Matter of Trust (35 page)

‘Will you be okay if I run one last errand?' asked David as he switched off the ignition and turned to face Sara.

‘Sure,' she said, reaching across to kiss him. ‘You think you can convince him?' she asked, reading his mind.

‘I'm not sure. He hasn't exactly been desperate to return my call.'

‘Joe says he's a good guy – and if anyone can persuade him, you can.' She smiled.

David looked at her then. ‘Thanks – you know, for all of this. I know how hard it is for you, with Lauren and . . .'

She kissed him on the lips – her way of telling him he was welcome. ‘I'm going to wait up,' she said.

‘You don't have to,' he said, kissing her back.

‘Yes, David,' she said, finally pulling away. ‘Honestly, I think I do.'

‘I
'm sorry,' said David, peering at the figure on the other side of the shady wire-screen door. ‘I know it's late.'

McNally said nothing, but merely placed his large hands on his hips as if contemplating what to do with the unexpected visitor before him.

‘You'd better come inside,' he said eventually. ‘Those gypsy moths crap like nothing else.' McNally gestured at the spiralling moths darting around the porch light immediately above David's head.

‘When I was a kid I used to watch them get so dizzy they'd end up crashing into each other before falling to the patio unconscious,' said David.

‘Seems they're slow learners.' McNally pointed at a moth in a dive bomb.

‘They just don't know when to quit,' said David.

McNally shrugged at David's irony. ‘Happens to the best of us,' he said, before opening the squeaky fly-screen door.

Moments later they were drinking two icy cold Buds in McNally's meagre but comfortable living room. The place had obviously been decorated by a woman but smelled unmistakably like a man. David guessed the detective had made little, if any, changes to the house since his wife's passing last year, except for placing some flowers in a glass vase on the mantle – next to a photo of dark-haired woman in a Newark PD uniform.

‘She was beautiful,' said David, not meaning to sound forward but sensing the woman should be acknowledged in this home that was once her own.

‘Most people thought so,' said McNally, before adding, ‘I hear your wife's here with you.'

David met his eye.

‘I have friends down at County,' McNally said in explanation.

David nodded. ‘So you knew I'd come back?'

‘After your last phone call, I gathered there was little that would stop you.'

A few days ago, David had left McNally a long-winded message explaining he believed the investigation was far from over. David had known he was taking a risk by contacting the lead detective in the prosecutor's case, even if he was no longer on it, but something had told him McNally could be trusted – and more to the point, that he might be his only chance, given the clock was ticking and the evidence to support their case was scant.

‘You believe him,' said McNally.

‘Yeah, I do,' replied David.

‘Then why'd you quit?'

‘Because at the time I wasn't sure. And Marilyn was my friend too.'

‘But now you
are
sure and you don't want to lose both of them?' said McNally.

‘Something like that.'

There was silence until, ‘Look McNally,' said David, placing his beer on the dark timber coffee table before him. ‘I came here because I think you're just as frustrated with the course of this investigation as I am. From what I've heard, you're one of the most thorough cops in this city, which means—'

‘It doesn't matter what you, or even I think, Cavanaugh,' interrupted McNally.

‘It does if we can prove it.'

McNally didn't respond.

‘Why'd you get kicked off the case, McNally?' asked David, deciding there was no way to play this but straight down the line. ‘Did you discover something you wanted permission to follow through? And did Marshall refuse you and put you out to pasture and, you being the cop you are,
only agreed to go because you couldn't stand the alternative – of turning a blind eye to the possibility that you had the wrong man all along?'

‘I'm on compassionate leave,' said McNally.

‘Something tells me you're not the type to wallow in self-pity.'

‘You don't know me, Cavanaugh.'

‘I know you well enough to come here, to trust you, to take a gamble that you will not share with the FAP what I'm about to say.'

McNally met his eye. ‘You have new information?'

‘I have new proof.'

‘In what form?' he asked, his eyes narrowing.

‘I found Marilyn's cell,' he said.

McNally sat forward. ‘We never located her cell. How did you . . . ?'

‘Let's just say Marilyn saved my number and someone else gave me a long overdue call in her stead.'

McNally took a breath, as if deciding how deep he should dive. ‘What else did the cell tell you?'

David met his eye. ‘Are you sure you want to know?'

The question was a loaded one. David was asking McNally to pick a side, to make an agreement that from here on in, what they said remained between McNally and the defence.

McNally hesitated and David saw his eyes drift to the picture of his wife on the mantle. ‘I don't like the idea of taking the easy route just because it's popular,' he said.

‘Then you and I can make no friends together,' replied David.

Finally, McNally nodded.

‘Marilyn received four texts on her cell phone from an unknown texter on the evening of her death,' David told him. ‘The texts were garbled, but we believe the person concerned was asking her to meet with him at a hotel at midnight – a rendezvous Marilyn failed to make.'

David saw McNally blink.

‘We also think this person wanted to discuss the $100K with her. In what capacity, we're not sure. What we do know is that the first of two texts were triangulated through a tower near Downtown and the last two, sent later that night, came from somewhere in the vicinity of—'

‘The airport,' finished McNally.

David could not believe what he was hearing. ‘How did you know?'

‘Hours before she died,' McNally began, ‘Marilyn Maloney told her building super she was supposed to meet someone at the Airport Hilton. But she said she was blowing him off, because he didn't deserve her and she was making a fresh start.'

‘That wasn't in the super's statement,' said David.

‘That's because I questioned him later, and the FAP he . . . well, let's just say I didn't get a chance to file the extra report.'

David's nod turned into a shake. ‘That doesn't really help us. If what the super told you is right – it sounds like Marilyn was talking about Chris.'

‘Not Kincaid,' said McNally. He swallowed as if knowing what he was about to say would sound ridiculous. ‘She said she was standing up Matt Dillon, the actor.'

And David's suspicions were confirmed.

‘The texter
was
masquerading as Chris,' he said. ‘He knew about their affair, about the break-up, about the money. He said he'd take the cash back. He was setting her up, planning to rob her blind.'

‘But how do you . . . ?'

‘Matt Dillon was Marilyn's pet name for Chris,' said David. ‘Had been since we were teenagers.'

He could see the pieces begin to fall into place. ‘No, it still doesn't work,' said McNally.

‘Why not?' asked David.

But McNally was on his feet and heading down his beige-carpeted hallway. Moments later, after a light had been switched on further down the corridor, he returned with a stack of paper in his hand.

‘It's a fax,' he said, taking a seat next to David on the brown fabric sofa, moving David's beer to the edge of the table so he could splay the pages out in front of them. ‘This is the name of every person who registered at the Airport Hilton on the night of Saturday, January 12. And as you can see,' he picked up the sheet that covered the Cs and the Ds. ‘There's no Dillon.'

David's brow furrowed as he ran his eyes down the list. ‘Nothing,' he said, before riffling through the sheets for the Ks. ‘And no Kincaid . . . or Maloney,' he added after scanning the Ms. He sat back in his seat. ‘Our mystery man could be anybody.'

‘But he has to be here somewhere,' said McNally, his eyes scanning the sheets for the hundredth time.

David sat forward again. ‘But where?'

Then something caught his eye. It was a name he knew – a distant memory. It was in the Ws, five names from the top.

‘I don't believe this,' he said, grabbing for the sheet.

‘What?' asked McNally, leaning across to look at the piece of paper David was holding.

‘Winston,' said David, now pointing at the name. ‘Dallas Winston.'

‘You know him?'

‘He's one of my oldest friends.'

‘What the hell, Cavanaugh? Don't tell me there was someone else in your little group who . . .'

‘No. Winston is meant to be Chris Kincaid. This guy knows everything about Chris, right down to the old code name. Dallas Winston was the character Matt Dillon played in the 1983 movie
The Outsiders
– the very same film that prompted Marilyn to give Chris the “Dillon” moniker in the first place.'

‘It says here the guy checked into room 605.' McNally could barely contain a smile. ‘Which means we can track him.'

‘You think the hotel security cameras may have caught him checking in?' asked a hopeful David.

‘Better than that. The Hilton's an airport hotel which means, like lots of other airport hotels in this country, they installed cameras on every floor not long after 9/11.'

‘You mean they'll have images of him both entering and leaving his room?'

‘I believe so,' said McNally.

David turned in his seat, waves of relief and excitement washing over him. ‘You know, for a reluctant son-of-a-bitch you make a damn good partner, McNally,' he said, raising his beer as if in tribute.

‘And as much as I hate to admit it,' said McNally, lifting his beer in reciprocation, ‘you ain't so bad yourself.'

 

Later that night, or more specifically very early the next morning after David had retuned home and told a fascinated Sara everything he had learned, they made love. Their movements were slow and measured – as if the world would have to wait while they reaffirmed their commitment.
And as he ran his hand slowly down her leg, and as she arched her back and sighed as he moved rhythmically inside her, he found himself transported to another place where time meant nothing – where clocks stopped and regrets dissolved and the only thing left to him was the simplicity of what they would always share together.

When they had finished, Sara pushed her long chestnut hair away from her face and turned to look up at him, her pale aqua eyes almost translucent in the crisp moonlight.

‘We can do this, you know – we can win this case.'

‘It's not going to be easy, Sara,' he cautioned.

‘Since when has easy been our thing?' she answered.

He hugged her close.

‘Is this strange?' she asked after a time. ‘Lying here in your old bed with me – your baby girl in your sister's old room next door, your mom just down the hall.'

‘Considering what we just did, the mom down the hall thing is a little disconcerting,' he smiled. ‘But being here, with you – it's not so much strange as ironic. You have no idea how many nights I lay here alone, bursting to get away, needing to seek my own path – dreaming of becoming a lawyer and meeting the perfect girl.'

‘And now that job and your girl have followed you all the way back home.'

He nodded as they lay there in silence for a while.

‘Funny how it all works,' he said, before lowering himself to kiss her, softly at first and then deeply, the very scent of her sending all the old ghosts away.

‘Not funny, just a natural progression. You're not stuck here, David,' she said, perhaps sensing his underlying claustrophobia. ‘You're just passing through on a round trip. I know how much you care for your friends and family, and rightly so, but this isn't your home any more. Home is Boston, with me and Lauren.'

‘Then all that wishing wasn't for nothing,' he said as he lifted her on top of him.

‘No way,' she said, running her hand down his chest.

‘You're not too tired?' he asked.

‘I haven't felt so alive in months,' she smiled. ‘And just in case you don't believe me, let me show you what I mean.'

I
t was Monday morning and Father Mike was on his way to a meeting with Father Patrick when he spotted Jack Delgado in the corridor. Mike, who had had a soft spot for the kid since his father's passing all those years ago, could not remember the last time he saw the well-liked Saint Stephen's straight A student. It seemed like Jack Delgado had been sick on and off for weeks, and he certainly looked like it had taken it out of him – his normally healthy skin sallow, his pale brown eyes flat.

‘
Jack
,' Mike called out from behind the boy.

‘Geez,' jumped Jack.

Mike realised he had startled him. ‘Sorry about that, us priests have a habit of sneaking up on people.' He smiled. ‘I called your mom the other night. She said you were finally getting over that flu.'

‘Yeah,' said Jack, taking a few steps back so that he was standing flat against the lockers. ‘I've been sick. But now I feel . . . better.'

‘That's good,' said Mike, confused by the boy's unusual level of anxiousness. ‘You'll be fighting fit for Harvard.'

‘I guess so,' replied Jack, his eyes now glued to his shuffling feet.