by Sydney Bauer
‘He is an only child, an average student with a chip on his shoulder, a young man in an adult’s body who, I believe, has been neglected in one way or another by both of his parents over his eighteen years.’
‘He’s not close to his mother?’
‘His mother is a mess.’
‘So he has no family to speak of?’
‘No, that’s not exactly true. When his father died, the Delgados sort of took him in.’
‘The Delgados,’ David said, thinking of Connor Kincaid’s other friend, the boy named Jack.
‘Jack Delgado is a straight-A student who has recently been accepted into Harvard,’ Father Patrick continued. ‘He wants to study law. His mother is Vicki Delgado,’ he added, looking toward McNally.
David saw McNally’s eyebrows rise at this new piece of information.
‘Vicki Delgado is one of those Jersey women who banded together to raise money for the victims of 9/11,’ explained McNally.
David nodded. ‘I’ve heard of them. Are they still fundraising?’
‘Some of them,’ said McNally. ‘Delgado has made quite a name for herself as a charity powerhouse. She does a lot of good.’
‘So the kid comes from a good home?’ asked David.
‘The best,’ said Father Patrick, but concern was still carved in his heavily wrinkled face. ‘Of course, Jack suffered a double tragedy in 9/11. His father was freelancing at the Towers as a security guard when the attack occurred – and unfortunately Jack’s brother was with him.’
‘Jack Delgado lost his brother as well?’ asked a horrified David.
‘Yes, Joshua was his twin – and in many ways Will filled that void for Jack and his mother. I think Vicki Delgado sensed Will might not survive without some sort of family base, so she made it clear he was always welcome.’
David nodded, then saw Father Patrick’s brow furrow once again.
‘Forgive me, David, but I hope you will understand when I tell you I’m a little at odds with sharing all this information without knowing the motivation behind your queries.’
‘I’m just trying to get the lay of the land here, Father,’ said David.
Father Patrick nodded. ‘I appreciate that, but you must remember that one of my roles, as principal, is to act as a safeguard for all of my students. This place may look the same to you, David, but it has changed a great deal since you were last in my office. The days when we educated middle-class whites – sons of fathers and grandfathers who once walked these halls with enthusiasm – are gone. Those people moved to the suburbs a long time ago, and now we cater for inner-city youth, kids from diverse racial backgrounds whose parents barely have two dimes to rub together.’
‘I’m not trying to shake anybody down, Father.’
‘Perhaps not, but I assume your queries about these boys have some connection to the fact that they are both friends with Connor Kincaid?’
‘Do you see them as an odd trio, Father?’ asked David, both avoiding the priest’s question and fishing for more.
‘No more than I did yourself and your friend Father Michael and Chris Kincaid.’
David knew he had a point.
‘Did they meet through Vicki Delgado’s charity work?’ McNally asked.
‘No – before that I believe, but Vicki Delgado and Chris Kincaid certainly move in similar circles. Chris has been a vocal supporter of Vicki’s charity efforts for many years – efforts which are one hundred per cent genuine, by the way.’
‘The woman sounds like a saint,’ said David.
‘She’s been called as much. In fact, just recently we discovered Jack gave up the opportunity to secure a Harvard scholarship because his mother thought others were more worthy.’
‘We . . . ?’ asked David.
‘Myself and Father Mike. He is close to Jack.’
David nodded, taking this in. ‘But not Will?’
‘No-one is close to Will, David – bar Jack and his mother.’
David nodded once again, until Father Patrick returned to the matter that concerned him.
‘Is Will in some sort of trouble?’ he asked, talking to David but turning his head toward McNally.
‘We’re not sure, Father,’ replied McNally. ‘But it might help if we could talk to him. I believe you mentioned Will is eighteen – and if that’s the case, we don’t require his mother’s permission to talk to him.’
‘Yes, Will is eighteen and perhaps more to the point, his mother is an addict and the chances of you getting any legitimate offer of consent are unlikely.’ He lowered his eyes in sorrow. ‘Like I said, the boy has had it tough.’
McNally nodded, he eyes shifting right toward David.
‘All this hardship, Father,’ said David after a pause. ‘Do you think Will Cusack could be looking for a way out?’
‘If he is, he wouldn’t be alone on that count, would he now, David?’ said the all-knowing priest.
‘No, Father, I guess not.’
The air inside the small cinderblock interview room was thick – the generator that serviced the giant facility humming like a persistent animal around them.
Chris Kincaid looked wired, as if he had drunk ten coffees – his hands were fidgeting, his eyes were alert and his foot tapped rhythmically on the cold concrete floor.
‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ asked Sara. She’d noticed the change in him the moment she had entered.
Chris stood from his seat to pace the tiny space, his hand tracking through his thick dark hair.
‘Something’s happened,’ he said, avoiding Sara’s eye.
A worried Sara followed Chris’s movements. ‘What is it?’ she repeated.
‘This morning, at breakfast, I put a man in the infirmary.’
‘You what?’ asked Sara, the implications of Chris’s words now consuming her.
‘The man’s a thug. His name is Davian. He sat across from me at the breakfast table.’
‘Tell me he threw the first punch, Chris,’ said Sara, not seeing any signs of battle on her client’s face. ‘Tell me he intimidated you . . . that it was self-defence.’
‘Davian was harassing a young inmate sitting next to me. His name is Jacob. He is awaiting trial on three counts of theft. Jacob is seventeen. He shares the same birthday as my son.’
Sara could see where this was going. ‘This Davian had a go at the boy?’
Chris nodded. ‘Jacob has kitchen detail with Davian, but the kid failed to show the last two mornings. He’s been feigning fainting spells to avoid the brute. The man has been abusing him every day for the past year. The boy finally had enough.’
‘So you took Davian to task over it?’
‘I know it was stupid,’ Chris’s pacing accelerated. ‘But looking at this kid, Sara, all I could see was Connor and . . .’ He stopped before turning to face her again. ‘For years I’ve based my political platform on making this state a better one for our youth – education, healthcare, career training, family benefits. And in a way, I knew, right then and there, that all of that was bullshit unless I stepped up to protect this one desperate kid.’
Sara nodded, despite it all, finding a new respect for her downtrodden client. ‘So you . . .’
‘I stood up. I leapt over the table. I grabbed Davian by his collar and smashed the filthy smirking look off his smarmy goddamned face.’ The veins in Chris’s temples pulsed. ‘The rest is somewhat of a blur, we went at it for a minute or so before the guards finally managed to pull us apart. They took Davian to the infirmary. I believe I broke his nose.’
Sara sighed, the implications of Chris’s actions all too clear. ‘I know you were just trying to help, Chris, but the guards will report this to the FAP. Marshall will use it against you in court.’
‘I know – he’ll have proof of my aggression,’ said Chris.
‘He’ll call it evidence of your propensity toward violence – and he’ll have a breakfast room full of inmates ready to back him up.’
It was a major setback, no matter which way they looked
at it.
‘Is the kid okay?’ she asked in consolation, knowing there was no way Chris could take it back – even if he wanted to, which she sensed he didn’t.
‘For now,’ said Chris.
‘Then you saved him a day or two of pain.’
‘It’s not enough,’ said Chris, moving back toward her. ‘Above and beyond anything else, Sara, this whole tragedy has taught me there are things I need to do. I might not be able to help Jacob, but other young kids like him . . . I have . . . I had a lot of influence in this state, Sara, and maybe I could again. But if I am stuck in here, for the rest of my life . . . ?’
‘Which is why,’ Sara met his eye, ‘as selfish as it may sound, right now you need to focus on what’s best for you and your defence. So, no more vigilantism – okay?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Chris.
‘It’s okay.’ Sara directed him back to his seat. ‘Besides, today isn’t all bad,’ she added, feeling the need to cheer him up. ‘I came with some news – and while it doesn’t exactly add up to anything concrete as yet, we are hopeful.’
Chris took a breath. ‘You have a lead on the texter?’
‘Yes. But here is where you come in, Chris. I need you to fill in some gaps – to tell me everything you know about Connor’s friend—’
‘Will,’ finished Chris.
Sara met his eye. ‘Yes, Will. How did you . . . ?’
‘Oh my God, Sara – I should have told you earlier. What in the hell has he done?’
70
David’s eyes followed the second hand as it swept around the clock on Father Patrick’s back office wall. The glass face reflected the image of the first martyr, Saint Stephen, in the throws of that historical stoning. David’s gaze was focused on that hand, which seemed to accelerate every time it reached its intended destination of twelve, when Sara finally hung up – his head now spinning as he turned to tell McNally the news.
‘What is it?’ asked the detective, who had been anxiously following a pacing David’s one-way conversation down his cell.
‘It’s Will Cusack,’ said David, glad Father Patrick had left them momentarily.
‘Sara asked Kincaid about him?’
‘Yes.’
David glanced at the clock once again. He sensed he had made a mistake, and he was about to pay for it.
‘David?’ prompted McNally.
‘I fucked up,’ said David, returning to his chair. ‘In all my rush to get this thing done – I’ve made a mistake, McNally. We shouldn’t have asked to see Will Cusack. The character witness story won’t work – not anymore.’
‘Jesus, David – you’re not making any sense.’
David met McNally’s eye. ‘Months ago, not long after his arrest, Cusack went to see Chris and tried to bribe him.’
‘What?’
‘Chris said he concocted this story about how he and Jack Delgado had arrived at the Kincaid house late on the night of January 12. He spun this yarn about the lights being out – all bar the one in Connor’s room and Chris’s study. The story continued with him, in an effort not to wake Rebecca or the twins, walking around to the study – knocking on the window, cupping his hands against the glass.’
‘Let me guess – Kincaid was nowhere to be seen,’ said McNally. ‘How much did he ask for?’
‘One hundred thousand.’
‘The magic figure.’ McNally shook his head. ‘Did Sara tell Kincaid about the hotel security vision?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I’m assuming we have his permission to grill his kid about providing Cusack with an alibi?’
‘Sara said Chris is against it. He’s adamant that he doesn’t want us dragging Connor into all this – that none of this was his fault. He’s arguing that there’s little Connor can do in any case, given Will’s clever manipulation of the hours he supposedly spent downstairs, alone, in the Kincaid house on the night of the murder.’
‘That’s bullshit – those three boys are tight. I doubt Cusack could have taken Rebecca Kincaid’s Beemer and gone AWOL for hours without the other two finding out about it.’
‘I agree. So I’ll find a way to talk Chris around, but he made one valid point about the danger of involving Connor.’
‘What? The kid might get a complex after ratting out his low-life friend? The fucker tried to bribe his father, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I know, but Chris says Connor is walking a knife’s edge as it is. He thinks if we tell him about Will’s attempted bribe, Connor will run straight to Will for an explanation – which means we lose our element of surprise.’
‘You think we have time for an element of surprise?’ asked McNally, incredulous.
‘I know it looks like I’m stalling here, McNally, but kids like Cusack, I grew up with them. They’re survivors. They think on their feet. We tip Cusack off now, without any decent evidence against him, and we’re screwed.’
‘Screwed?’ repeated McNally, his hands now up in frustration. ‘Of course we’re fucking screwed. All this crap about “he said, she said” – when it comes down to it, we don’t even know if Cusack is guilty. And even if we think he is, our proof is basically nonexistent.’
‘We have him at the hotel.’
‘No, we don’t. We have an image of a young man that looks somewhat like him. And the hotel isn’t enough. We need him at that apartment.’
This was only getting worse. ‘I’m sorry, David,’ offered McNally, no doubt reading the disappointment on his colleague’s face. ‘But your element of surprise is bullshit. We have no choice but to call him on it. He’ll be walking through that door any second,’ he gestured toward the priest’s office door, ‘and we can’t afford the time to tap dance. We should just pin him down.’
And as much as David knew McNally had a point, he couldn’t help but sense that this would be a mistake they would regret.
‘Of course, there is one other option,’ said McNally, interrupting David’s thoughts. ‘And I think we may both have been skirting around this alternative since you identified that kid’s mug on that scratchy security DVD.’
‘What are you talking about?’ David turned to meet his eye.
‘There is an easier way to do this.’ McNally’s voice was low and strained as if even suggesting the idea was difficult. ‘We could go to Marshall, tell him what we know and ask him to go to a district judge for a subpoena for the kid’s DNA. Then we could get a warrant to search his house for the money. I know that would blow my cover, maybe even lose me my job, but it would give us the chance to test Cusack’s DNA against that unidentified fingernail sample, to shake the kid’s house down.’
David looked to his friend then and realised just how good a man Harry McNally was. ‘Listen, Harry, it’s kind of you to offer, but I’m not about to let you lose your job.’
‘I never asked you to cover my ass, Cavanaugh.’
‘It’s not just that,’ said David. ‘Even if we did go to Marshall, I doubt he’s going to let bygones be bygones and go to a judge for warrants and subpoenas. This is his case McNally, and he told you first hand that he’ll do everything in his power, including ignoring potential evidence, to nail Chris to the wall.’
McNally exhaled in defeat. ‘All right Counsellor, it’s your call, but you have to make the decision quickly, because your priest friend is out there pulling in the kid.’
A now exhausted David nodded, knowing the decision was his. ‘You’re right, we have to put Cusack in that apartment. But we have to do it without his knowing we are on his tail.’
McNally gestured toward the silver-haired secretary in the priest’s outer office. ‘You’d better get her to reel him back in then – something tells me she hasn’t run the hundred in under ten for some decades.’
David managed a smile. ‘There is a way to do this, McNally,’ he said as he got to his feet. ‘I just haven’t thought of it yet.’
McNally nodded. ‘You always this much fun to work with, Counsellor?’
‘Joe Man
nix seems to think so.’
‘Then lucky Mannix,’ said McNally as David moved quickly toward the door. ‘And lucky me.’
71
The Racquets Club of Short Hills was one of those historical, established social/fitness places that opened up some time in the 1930s and then spent close to a century upgrading its facilities and jacking up its prices.
Gloria Kincaid had never liked health clubs. She appreciated their social significance and made sure her son kept up his four-figure membership with the RCSH simply so that he might share a weekly game of racquet ball with the appropriate opponents, but the smell of sweat mixed with the scent of talcum deodorant and the stench of chlorine from the impeccably kept pool was not exactly Gloria’s cup of tea.
Today she was here out of necessity. Her daughter-in-law, in a rare moment of clarity, had called in between sets to explain that the wife of the New York Attorney General had turned up as part of a new doubles combination entered in the club’s Ladies On Wednesday Cup. And Gloria agreed it might be worth her turning up to have lunch with Rebecca after their game – a sort of impromptu drop-in that would give her a chance to ingratiate herself with the influential lawman’s wife. Not that the New York-based AG would have any direct influence over Chris’s case, but a good word here, a connection there – Gloria knew how it worked.
She was early and the game did not finish until one-thirty, so she decided to sit in her car until the very last minute. She checked her make-up in the rear-vision mirror, licked her teeth, smoothed her skirt and wound down the window as she contemplated the situation at hand.
Which way to go?
It was a difficult one and came down to how much she trusted Cavanaugh and his pretty little wife. While she had to admit they’d certainly impressed her more than she had anticipated, she also knew that, given they were fish out of water in a state built on legal connections, the odds of them actually succeeding were slim.
Cavanaugh was committed – that was a plus. His wife would play well with the press. But that horrible county prosecutor was like a bulldog on heat and Gloria guessed he would stop at nothing to tear her successful son down.