Matter of Trust (17 page)

‘A warrant?'

David then turned to Chris as if urging him to move forward and join their little group – a group that still awkwardly included the dark-haired friend.

‘I'm sorry,' said David to Connor's tall, broad-shouldered companion. ‘But we could really use some privacy here.'

‘Of course,' said the young man, stepping back to join the other boy who was hesitating in the doorway.

David lowered his voice. ‘I'm sorry, Rebecca, but there's been a murder. A woman is dead. Chris was in contact with her and the police need to rule him out as a—'

‘
Suspect
?' She finished his sentence in the only way it could be finished. ‘Dear God, David. Who? I mean . . . ?' Her voice was weak and low, her grey eyes darting instinctively from left to right as if to check that no-one of importance was within earshot.

‘It's Marilyn,' David said, realising as soon as he spoke that his forth-rightness sounded harsh. ‘I'm sorry, Rebecca. I know how close you two were in the past.'

And he caught it there, just for a second, a little contraction of her lower left cheek. An involuntary spasm that David sensed signified both Rebecca's reluctance to be cast back to a time when her existence was barely a blip on most people's radar, and grief for the girl she once idolised – her stunningly beautiful best friend.

‘I am sorry,' she said. ‘Of course, I haven't seen her for years, but . . .'

‘Maybe not,' said David, knowing there was no time for platitudes. ‘But Chris has.'

Chris shifted uncomfortably next to them as Rebecca pursed her lips together – her fingers twisting into knots and her narrow neck contorting in a swallow as her eyes flicked left to her husband before focusing on David once again.

‘They think Chris killed Marilyn?' she asked.

‘Someone hit Marilyn over the head – then threw her in the freezing waters of the Passaic. The police are determined to find the person who did this to her.'

‘Dear God,' she said again, her head turning instinctively toward her startled twin daughters, her white-faced teenage son and his two best friends.

‘Rebecca, you need to listen to me.' David broke the silence and moved a fraction closer. ‘Wherever this goes, Chris is going to need you – you and the kids. The police are looking for probable cause – something,
anything
to tie Chris to Marilyn's murder, so if you know of anything that might . . . ?'

‘No. God, no,' she said.

David nodded. ‘Good. So the only thing you need to do for now is
stand by your husband. You need to form a united front, from this second onward. Do you think you can do that?'

‘Of course,' she said, moving forward to take Chris's hand.

‘That's good,' said David. ‘Thank you, Rebecca.'

David realised he was finally speaking Rebecca's language. Rebecca had always functioned best when under instruction, when she thought she was doing what was expected, when she believed she was helping out.

‘Mrs Kincaid,' came a voice from behind them. ‘My name is Detective Harold McNally from Newark PD and I need the keys to your car.'

 

‘I told you we wouldn't find anything,' said Carla Torres as she zipped up her faux fur-lined parka before following McNally across the now partitioned lawn. It was true; forty-five minutes of searching had not turned up a thing, but McNally was patient – unlike the hordes that were circling the front yard like hyenas.

The weather had not deterred them. In fact, if anything the members of the press had multiplied – like a school of piranhas smelling the circulation figures of their surefire hit front page. McNally grabbed Torres by the elbow and directed her around a yellow tape divider, before pointing northward toward the end of the street.

‘She certainly gave herself some distance,' said Carla, referring to the fact that Rebecca Kincaid had parked her $150,000 BMW SUV right at the other end of the crescent.

‘Maybe she saw the circus out front and decided the better option was to put her head down and keep on trucking.'

‘But she changed her mind.'

‘It's a politician's wife's prerogative.'

‘Or her duty,' said Carla.

McNally shrugged.

‘So, when are you switching to detective?' he asked as they made their way to the car. ‘I need a permanent partner, Carla, not some fair weather investigator with nothing better to do on a Sunday.'

‘Oh sure – that's what I do every weekend, McNally, hang out by the phone waiting for a fancy invitation from you.'

McNally grinned.

‘And not that it's any of your business,' Carla continued, ‘but I spoke to
the lieutenant last week. He said I could move tomorrow. He knows you need a partner and I was the only one stupid enough to put up my hand.' She offered him a half smile. ‘He just wanted me to keep it quiet – you know, until it's formalised.'

‘Formalised as in you're expecting him to organise some fancy black-tie event?' he joked, happy he and his old partner were about to be reunited.

‘You don't even own a dinner suit,' she said.

‘I could rent one.'

‘You're full of shit, McNally.'

‘And you're just grateful I'm willing to take you on again.'

‘Oh, please.'

They reached the car. It was an oversized BMW X5 and the water droplets on its slick dark surface shone like a sea of black pearls. McNally hit the same button twice to unlock the driver's and then the passenger doors before hitting a third button to flip the trunk.

‘Jesus,' said Torres. ‘Compared to my Volkswagen this car is a mansion.'

‘Compared to your Volkswagen, a go-cart is a mansion.'

Torres smiled as she put on a pair of latex gloves before climbing carefully into the front passenger seat. ‘Nothing in the glove box bar some service records and a still cool bottle of Evian,' she reported.

‘Nothing in the back bar a tennis racket and a new pair of too-white trainers.'

‘This car is spotless,' said Torres. ‘It even smells like we're standing in the middle of a forest.'

‘That forest smell is installed when you buy one of these bastards,' said McNally.

‘That's a lie.'

‘The 150K has to be justified somehow,' he said.

‘Let's try the trunk,' she said.

It was a game they played – two experienced cops chatting casually while their eyes searched methodically for the smallest pieces of evidence that could make or break the Essex County prosecutor's case. The process appeared casual, but in fact it was extremely disciplined. Trials had been won and lost on the initial search for proof of culpability – and this one, being what it was, had to be played strictly by the book.

The rain had started again and the air was crisp against their skin.
The trunk operated on some sort of air pump that made a soft gushing sound when the door was extended. The grey-carpeted space was netted off into compartments dividing various groups of specific items. Sporting equipment in one corner, a wicker basket in the other, a box of middle-of-the-road CDs in the right-hand side foreground, a small grocery bag alongside it.

‘The woman is organised,' said McNally.

‘The woman is anal,' said Carla, as McNally proceeded to unload the items in the trunk.

‘What are you going to do when we find nothing?' she asked as she released a line of netting to get at the sporting equipment.

‘
If
we fail to find anything substantial,' said McNally, ‘we'll head over to see The Marshall.' McNally was talking about the Essex County First Assistant Prosecutor, a short, stocky, bulldog of a man by the name of Elliott Marshall. The FAP had a chip on his shoulder bigger than the Empire State Building, and McNally knew he'd be chomping at the bit to flick some of it at the man whose wife's car they were now searching.

‘He won't touch this,' said Torres. ‘It's a conflict of interest.' Torres was referring to the fact that Chris Kincaid used to be Marshall's immediate boss in the County Prosecutor's Office.

‘Oh, he'll touch it, all right. He'll make fucking love to it if we manage to provide him with some evidence.'

‘Which we're not going to do,' she repeated, unleashing another netting barrier, this one somewhat bent at its catch. ‘This man is too smart to . . .'

Then Torres stopped, and lifted her knees so that she might climb into the trunk proper. ‘Move out of the way,' she said, using her free arm to push McNally to the side.

‘What is it?' asked a now anxious McNally. ‘All I can see is your ass.'

Torres crab-crawled sideways, before extending her shoulder and reaching beyond the picnic basket to the far corner of the trunk. She lifted a piece of carpet, McNally craning his neck to see what she was trying to retrieve.

‘What is it?' he said again, but Carla did not answer. Instead she twisted at the waist to face her partner, her right gloved hand now extending toward him.

‘This look familiar?' she asked at last.

McNally took in the piece of evidence before him. ‘Jesus,' he said, meeting Carla's eye.

‘You were right,' she smiled.

‘We've got him,' said McNally. ‘He's ours.'

E
ssex County First Assistant Prosecutor Elliott Marshall was not an attractive man. He knew this. He had no illusions about his physical disadvantages, just as he had no doubt that he was the bigger man for them. Not literally of course, because he was only five foot five and had suffered the majority of his years in high school being referred to as the ‘eighth dwarf' – or, more specifically, ‘Ugly'. But Marshall had never let it get to him. People said he suffered from short man's syndrome and they were right. He had no doubt his miniature stature was the spur for his achieving the highest score in his graduating class at Rutger's School of Law. In fact, he truly believed if he had been born tall and handsome – like, say, Chris Kincaid – he would never have reached his potential.

‘You've arrested him,' he said, as he strode into the reception area of the now buzzing 3rd Precinct. Marshall never bothered with hellos or any other form of greeting, preferring to cut to the chase.

‘Yes,' said the ex-uniform called McNally, and Marshall started to feel a slight internal panic at the inexperience of the lead detective on this case.

‘You made detective,' said Marshall.

‘Seems so,' said McNally.

‘Who's your partner?' Marshall didn't give a shit if McNally noticed
there were no congratulations to follow. He had no time for platitudes, there was a case to build and it had to be done right from the outset.

‘Carla Torres,' answered McNally.

Marshall looked directly up the tall detective's nose. ‘I don't know her,' he said.

‘She's new.'

‘Where's she from?'

‘New York,' said McNally.

‘She got some experience in homicide?' returned Marshall.

‘She taught me all I know.'

Marshall nodded, before pushing past McNally and heading for the stairs. ‘Well, let's go and see her then,' he said. ‘The sooner I brief my squad on this one, the better.' Marshall was referring to the Essex County Prosecutor's Office Homicide Squad whose job it was to investigate homicides alongside the police. He could tell by McNally's expression that this didn't make the newbie very happy. But that didn't worry him one iota, because basically he couldn't give a shit.

‘If this Torres is the senior detective in this investigation I want to get her take on things from the outset,' Marshall went on. ‘Then we can all work this one together – and make sure it's by the book.'

‘Right,' said McNally – and Marshall could tell the ex-decorated cop was not used to playing second fiddle.

‘One thing you gotta know about me, Detective. I don't have any problem working with women, just like I got no problem delegating the lead to the younger detective, or bringing down a tall poppy like Senator Chris Kincaid.'

‘We're in good hands then,' said McNally.

‘Watch and learn, McNally. Watch and learn.'

 

Twenty minutes later, just as David Cavanaugh was pulling up in front of the 3rd Precinct intending to see his client the moment he was out of ‘processing', Connor Kincaid was waiting for his friends to pick him up from a freshly painted bus shed just three blocks from his palatial Short Hills home.

Connor had needed some air – he'd needed
air
and some
space
to discuss this with his two best friends alone. Home had been a nightmare – his
mother sobbing, his grandmother demanding the police take his father out the back door, and his twin sisters screaming at the bad men who had shackled their daddy and dragged him out the front like an outlaw headed for a lynching. His dad's old friend David was barking at the big detective, and the priest – Father Mike – was supporting his mother by the elbow, so no-one had noticed when Connor slid out the side door, and for the second time in the past month, he was relieved that his movements had gone unnoticed.

Jack didn't have a car, but his mother drove a new Nissan Pathfinder which he'd borrowed for the day. And no-one was more grateful than Connor when he saw the powerful silver V8 round the corner (its tires slipping just a little) and into the street that ran perpendicular to his own.

‘Get in the back,' yelled Jack, through the half-open tinted window as he pulled jerkily into the bus stop. Connor did – quickly.

‘What happened after we left?' asked Will, now twisting in the front passenger side seat to look Connor in the eye.

‘What do you think happened?' said Connor. ‘They arrested my dad. It's over.'

‘The fuck it's over,' said Will. ‘The cops have no proof.'