given the rumours about your father and the fact that the apple does not fall far from the tree.'

Will felt the resentment rise inside him. ‘My mother sleeps with men for drugs and you do six-figure deals with young men a third of your age with balls big enough to take you on – so tell me, Mrs K, who is the bigger whore?'

Gloria Kincaid blinked. ‘You need to leave,' she said.

‘On my way,' said Will, downing a final vodka before turning toward the door. ‘But don't expect this to happen straight away. I'll need to pick my moment.'

And as she closed the door behind him, and he caught his reflection in her too-clean front windows, he felt vomit rise thick and hot in his throat. And he was not sure if the nausea was triggered by relief at what he had accomplished, or the realisation that he was standing on a doorstop clutching an envelope full of money, just like his old man had before him.

‘N
o boots,' said David, now down on his hands and knees as he rifled through the shoes lined up neatly at the base of Marilyn Maloney's closet. He was trying desperately to ignore the discomfort of being in his old friend's home – its smells, its clean but cheaply decorated style – the pictures of Marilyn as a young girl on the night stand stinging him with a fresh sense of grief.

Late last night, after their discovery of the impostor who'd called himself Dallas Winston, McNally had told David about the boots – and the fact that building super, Paul Sacramoni, was certain Marilyn Maloney had been wearing them, and not expensive designer sandals, mere hours before her death. They talked about the possibility that Marilyn had changed her mind about meeting the person she thought was Chris – and had slipped into the sandals to dress herself up for him, but this theory went against everything the super had relayed of his last conversation with Marilyn – and David sensed that the Marilyn he knew would be too proud to back down and seek out Chris, especially after the insult of the $100,000.