Matter of Trust

by Sydney Bauer

  Sacramoni nodded. ‘He seemed awful worried.’

  ‘You watch him leave?’

  ‘Sure. Walked him out.’

  ‘He take anything?’

  ‘Not so far as I could tell.’

  McNally nodded again. ‘Can you stick about, Mr Sacramoni? We might need to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ he said, and he leant against the doorjamb to prove it.

  ‘Can I ask a favour in the meantime, Mr Sacramoni?’ asked Carla, shooting a quick glance at her partner.

  ‘Sure,’ said the super.

  ‘You wanna check my car hasn’t been towed? It’s a blue Nissan. I left it parked illegally out front.’

  Sacramoni straightened. ‘No problem. I’ll be back.’ And he left.

  ‘Shit,’ said McNally.

  ‘I know,’ said Carla. ‘And that’s not all.’ She gestured with her head for him to join her near the armoire in the corner of the living room.

  ‘What is it?’ asked McNally.

  But Torres said nothing, just used the toe of her brown leather boot to poke at what appeared to be the corner of a large white satchel resting on the floor underneath the armoire.

  ‘Look closer,’ she said, and McNally moved around the sofa. The satchel appeared to be covered in some sort of writing – what looked from a distance to be an indecipherable scrawl. Further, there appeared to be something round and metallic nestling underneath its furthermost corner.

  McNally looked toward the door to check the super was gone, and then he gave Torres the nod. Torres then feigned the slightest of slips with her right foot so that her toe hooked behind the back edge of the satchel – causing it to slide out toward the middle of the living room floor – a tarnished silver ring coming with it.

  ‘Now why in the hell didn’t we see that when we first walked in here?’ asked Torres.

  McNally did not answer, but simply pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket before searching for a pen in his jacket pocket and scooping up the ring.

  ‘It’s old, silver – a man’s ring,’ said Torres, now close against his shoulder.

  ‘It’s not silver, it’s pewter,’ said McNally, now examining the crest on its front and reading the inscription around it, ‘Fortitudo, Veneratio, Veritas’.

  ‘A college motto,’ she said.

  ‘Not college. I’ve seen this crest before, it’s the one outside that high school up on Martin Luther King Boulevard.’

  ‘The Catholic school – isn’t that the one that . . . ?’

  ‘“Grass roots” Kincaid boasts about having gone to? Yeah, I think so.’

  McNally turned his attention to the satchel, lifting it from the floor with his handkerchief-covered hand. He turned the satchel around to see if it was addressed to anyone in particular.

  ‘Is it hers?’ asked Carla, who had moved from his side slightly to place the ring in a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘You tell me?’ he asked, angling the satchel toward her.

  And in that moment he heard Carla Torres gasp as she read the writing scrawled across the centre of the satchel.

  ‘FOR ME – THE FUCKING FOOL WHORE,’ it said, in big bold letters – like the receiver had addressed the once-blank satchel to herself. Around these words were various other references alluding to the satchel’s previous contents.

  ‘$100,000,’ read McNally. ‘For twenty-five years of fucks.’

  And then, scrawled in the top left-hand corner: ‘I am just a whore to you, Chris Kincaid. I hate you. Fuck you.’

  28

  Lunch was liquid. Largely because Mike had suggested they call Chris and see if he was available to join them. Chris was on his way back from New York City, but said if they were willing to wait an hour or two, he would cook them both a late-afternoon barbeque on his new twelve-burner. He said he would be grateful for the company given his wife had made last-minute plans to take the girls to a play date in the park and Connor had gone out with his friends.

  ‘You look good, DC,’ said Mike after David had shared his wallet-sized photographs of Sara and Lauren.

  ‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ said David. Mike’s light brown hair was greying slightly at the temples but his boyish face still glowed with the energy of youth and with a hint of mischief.

  ‘You seem happy, Mike,’ continued David, pocketing the photos and accepting his second Heineken from the barman at the quiet Lincoln Park pub, ‘like things are working out.’

  Mike nodded. ‘I’m doing okay. The congregation keeps me busy and the school – I did a degree in theology, so I’m teaching religion to the seniors. They’re good kids, David, and unlike most of the adults I know, they see past the collar, consider me a friend.’

  ‘I can see how that collar might take some time to get used to,’ smiled David. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Mike, but if someone had asked me to make a list of the possible professions my friend Mike Murphy would pursue when he grew up . . . ?’

  ‘But that’s why I don the collar, DC – to ward off the ladies.’

  David laughed. ‘You were something.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘No I wasn’t. The only time I got lucky was when I managed to convince the girls too shy to approach you that you weren’t worth the trouble – and as for Chris, well . . . he’d have been some serious competition if he hadn’t met . . .’

  Mike stopped, and David met his eye. Could Mike know something about what was going on with Marilyn? But that was impossible, Chris told him he had not spoken to anyone – and given Chris’s desperation to keep things quiet, David was inclined to believe him.

  ‘Mike,’ David began, ‘my coming to church this morning, it’s not something I would normally—’

  ‘Me neither,’ Mike cut in, ‘but they pay me, so . . .’

  Despite the joviality, David could read the concern on his old friend’s face.

  ‘What are you doing here, DC?’ asked Mike after a pause.

  ‘Chris invited me.’

  Mike nodded. ‘He in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Mike nodded again, lifting his cold beer slowly to his lips before swallowing and replacing it on the now damp bar towel before him. ‘This about Marilyn?’ he asked, his eyes now straight ahead.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you asked me here because?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I guess we both know Chris can be a closed book – and besides his family, you and I are the only two he might feel comfortable sharing things with.’

  ‘He doesn’t talk to his family,’ said Mike. ‘He speaks to them, but he doesn’t talk to them.’

  David nodded. ‘And to you?’

  ‘We talk,’ he said, making the distinction. ‘But not about Marilyn – too much water under the bridge, too many old wounds that never had time to heal.’

  ‘Twenty-five years is a long time, Mike,’ said David, remembering the exact date of his two friends’ violent altercation.

  ‘A millennium is a long time, DC. Twenty-five years is a heartbeat.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ answered David, drinking some more of his own icy cold beer.

  ‘Is Chris concerned she might . . . blow his cover?’ asked Mike, the question sounding specific. ‘Deep down, I think she always knew the relationship had to come to an end at some point – with Chris being who he is. Did he ask you to speak to her? Did Chris ask you to broker some sort of separation?’

  David could tell the question was asked out of hope rather than suspicion. Mike knew David would never agree to act as relationship broker for his friend, and the look in his eyes told David he was already expecting the worst, but maybe not the worst, as David had to tell it.

  ‘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.’

  29

  Gloria 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 rol
e 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.’