Matter of Trust

  Sydney Bauer has worked as a journalist and TV executive. While Director of Programming for a major Australian network, Sydney was able to indulge a personal passion for US dramas like Law & Order, CSI and 24, and meet with revered TV writers such as Dick Wolf. Matter of Trust is Sydney’s fifth novel.

  Also by Sydney Bauer

  Undertow

  Gospel

  Alibi

  Move to Strike

  MATTER

  OF

  TRUST

  SYDNEY

  BAUER

  First published 2010 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Sydney Bauer 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Bauer, Sydney.

  Matter of trust / Sydney Bauer.

  9781405039598 (pbk.)

  A823.4

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typeset in 11/15pt Birka by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane, Queensland Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Matter of Trust

  Sydney Bauer

  Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74262-052-7

  Online format: 978-1-74262-055-8

  EPUB format: 978-1-74262-053-4

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT SYDNEY BAUER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  CHAPTER 91

  CHAPTER 92

  CHAPTER 93

  CHAPTER 94

  CHAPTER 95

  CHAPTER 96

  CHAPTER 97

  CHAPTER 98

  CHAPTER 99

  CHAPTER 100

  CHAPTER 101

  CHAPTER 102

  CHAPTER 103

  CHAPTER 104

  CHAPTER 105

  CHAPTER 106

  For K and C, and all unconditional childhood friendships

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First up, a big thank you to all at Pan Macmillan – James Fraser, Emma Rafferty, Jane Novak, the artistic Deb Parry and, most of all, my publisher and friend, Cate Paterson.

  Thanks also to my New York mentor Harvey Klinger and his Sydney-based counterpart Brian Johns.

  Newark, NJ was new territory for me and this book would not have been possible without the help of: Veterans Courthouse Trial Administrator Collins Ijoma, Newark Police’s 3rd Precinct Captain Dennis O’Reilly and Detective Louis Plaza, Essex County Corrections facility Director Scott Faunce and Deputy Director Al Ortiz (thanks for the amazing tour, guys), Essex County Prosecutor’s Office Homicide Squad Director and Down Neck local Greg DeMattia, and the brilliant and incredibly hospitable Northern Region Medical Examiner Chief Doctor Lyla Perez.

  Special thanks goes to the ‘two Johns’ – my FBI heroes and friends who not only gave me all the legal background I needed, but also bought me dinner!

  And to Boston-based Detective Kevin Molis – for his good heart and constant inspiration.

  Finally, a huge thank you to all my family and friends – especially Jarrod and Claudia, who remind me each and every day how great life can be if you never, ever give up.

  PROLOGUE

  December 12, 25 years ago

  Newark, New Jersey

  ‘All right then,’ said Father Patrick, the word ‘then’ sounding more like ‘den’ as the Irish priest flicked his tongue around the last of the three words. The smoky-haired clergyman had finally stopped pacing, sweat forcing its way through the pores of the thick, pink skin of his brow.

  ‘Enough is enough.’ He glared at the guilty trio before him, his face framed by the portrait of Saint Stephen, the first Chri
stian martyr, which sat like a warning on the far office wall.

  ‘Your mothers are waiting just beyond that door, their weekend peace ruined by the unspeakable crimes of their children. But before I confirm to them the heart-breakin’ news that they have bred a trio of heretics, I need to know just how far you lads have taken this – meaning, have you ever done this before?’

  None of the boys answered. They hadn’t raised their heads during the entire diatribe, preferring to play it safe by focusing on the headmaster’s large scuffed shoes. David watched the right of the two, his eye catching on a smidgen of red sock that peeked irreverently from a small hole at the toe.

  ‘I can tell by now that I might as well be whistlin’ a jig to a milestone, or to this machine, which, as you can see,’ he said, as he nudged the broken tape recorder on the floor before him with the same exposed toe, ‘. . . will never be used for the devil’s work again. But the law states that every accused man deserves a fair hearing, and despite my utter disgust at the unspeakable violation you three appear to have perpetrated, I am willing to hear your version of events as long as they are spoken truthfully – with an eye to contrition and a knowledge that your punishments will be exponentially equated to the amount of shite you spin.’

  Father Patrick shook his head as the shattered tape recorder tilted awkwardly on the old rug in his third-floor office. He had thrown it down in fury seconds after listening to the cassette tape inside it – up to the moment when old lady Flannigan began speaking about her brother-in-law and the impure thoughts she had about him.

  ‘Just so there is no question,’ the priest went on, the old wooden crucifix behind his overcrowded desk now swinging slightly on its hook as it caught a gust of chill that pushed determinedly through the crack at the bottom of the east-facing window, ‘as far as your parents are concerned,’ his eyes flickered across the three culprits – David in the middle, the broad-shouldered, dark-haired Chris Kincaid on his left and the skinny, freckled, fresh-faced Mike Murphy on his left, ‘I will give you one more chance to tell me who initiated this most satanic of crimes. But once this moment is gone,’ Father Patrick’s thick pointer finger hovered mere inches from David’s wide green eyes, ‘your opportunity will be lost and the judge and jury – all thirteen of them represented by me – will sentence you to life imprisonment in the Saint Stephen’s Preparatory detention hall.’ He turned to Chris. ‘Which means no basketball, Mr Kincaid, for the entire length of the season.’

  David felt his tall friend flinch.

  ‘So what’s it to be, Mr Murphy?’ Father Patrick now focused on the smallest of the three. ‘Are you going to speak up and provide me with the details of your heinous deed? Or are you going to pay the price of your silence and suffer the consequences threefold?’

  David braced himself for what he knew was bound to follow . . .

  ‘Well, Father,’ Mike began, ‘first up, I want to apologise for our violating your personal space like we did. I’d never thought of confessionals as personal sanctuaries, but the hot water bottle under the seat cushion, the packet of fags next to the holy water, well, obviously you’ve made yourself at home in there, Father, and I can see how our intrusion might have rankled.’ Mike managed a smile as the colour rose once again in Father Patrick’s cheeks.

  ‘But here’s the thing, Father,’ Mike went on, shaking his head as if puzzled. ‘Just last month, in our literature class, you were quoting James Joyce who said “Mistakes are the portal to Discovery”, and on more than one occasion, I’ve looked up at you in that pulpit with great admiration as you assured us that our Holy Father loves those who learn from their mistakes, that failure is inevitable along the road to salvation.’ Mike shook his head once again.

  ‘You know,’ he went on. ‘Thomas Jefferson once said something like “You haven’t succeeded until you’ve failed ten thousand times over”, and I suppose our actions,’ Mike gestured at Chris and David beside him, ‘. . . well we were just impatient, Father. We figured that, along with our own mistakes, there must be hundreds more others were making that we could learn from. We’re always trying to be better men, Father – but it seems unfair that we should be restricted to our own failings for inspiration. And the knowledge we gained from this . . . research, Father – the lessons we learned from hearing about Mr Suarez’s propensity for falsehoods, Mr Gunther’s issues with the demon drink and Mrs Flannigan’s desires for her much younger brother-in-law—’

  But Mike never finished outlining those lessons learned, for Father Patrick, obviously no longer able to restrain himself, grabbed him by the collar and attempted to physically shake the insolence from his deeply blackened soul.

  The priest was almost hissing with rage, his nostrils expanding and contracting in an animalistic fashion. David and Chris stood anxiously by, unsure how to help their friend without sending their headmaster completely over the edge. But it was Mike himself who put an end to it, by simply standing his ground – his headmaster was so intent on extracting some sort of rise out of the smart-mouthed teenager that he lost his footing and tripped over the tape recorder lying ominously on the floor.

  As Father Patrick hit the ground, Mike, David and Chris held their breaths one more time before meeting each other’s eyes and breaking into fits of uncontrollable laughter. And in that moment, all three knew that whatever else happened, they would always have this – the day they stood up to the most powerful man in their lives.

  Many years later, some decades after their prank went so horribly wrong, David would see the irony in that strangely wonderful day. For while their ‘sin’ consolidated their friendship, it would trigger consequences too brutal to imagine – drawing them back together, before tearing their worlds apart.

  PART ONE

  1

  Newark, New Jersey; present day

  ‘Bless me, Father for I have sinned,’ she said.

  Despite himself, the priest, her friend, felt warmed by her presence. ‘How long has it been since your last confession?’ he asked, the muted bulb above him throwing his shadow across the narrow confessional floor.

  ‘Jesus, Father, do you think I shop my sins around?’

  ‘I . . . No . . .’ he offered, the slightest of smiles on his narrow freckled face.

  ‘Then it’s been as long as since the last time I confessed something to you. You may not have been wearing those fancy white robes at the time,’ her shadow shifted as she pointed through the thin wire screen before her, ‘but you were always a good listener, Father – one of the few people I could trust.’

  And he took comfort in knowing she was right.

  ‘What is it you need to share with the Lord today, Ms Maloney?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, do not call me Ms Maloney. And I don’t have anything to “share” with him, Father. I came to talk to you.’

  ‘You don’t need to come to the confessional to talk to me, Marilyn,’ he said.

  ‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Father. I don’t exactly fit in with your congregation. I mean, can you see me sitting front and centre with the diehard regulars at your Sunday morning service?’

  And he couldn’t, because, once again, she was right.

  ‘What is it then?’ he asked after a pause.

  ‘It’s . . .’ she began, and he could have sworn he smelt the slightest trace of bourbon on her breath. ‘I have a decision I need to make and I’m not sure how to make it.’

  He heard the quiver in her voice, her customary bravado shaken by whatever she needed to resolve.

  ‘What’s wrong, Marilyn?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s . . .’ She paused, a breath caught in her throat. ‘I’ve been offered a proposal.’

  ‘A proposal?’

  ‘Some money. A lot of money. To leave him. To walk away.’

  The priest closed his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she went on. ‘I was told I’m jeopardising his future. That I’m a thorn in his side.’

  More in theirs, thought
the priest, but he knew better than to voice it. ‘Does he know?’ he asked.

  ‘God, no,’ she said. ‘If he did, he’d have nothing of it.’ A pause. ‘Don’t you think?’

  But the priest realised that he did not want to think on this one at all – because the possibility of it would kill her.

  ‘The thing is,’ she went on, ‘if he did know, if he condoned it, then my decision would be easy. He’d effectively be calling me a whore. If I thought he was part of it, I’d beat him senseless with my bare fists before telling him that I was going to tell the world about our lifelong affair. That would hit him where it hurts, wouldn’t it, Father? He’d want to kill me – in fact he would kill me – I am sure of it. And then Gloria would cover it up, and nobody would ever know. Except for you Father, you would stand up for me, you and Rob, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Come on, Marilyn,’ said the priest, more than just a little uncomfortable with where this conversation was going. ‘That isn’t going to happen. First and foremost because I know you – and you would never tell.’

  ‘Well, of course not.’ The smell of bourbon was stronger now. ‘But I’d take pleasure in scaring the hell out of him before I threw the hundred grand in his face.’

  ‘You’ve been offered a hundred thousand dollars?’ asked the priest, incredulous.

  ‘Yes. But I’ve never put a price on our relationship, Father. You know that.’

  And he did.

  ‘You know what, Father?’ she went on after a pause. ‘I miss the old times. Back when we were all equal. You know?’

  And once again, he did.

  ‘Do you remember how much we loved The Outsiders?’ she said referring to the 1983 movie starring Matt Dillon and Tom Cruise. ‘How we used to see ourselves as rebels?’

  The priest smiled. ‘I wanted to be Johnny Cade,’ he remembered.

  ‘But we made you be Ponyboy.’

  ‘Because I was Irish.’

  ‘Because you were cute – and you were definitely more C. Thomas Howell than Ralph Macchio.’

  ‘I’d rather have been DC’s Rob Lowe or Chris’s Matt Dillon.’

  Marilyn smiled. ‘You know, even now when I meet with him, at the hotels I mean, we still use the character names – like Dallas or Doyle or Tex.’