Matter of Trust

by Sydney Bauer

  McNally had warned Sara this might be coming.

  ‘Ms Trudeau . . .’

  ‘Please, call me Jacqueline,’ the woman smiled.

  Sara returned the smile. ‘And I’m Sara. Jacqueline, as I mentioned on the phone, my partner David Cavanaugh and I represent Senator Chris Kincaid.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trudeau. ‘I’ve followed the case. And I must say it is all very difficult to fathom. I voted for your client, Sara, as did many other people in New Jersey.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sara. ‘And as you can appreciate, the situation is incredibly distressing for us and our client given we know the senator is innocent.’

  Trudeau nodded.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, Jacqueline, we have a new lead in regards to another person who we believe may have had contact with the victim on the night of her death.’ McNally had advised Sara to be as honest with Trudeau as possible. His theory – based on experience – being the more you involved the interviewee, the less you came across as guarded or defensive, the more likely they were to respond with cooperation.

  ‘And you believe this person was registered here under the name of Dallas Winston?’ asked Trudeau.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her brow furrowed.

  ‘Jacqueline, we know that the police have made certain enquiries as to the possibility of this person being registered at your hotel on the night in question. I believe they thought he would have checked in under the name of Matt Dillon.’ Sara was trying to prove to the hotel manager that she was a hundred per cent upfront – and, more importantly, across the police’s investigations. ‘But we have further information Dallas Winston was an alias for Matt Dillon.’

  ‘An alias for an alias,’ said Trudeau.

  ‘If you like,’ replied Sara. ‘In any event, you have my word that whatever I discover here this morning, I will forward it to the detective who contacted you in the first place.’ It wasn’t a lie.

  The manager’s face relaxed. ‘Then let’s see what we can do to help,’ she said, her arm motioning Sara up the plush carpeted staircase. ‘I’ll take you up to the suite in question and you can ask me questions as we go,’ smiled Trudeau.

  ‘Thank you, Jacqueline,’ replied Sara. ‘I really appreciate your help.’

  ‘Are they the security cameras covering the lobby?’ asked Sara after a moment, gesturing toward two discreet cameras in the lobby’s far-western corners. The lobby contained a reception desk at one end and a nicely fitted-out bar at the other – with a small gift shop near the front doors, and a miniature Starbucks facing the entry way.

  ‘Why, yes,’ replied Trudeau, perhaps a little surprised at Sara’s sharp eye. ‘Our cameras are set up so that they cover the entire lobby area.’ They reached the first level and Trudeau guided Sara to a balcony overlooking the impressive pillared space below. ‘While security is our priority, we don’t want our hotel to feel like a jail. We try to keep all our cameras as discreet as possible – the downside of this being any recording of Mr Winston checking in or out may not provide the detail you’re looking for.’

  Sara felt her heart sink. ‘Because he would have been facing reception, in the opposite direction from the cameras.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Trudeau, before turning to meet Sara’s eye. ‘After we talked on the phone, I spoke to the young receptionist who checked Mr Winston in. I’m afraid he cannot remember much about Mr Winston’s appearance bar that he was wearing a beanie, dark scarf and overcoat. If you recall, it was very cold that night – and add to that the fact that we had two hundred delegates arriving for a conference on export control.’

  Sara felt her stomach turn. ‘So we have no personal ID at check-in,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Or check-out, given Mr Winston did not formally check out of the hotel. But that is not uncommon as most people who pay upfront don’t need to check out if they have provided enough cash or a credit card imprint to cover any extras.’

  ‘And Mr Winston left cash?’ asked Sara, guessing their unidentified texter was probably too smart to leave a credit card.

  ‘A hundred dollars,’ replied Trudeau. ‘A figure he forfeited given he didn’t order room service or take anything from the room. But while this all sounds rather depressing, the good news is that the camera coverage on the individual floors is really quite comprehensive.’ She turned to direct Sara toward the elevator.

  ‘The room in question, suite 605, is empty at present so you can have a good look around it. Not that it will be of much help I’m afraid, as the room has been occupied a number of times since.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Sara. The relative fruitlessness of this expedition was becoming more and more evident. ‘Do most hotels have security cameras on every floor?’ she asked.

  ‘Not all, but considering our proximity to Liberty Airport, we felt it a necessary precaution. What’s the old saying, Sara? To keep the peace we must prepare for war?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Sara, as they entered the carpeted, mirrored elevator.

  It took them swiftly to the sixth floor where Trudeau led Sara toward the far end of the corridor. They were at the suite door within seconds, the airconditioning humming softly under some pleasant nondescript music being piped from invisible speakers.

  ‘Where’s the camera?’ asked Sara, just as Trudeau pulled out a key card to open the door.

  ‘At the other end of the corridor near the elevator,’ she gestured.

  Sara made out the discreet device sitting at a diagonal near the ceiling, and she had no doubt it must have caught their mystery guest on tape. This might just work after all, she thought.

  The room itself was warm and friendly. Recently renovated in tones of gold, it featured a large king-sized bed, three strategically placed brocade lamps and a tidy cherry wood desk and upholstered chair situated at the far end of the suite under the window.

  ‘You keep a nice hotel, Ms Trudeau,’ said Sara.

  ‘Thank you. The renovation was costly, but well worth it. We re-carpeted, installed new bathrooms, had the plumbing upgraded and the wiring . . .’ She stopped short. ‘Which reminds me.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Sara.

  ‘There was a slight problem with the camera on this level on the night in question. But I don’t think it will hinder your investigations.’

  ‘How is that?’ asked a now slightly concerned Sara.

  ‘On the night of Saturday, January 12, we had a small electrical fire. Something to do with the new wiring installed as part of our renovations,’ said Trudeau, moving around the bed to open the curtains. ‘Unfortunately this means our sixth floor cameras were down from about 8.30 pm – so they won’t have caught Mr Winston arriving at his room. However, they definitely would have caught his exit, given the cameras were back up by 1 am.’

  Sara felt her stomach wrench, the timing couldn’t have been worse. ‘Jacqueline,’ Sara began, facing the manager. ‘We believe Winston left not long after midnight.’

  ‘What?’ said a genuinely disappointed Trudeau. ‘But . . . I assumed he was here all night. Oh dear. I don’t believe this. Honestly, Sara, this is a terrible case of bad luck. Our cameras are notoriously reliable.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Jacqueline,’ said Sara, feeling crushed. Their mystery man had eluded them after all.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Trudeau. ‘We tried to get them back up earlier, but as soon as we switched the power back on, the wires sparked and the smoke alarm went off. The alarm is extremely loud so we had no choice but to shut the cameras down again until the problem was resolved.’

  ‘It was loud?’ asked Sara, an idea coming to her now. ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About a quarter past eleven, a dreadful noise at such an hour. Several of our guests rang down to reception but—’

  ‘Not Mr Winston,’ said Sara.

  Trudeau shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Was there any smoke in the rooms, the corridor?’ continued Sara, the idea forming.
/>   ‘No.’

  ‘And you know this because . . . ?’

  ‘My people informed me. They called me at home the minute the problem was identified and I came straight in. By the time I got here, they had reassured all the guests who had expressed concern and—’

  ‘Did the guests come out of their rooms?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The guests. On this level. Did they come out of their rooms and into the corridor to see if there was any smoke? I know that is probably what I would have done if I would have heard a fire alarm at 11 pm.’

  ‘Well, I suppose some of them did, they . . .’ And then Trudeau saw what Sara was suggesting. ‘While the alarm was ringing, the camera was up,’ she said. ‘If this Mr Winston came out into the corridor to check on the cause of the racket . . .’ She was already moving toward a bedside phone, her perfectly manicured pointer finger raised in a gesture that said, ‘Hold on just a moment’.

  ‘Marcus, it’s Jacqueline here,’ she began. ‘Well, thanks,’ she added before, ‘Marcus, could you please retrieve the recordings on level six on the night of January 12?’ A pause. ‘Yes, that’s right. But not the material before the shutdown, I need the brief moments when we switched back on – causing the alarm to go off.’ Another pause. ‘Yes. Excellent, thank you, Marcus. I’ll be down in a moment.’ And she hung up the phone.

  ‘That was my head of security, Marcus Devlin,’ said a now excited Trudeau as she moved around the bed and gestured for Sara to follow her back toward the door. ‘He said he can have the tape up on screen within minutes.’

  Sara felt a rush of anticipation. ‘You think the camera may have caught him?’

  ‘Unless Mr Winston was in the dead of sleep I doubt he could have resisted not moving out into the corridor,’ Trudeau replied.

  ‘Then we could be in luck,’ said Sara, rushing to join the manager on her march back down the corridor. ‘I believe this Mr Winston was up to many things on the night in question, Jacqueline – but sleeping was not one of them.’

  63

  ‘Never play cat and mouse games if you are a mouse’ read the caption under the funny cartoon by the famous Florida-based illustrator, Don Addis.

  Elliott Marshall liked cartoons. He had often been accused of having no sense of humour but cartoons appealed to his appreciation of irony, and today’s newspaper image certainly hit the mark.

  Marshall was excited. He was downright thrilled. Kincaid had rejected his plea. He had never thought of himself as one of those egotistical prosecutors (like Kincaid himself) who secretly enjoyed it when defendants rejected pleas because it meant they could parade their wares in front of a packed courtroom but – lo and behold – there was a little ‘Hollywood’ in Marshall after all!

  Better still, Kincaid had dumped the experienced Fisk for his ‘fish-out-of-water’ friend from Boston – which meant Marshall would get to face off against the good-looking out-of-towner, and show him how it was done. In front of all those cameras to boot!

  Kincaid was an idiot. He was throwing away his only chance at a reduced sentence just so he could have his old high school buddy around to hold his hand. And Cavanaugh’s wife, who wouldn’t know a New Jersey courtroom from one filled with kangaroos, was co-counsel, which made the situation even more ridiculous – that and the fact that, from what he’d heard, they were running their client’s defence out of Cavanaugh’s mother’s kitchen!

  It was really just too funny, so much so that Marshall laughed out loud – an outburst that resulted in his nervous-faced secretary coming to his door for fear he was actually choking on something.

  This is what it’s like, he thought then, to be totally in control. Despite his earlier reservations, his case was going gang busters. He had the shoe that placed the victim in Kincaid’s wife’s car, he had the footage from the Grand Summit, he had telephone records showing Kincaid had made repeated attempts to contact the victim on the afternoon of the day of her death, he had the ring, he had the satchel covered with words of accusation written by the victim herself, he had the paver who would testify that the wife’s car had indeed been used on the night in question, and he had all those wonderful lies that Kincaid had told the police.

  Furthermore, Marshall’s trusty homicide team had scoured the city for evidence of Kincaid and Maloney’s affair, and had found at least three hotel employees who could give testimony regarding their clandestine meetings. Maloney’s building super would testify how Kincaid had visited his dead lover’s apartment after her death, which was when Marshall would claim Kincaid took back the $100,000, and . . . wait for it . . . just hours ago, he had finally located Lorraine Stankovic’s mother.

  Yes! He had found the dead hairdresser’s mother – and she wasn’t going anywhere. She was in jail – in the same goddamned facility as Senator Chris Kincaid! Now, admittedly Eva Stankovic was being housed in the Essex County Corrections Facility’s Delaney Hall – a special rehabilitation facility for drug and alcohol addicted inmates, but from what Marshall could tell, the sixty-one year old was more than compos mentis. In fact, their initial conversation had led Marshall to believe she had an extremely savvy head on her shoulders – given she had successfully negotiated, without the help of a lawyer, a deal in which she agreed to testify that Kincaid had bought his way out of the homicide charge relating to the death of her daughter in exchange for a five year reduction on a cumulative sentence she was currently serving for two counts of aggravated assault, three counts of unlawful possession of a controlled dangerous substance, and theft of a state owned and operated vehicle. (In a drug-addled haze, Eva Stankovic had hijacked a city bus and driven it and all its passengers to the closest bar.) Now the woman would be out at seventy instead of seventy-five – so three fucking cheers for her!

  Of course, there were some negatives, mainly related to the physical evidence associated with the case – in particular, that unidentified DNA. It was times like this that Marshall cursed the progress of forensic science. As far as he was concerned the world had been a much better place when prosecutors relied solely on the evidence at face value – before that pathetic hour of television known as CSI had juries expecting to see the forensic evidence laid out like a banquet before them – like twelve couch potato analysts who got up in the commercials to pee. But Marshall was fast learning that a man of conviction had the power to make even the most negative pieces of evidence work in his favour. All it took was a sharp sense of foresight, and a determination to drive those working for you so that their role as evidence-collectors satisfied your needs.

  Which brought him back to the task at hand.

  ME Curtis was late.

  The obviously self-affected Curtis had no idea how this was supposed to work. Her lack of respect for Marshall’s office – evidenced by her tardiness and general inability to investigate and report her findings with haste – was nothing short of unprofessional.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said a few moments later as she flounced into his third-floor office, that ridiculously long hair trailing in a Clairol commercial mass behind her. ‘But seriously, Elliott, I don’t know why this stuff can’t be done over the phone. We’re flat out down at the morgue. I had two more bodies come in this morning, and I am one examiner short which means—’

  ‘You call your responsibilities to discuss your findings with the Prosecutor’s Office a chore?’ asked Marshall.

  ‘No,’ she said as she plunked herself in the seat across from him. ‘It’s just that, my report was delivered months ago and—’

  ‘I want to know what’s happening with the DNA sample.’

  ‘The last I heard your homicide squad was running it through the state DNA databank.’

  ‘Which obviously they have done,’ replied Marshall. The ME was referring to the New Jersey databank which stored over 140,000 DNA samples taken from sex offenders and other violent criminals. The databank was set up in 1994 after the heinous rape and murder of seven-year-old Megan Kanka, the little girl r
esponsible for the now famous ‘Megan’s Law’. ‘But the last I heard was that you were trying to enhance the sample to give my squad something more solid to work with.’

  ‘DNA is DNA, Elliott.’

  And Marshall could have sworn Curtis gave a slight roll of her eyes.

  ‘I said I was willing to liaise with your squad in confirming identification once we got a possible match,’ she went on, ‘but beyond that, I . . .’ Curtis hesitated as if a new thought had entered her head. ‘What’s the rush, Elliott, you taking your focus off Kincaid?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Marshall, bristling at the suggestion. ‘On the contrary, as soon as we identify the woman’s other sexual partner, the sooner we can interview him and dismiss him as a secondary suspect.’

  ‘Sexual partner?’ asked Curtis. ‘I know I noted there was a chance the sex was consensual, but my instincts tell me it was rape.’

  ‘Your instincts? You work in the area of criminal science, Doctor Curtis, not clairvoyance.’

  But Curtis was shaking her head. ‘My instincts are based on scientific experience, Elliott. Woman who like rough sex usually show evidence of old vaginal scarring and my autopsy showed no such signs of such previously inflicted wounds.’

  This is exactly what Marshall did not want to hear. At first, the evidence of rape had pleased him as it meant he could go after Kincaid for raping the woman before he hit and drowned her. But when the vaginal swab came up empty, and Kincaid got a pass on the fingernail DNA, Marshall knew his case against the senator would look all the stronger if he could prove Maloney had had other lovers – lovers who could well have pissed a scorned Kincaid off.

  ‘Maybe in all her wisdom she decided to try something new,’ he offered before adding, ‘There’s something else. I want all your paperwork and photographic data on the blow to the head.’ Marshall changed tack, sensing there was no point in discussing the DNA any further with the obviously defensive physician.