Matter of Trust (5 page)

‘Morning to you too,' said his friend and former squad partner Officer Carla Torres with a look of poorly concealed worry on her narrow pretty face. ‘How come they called you, McNally?' she asked, and Harry knew the question sprung from her desire to protect him.

‘The night shift guys were on another call and I guess they like the idea of dragging the newbie out of bed,' he answered, keen to deflect her concern. ‘What about you, Carla? I thought you were working the day shift?'

‘I was,' she said, tilting her head to indicate he should follow her toward the water's edge. ‘But I switched with Plaza. Ramon won his school's Young Inventor award,' she smiled, referring to her youngest son, Ramon Torres Junior. ‘And he's getting some plaque with his name engraved on it at his school's morning assembly. I even bought myself a new digital camera so I can record the moment for his dad.' Carla's husband, Ramon Senior, was a marine currently serving in Afghanistan.

‘Good for Ramon,' said McNally, smiling despite the cold, and they slowed their pace as they neared the levy.

The Passaic River was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the beacons that shone twenty-four-seven above the train tracks at the nearby Newark Penn Station. The edges of the river were frozen, but a determined flow still pushed down its middle, forging a path to a similarly icy Newark Bay.

‘So what have we got?' asked McNally, finally willing his hands from his pockets so that he could put on a pair of clear latex gloves.

‘A floa—' Torres began, then caught herself. ‘Floater' was police vernacular for a body found partially submerged, and Harry guessed the well-meaning Carla had decided using the colloquialism in his presence might be a little insensitive. ‘An unidentified drowning victim,' she corrected herself. ‘An early-morning jogger called it in.' Torres pointed to a skinny white-faced guy being questioned by another pair of uniforms a few yards to their left. ‘The ECPO's homicide guy hasn't shown as yet, but their crime scene unit's here – and they're about to pull the body out.'

The Essex County Prosecutors Office sent a detective and a unit of crime scene technicians to scenes like this as a matter of protocol.

Torres and McNally joined the group congregated at the edge of the river.

‘The CSUs are having some trouble getting the generator up and running,' she continued. ‘I figured you'd want to get as much illumination as possible so I told them not to pull it up until the lights popped.'

McNally was grateful for Torres's diligence. An experienced cop knew that a body that had been submerged for some time deteriorated at an extremely rapid rate as soon as it hit the surface. To put it bluntly, the skin sometimes slipped right off, a thought that forced McNally to swallow.

‘The ME on her way?' he asked, keeping it strictly business.

‘Yeah, Curtis got her make-up call,' said Torres. It was a running joke that most of the cops used when referring to Newark's Chief Medical Examiner, Salicia Curtis. The attractive Curtis never failed to turn up at a crime scene looking like she'd just come off the set of a big-budget Hollywood movie – her long brown hair bouncing in waves of curls, her French-polished nails just visible through the transparent latex gloves.

‘She's about ten or so away,' Torres added. ‘Might even be five if she decides to forgo the mascara.'

McNally knew what his old friend was doing, injecting some humour into a situation that was anything but funny.

‘Nothing wrong with a woman looking after herself, Carla,' he managed a smile.

‘Is that your way of saying I don't?'

But McNally did not answer, and Torres did not push the point, as a loud crack signalled the explosion of white light that burst from the techs' two transportables.

McNally took a long, cold breath as he raised his hand against the brightness and heard the winch crank into action. ‘Here we go,' he found himself saying as the water gushed, the hoist whined and the body of a woman rose jerkily from the cold, dark waters of the murky Passaic.

McNally swallowed once again as the lifeless form swung horizontally, almost ghostlike, under the strong fluorescent lights – her body bloated, her pale skin grey, and her long, white-blonde hair lank and heavy like a trail of silver seaweed behind her.

Boston, Massachusetts

S
ara was in David's office when the call came. She'd left Lauren with the sitter – a young girl named Stacey they were trialling as a permanent nanny given Sara's six months maternity leave was almost up. David knew that despite his wife's relish for her new role as a mother, she was also keen to get back to work as quickly as possible. Especially since their boss Arthur Wright was currently housebound after much-delayed double knee replacement surgery.

‘Cavanaugh,' said David, answering his direct line.

‘David,' said Joe.

David's eyes flickered automatically toward Sara. Last night, after Lauren had finally gone down, he had spent a good hour telling Sara about Chris's call and the history between him and Marilyn. Sara had lay in his arms quietly, listening to every word. Not making any judgments bar suggesting that Joe was right and Chris Kincaid may need to come clean about his current involvement with his old girlfriend.

‘Hi Joe,' said David now, sitting forward in his chair. ‘How did it go?'

‘I haven't spoke to McNally yet,' Joe told him.

David felt his brow furrow. ‘Why not?'

‘I found out the guy has finally made detective – and when I called he was busy testifying on some murder in court.'

‘Good for McNally,' said David, before returning to silence – David was not sure where Joe was going with this, so he gave him the room to continue.

‘Anyway,' Joe went on. ‘I made another call this morning and McNally was out again – but this time, according to the desk sergeant, on a new case involving the discovery of the body of a female found early this morning in the Passaic River near Penn Station.'

David knew the location.

‘So then, while I was waiting for McNally to return my call, I figured it couldn't hurt to see what I could find out. At first I thought there was no reason why we should be linking this new vic to your missing friend, but there were a couple of things that . . .' Joe took a breath, perhaps trying to work out the best way to explain things. David did not interrupt him, but his heartbeat increased, just a little.

‘I've got an old buddy in the Newark ME's office, so I rang him and he confirmed the vic was female, most likely in her mid to late thirties, but said they were having trouble identifying her given the deteriorated state of her body.'

‘How long had she been in the water?' asked David, guessing the answer before Joe had even replied.

‘According to my guy, close to two weeks. Decomposition was far enough along to produce gas that floated the body to the surface. The fish had got the better of most of her extremities, and the bloating has made her features pretty much unidentifiable so . . .'

David shuddered – his mind was taking a leap that was beyond the realms of rationality. Newark's homicide rate was almost four times the national average after all, and the likelihood that this victim was the schoolgirl he once knew – it would be too much of a coincidence. ‘Did the woman have any ID on her?' he asked.

‘Just a key in her right dress pocket and a watch on her wrist. But no wallet, no cell. The woman had been submerged for close to fourteen days, David, any other forms of ID have most likely been taken by the current.'

David nodded and took a long slow breath. ‘So what are you thinking?' he asked, trying not to let his imagination run away with him.

‘McNally's sharp,' said Joe. ‘I go to him with your query and he'll make the connection with his new Jane Doe. He's gonna want to know exactly who started this line of inquiry in the first place. So, if you want my opinion . . .'

‘You think Chris should call Marilyn in as a missing person.' David shut his eyes, then opened them again on a concerned-looking Sara.

‘I think that if there's
any
chance this vic turns out to be your old friend, Chris Kincaid might be placing himself in a bigger vat of shit if he fails to speak up. His high profile in Jersey, his ongoing relationship with this woman – he needs to step up and tell the cops what he knows and give them an address to search. Then it's up to them whether they make the connection or send your senator friend discreetly on his way.'

David nodded again, knowing that Joe was right. ‘I'll call him,' he said, dreading the task ahead.

‘Good. And if I were you, I'd make it quick. McNally will be all over this and it'll look much better for your guy if he steps up early.'

David said nothing.

‘It's for his own good, David,' added Joe.

But David sensed this was one truism that could end up being anything but.

‘Just one more thing,' he said, as Joe was about to sign off. ‘I know you, Joe, and you wouldn't be calling me with this unless you thought there was some connection between this drowning victim and the girl I once knew. There's something else, isn't there? Something that makes you think this woman and my friend are one and the same.'

Joe said nothing for what seemed like an eternity until, ‘You said your friend was blonde.'

‘That's right.'

‘But white-blonde – that colour preferred by the movie stars of the fifties.'

‘Right again.'

‘Well, my friend at the ME's office . . . he said that when they first pulled the body out of the water, they thought she was elderly because her hair looked so fair in the generator lights. They thought it had been whitened by age.'

David felt his heart drop.

‘But it wasn't white, David,' Joe went on. ‘It was that platinum colour like Jean Harlow used to wear – like Harlow or Lana Turner or . . .'

‘Marilyn,' finished David. ‘Marilyn Monroe.'

 

‘You have to call him,' said Sara, when David had relayed the conversation.

David nodded.

‘Chances are it's not her,' she added, reading the concern on his face. ‘But as Joe says, if there's any possibility . . .'

‘I
know
,' said David, his voice raising just a little before he met her eye. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bark.'

‘I understand,' she said, rising and moving toward him so that she could perch herself on the edge of his desk and take his hand. ‘Look, Chris Kincaid doesn't have to admit to sleeping with her, David. They were old friends, he is a US senator, his contacting the police could be seen as caring, responsible – an act of civic duty, even. I know you feel an inbuilt need to protect him, but in this case, when another of your old friends is missing, and a body matching her description is found?'

‘It's not just that, Sara.'

‘What is it then?'

David shook his head as if trying to find a way to explain. ‘Chris, Marilyn, Mike, Rebecca. These people were my friends, but there are reasons why I chose Boston over Newark. My home is here now, Sara,' he said, as if to remind himself, ‘with you and Lauren and the thought of diving back in . . .'

Sara nodded. She had always wondered why David did not keep in closer touch with his old school friends – especially the two boys who, as far as she could tell, had been like brothers to him for most of his youth. But the three of them didn't exchange emails, they rarely picked up the phone to talk to one another, and David hadn't set eyes on the other two in years. He hadn't even suggested inviting Chris and Mike to their wedding – which had been attended only by their families and their Boston-based friends.

‘You're not his lawyer David, just his friend,' she said, sensing this was no time to dig. ‘The decision to call the police has to be his. All you can do is advise him as to what you think is best, and then . . .'

‘Allow Chris to make the decision for himself?' finished David. He held
her hand a fraction tighter. ‘But that's exactly why I am hesitating. Chris Kincaid has never made an important decision in his whole entire life.'

‘But how can someone get to where he is without making choices, resolving what to do?' she asked.

‘By having someone else do all the thinking for you.'

Sara was starting to understand. ‘I remember you talking about the three of you at school,' she began. ‘You said Mike was the ring leader and you were the diplomat so – that made Chris the follower, right? And now he has an entourage of people who make the decisions for him.'

‘Not an entourage – just an influential posse of one.'

Sara met his eye.

‘Chris's mother is a very determined woman, Sara.'

‘Chris Kincaid answers to his mother?'

David shrugged. ‘Sometimes I don't even think he sees it happening.'

‘But you
do
.'

‘I did – once upon a time.'

Sara nodded. ‘That was a long time ago, David, maybe things have changed.'

Newark, New Jersey

G
loria Kincaid was extremely skilled at hiding her personal opinions during public events such as this one. She had mastered the art of channelling her discomfort into a positive, using the negative energy to fuel her false enthusiasm for her surroundings, so that she appeared delighted, excited,
honoured
to be interacting with people she wouldn't normally give the time of day. It wasn't always easy, especially when the events were as small and low-key as this one. But Chris had been adamant about attending, and every now and again she deigned to humour her son's wishes, if for no other reason than to use them as collateral against the bigger events she knew were necessary to drive his now thriving career.