Matter of Trust (27 page)

Sacramoni just shook his head and smiled. ‘I'm a building super, Detective, not a mathematician. But I suppose you could say I made the assumption.'

McNally nodded. ‘And the senator – I know you told the police who questioned you that his demeanour was one of concern.' McNally had read the super's original statement at least twenty times. ‘But is there anything else you remember, anything about his conduct, his general state of mind?'

Paul Sacramoni scratched at his three-day growth before going on. ‘The thing is, Detective, I kind of felt sorry for him. He looked genuinely worried – you know – which made me more than a little concerned as well, considering how drunk Monroe was the last time I saw her. If you're asking me if the guy looked guilty, I'd have to say no, but then again, he is a politician and you've arrested him so I guess you have the evidence to back it up.'

McNally flinched, just a little. ‘How would you describe Ms Maloney's mood on the night of her murder, Mr Sacramoni? I mean, I know she was intoxicated but—'

‘She was resolute,' said the super, now scratching his temple as if the memory was forming in his brain.

‘Excuse me?'

‘Resolute – you know, like she had reassessed things and was going to make a change. Alcohol is a great motivator for false confidence, Detective – I've drunk enough to know.'

Sacramoni hadn't mentioned this in his original statement, which wasn't surprising given plenty of witnesses recalled further details weeks after the event.

‘Did she talk about what sort of changes she wanted to make?' asked a now intrigued McNally, wanting the super to go on.

‘She mentioned making a fresh start. Said something about Matt Dillon the actor waiting for her at the Airport Hilton.' Sacramoni smiled at the memory. ‘She could be a drama queen, that Monroe. She looked at her watch, said Dillon could wait all he wanted.' The super smiled again. ‘But like I said, Detective, she was as smashed as a sailor on leave so . . .'

McNally nodded. ‘So the money she talked about,' he said after a pause. ‘Did she mention intending to use it to make this fresh start?' After the satchel was found in Maloney's apartment, McNally had asked Sacramoni specifically if she had mentioned coming into any cash – and the super had repeated Marilyn's comments about finally being able to afford things.

‘No, Sir,' said the super. ‘Like I said, she said she wouldn't touch it, no matter what.'

‘Did she say why she preferred not to use it?'

Sacramoni paused to think. ‘She said something about being too
proud.' He shook his head. ‘But like I told you, Detective, she was pretty sauced.'

McNally nodded once again just as they reached the ground floor and Sacramoni walked him toward the lobby.

‘Nice mutt,' said McNally, pointing at the sleeping Doberman in the corner.

‘He's not much of a guard dog, I'm afraid,' said the super, ‘especially when he's depressed. He took a liking to the building owner's wife.'

‘The one drowning her sorrows in the Hamptons?'

‘That's the one,' said Sacramoni, extending his hand to the detective once again. ‘If there is anything else I can do,' he said. ‘Monroe was a good kid, Detective, I miss her.'

‘I understand,' said McNally, a final thought occurring to him just as he was about to leave. ‘Actually, there is one other thing, Mr Sacramoni.'

‘It's Paulie. Everyone calls me Paulie.'

‘Paulie.' McNally smiled as the super pushed at the heavy double front doors. ‘Do you remember what Ms Maloney was wearing on her feet on the last night you saw her?'

‘Sure. She was wearing a pair of those black shiny boots – the ones that zip up – with heels.'

McNally felt the air rush out of him, just as the cold wind from outside finally met his face. ‘Boots – you're sure?'

‘Sure I'm sure. I remember her almost falling over when she went to take them off,' said Paulie. ‘She looked just like Nancy Sinatra, except prettier as far as I was concerned. Monroe was something special, Detective. Despite everything that had happened to her, she still had class.'

T
hat night, a memory came to him.

David was a small boy, maybe seven, and he was sitting at the kitchen table, just as he was now. Except at the time there was someone else in the room, someone who spoke little but said a lot, and David had a question to ask him, so he plucked up the courage to say, ‘Why didn't you finish the job, Dad?'

‘Excuse me?' asked his father, glancing up from the detached oven part he had been concentrating on all evening. ‘I'm trying to finish it son, but the coil is burnt out, so I'll probably have to go to the hardware store and . . .'

‘No,' said David. ‘Not this job, the one at Chris's house.'

His father lifted his chin.

‘They have a huge bookcase next to the fireplace in their living room, and Chris said there was meant to be a matching one on the other side. He says you built the first one but you didn't come back to make the second one, and so they got another man to make it but it doesn't match the same.'

‘Chris told you this?'

David nodded. ‘He said his mother said that you . . . um, that you failed to fulfil your responsib . . . responsibiliti . . .'

‘That's exactly what I didn't do, son,' said his father, his head bowed to the oven part once again. ‘Fulfil my responsibilities, that is.'

‘Didn't Mrs Kincaid pay you?' asked David after a time, pushing the issue a little further.

‘She paid me,' said his father.

‘A lot?'

‘Enough,' his father replied.

‘But you always tell me I should finish what I start,' said David. ‘And you always say that even if it's hard, you don't give up on something.'

‘I didn't give up, David,' said his father then. ‘I gave in.'

‘You gave in?' repeated David. ‘To who?'

‘Not to who – to what. I gave in to my conscience. It told me I was needed at home so I suggested Mrs Kincaid get someone else to build the second bookcase.'

‘Mom needed a bookcase?' asked David.

‘Not a bookcase,' replied his father. ‘Something else.'

David nodded. ‘Are you sorry you didn't finish it, Dad?'

‘No.'

‘Are you glad?'

‘Yes.'

‘Because the new bookcase man was better than you?'

‘Because at the time, anyone was better than me,' his father replied.

And that had been enough for David. ‘Okay, Dad,' he said. ‘Okay.'

 

David took another sip of his lukewarm coffee. It was cold in his mother's kitchen – or what could now be referred to as his office, given he had nowhere else to pitch his tent and this was the address he had given the court when it came to delivering legal documents relevant to the case.

He was staring at a pair of photographs supplied to him by the Essex County Prosecutor's Office in relation to the obligatory provision of discovery in the case of the State of New Jersey versus Senator Christopher Daniel Kincaid.

The first showed an old pewter ring – identical to the one David still had at home in a bottom drawer somewhere. The evidence report said the ring had been found on the floor of Marilyn Maloney's living room, next to the evidence portrayed in the second photograph.

The second image showed a large white satchel, also bagged by the Newark Police. It looked to be empty, but was creased and stretched as if it had once held something of substantial bulk. On the outside the figure $100,000 was scrawled along with other expletives that suggested the money was payment for services rendered – the payee identified as his client, and the recipient the woman who was killed.

In that moment, his discussion with Mike still fresh in his mind, David felt an all-encompassing sensation of helplessness, for even if he wanted to help Chris, he was no longer sure that he could. He was certain Chris wasn't a hardened killer, but if he'd been involved in any way in Marilyn's death, no matter how accidental, David was not sure that he could ever forgive him – let alone stand up for him in court.

Maybe my father was right, he thought to himself then. Maybe this is all too close. Maybe I need to learn when it is time to walk away – back to my wife and my daughter, who need me back at home.

In the end it came down to one simple truth – this wasn't who David had set out to be. He didn't defend the guilty, and as much as he wanted to believe in his friend's innocence, as much as he wanted more than anything for something,
someone
to tell him that Chris was merely a victim of his own inability to grow the hell up, he could not in all consciousness defend the man who may well be the killer of a fellow teenage friend.

And so, as if knowing the only way he could consolidate his decision was by speaking it out loud, he called Mike and left a message explaining that he had decided to tell Chris he was resigning as his attorney. And then he placed another call to Sara, this one also going through to voice mail, before packing his briefcase and leaving it by the door. He went to bed and set the alarm early so that he would have time to swing by County on his way to Penn Station first thing in the morning. And then he contemplated the fact that he was about to do something he had never done before – David Cavanaugh was going to quit.

Boston, Massachusetts; four months later

‘S
ara,' called David from across the office, the receiver held away from his ear. ‘Stacey's on the phone. She wants to know where you left Lauren's Dora doll.'

‘It's here, lad,' interrupted Nora, who had been buzzing around reception for the past half hour and had shuffled backwards from the filing cabinets to stick her head in through David's office door.'

‘She left it in your office last Friday morning.' Nora heaved a large pile of files onto her left arm so that she could walk to her desk and open her bottom drawer with her right. ‘I put it in my drawer for safe keeping,' she added, holding up the somewhat worse for wear-looking doll. ‘I forgot to give it to Sara when she left on Friday night, sorry lad.'

‘No problem,' said David, putting the phone to his ear once again. ‘It's here, Stacey,' he told their nanny, a sunny, bright-eyed girl by the name of Stacey Gilmore. ‘Just divert Lauren's attention to “Chops”,' Chops was Lauren's stuffed lamb. ‘Tell her Dora's gone exploring but she's expected back tonight. You're still okay to stay late tonight, aren't you?' he asked, and then, ‘Great. It's just a birthday dinner so we should be home by eleven.' Another pause before, ‘Stacey says happy birthday, Nora.'

‘Tell Stacey thanks,' smiled Nora, just as Sara emerged from her office.

‘Did I miss something?' she asked.

‘No lass, but I'd put this in your bag right now so that I am not accused of kidnapping a national icon.' Nora handed Sara the doll.

‘Thanks, Nora.' Sara smiled before moving toward David's office door. ‘Hey,' she began. ‘I just had a call from CTU's lawyers. I think they are ready to deal.'

‘Who's ready to deal?' asked their boss and good friend Arthur Wright, now moving into the reception area from his own large office with a walking stick by his side.

‘CTU,' repeated Sara, stepping back to include all three of her colleagues in the conversation.

‘That's great news,' replied Arthur. ‘What are they talking?' Her latest case involved a civil suit against a large insurance company who'd failed to pay the hospital bills of a sick child.

‘I'm not sure as yet, but it's definitely in the realm of six figures.'

‘Good for you,' said Arthur, and David and Nora joined their boss in the congratulations. Arthur glanced at his watch. ‘That gives us two reasons to celebrate. But if we don't get a move on, we're going to be late. I booked La Cirque for eight.'

‘I'm ready,' said Nora.

‘Me too,' said Sara.

‘Just let me grab my cell and we're out of here,' said David, retrieving his phone from its charger. ‘And you can leave your car here, Mrs Kelly. I'm driving you home tonight so you can hit the champagne.'

‘As long as it doesn't hit me,' said the prim and proper Nora Kelly.

David grinned back. ‘There are no guarantees in life, Nora.'

 

At dinner, David felt relaxed for the first time in months. Life was good. So good in fact, that his decision to leave the Chris Kincaid case was finally sitting evenly, if not comfortably, on his shoulders. He was following the case, of course. By the sounds of it, Chris had hired a competent replacement attorney and the case was heading relatively smoothly toward trial – which was scheduled for some time next month. After the initial flurry of stories around Chris's arrest and arraignment, the media attention had settled into a steady flow of updates. There were no reports of
any startling new evidence and the prosecutor, Elliott Marshall, seemed to be lying low. Chris was maintaining his innocence, and the community seemed willing not to judge him until a jury was empanelled to do the job for them. As for Detective Harry McNally, according to Joe he had taken some sort of sabbatical – to deal with the death of his wife.

‘Another?' asked David, retrieving the bottle of French champagne from its silver bucket and holding it above Nora's glass.

‘Good Lord, no,' she said, her hand now hovering over the crystal receptacle. ‘Any more and I'll be fit to be pickled.'

‘Well, I won't say no,' said Sara. David was pleased to see she was well and truly enjoying herself. Now that Lauren was almost ten months old, things were getting a little easier.

‘You did say you were the designated driver, didn't you?' Sara turned to David with a smile.