Matter of Trust (59 page)

‘Drives are my specialty,' replied a proud Hogan. ‘A lot of people think that paving a drive is just like paving or tiling any other part of your yard or home – but drives need special care, because of the weight and frequency of stresses on both the pavers and their foundations.'

‘I see what you are saying, Mr Hogan,' smiled Marshall. ‘Paving drives is an art.'

‘You got it,' Hogan returned the smile.

Marshall then went on to clarify that Peter Hogan had been hired to pave the Kincaid's drive at number 14 Walnut Crescent, Short Hills. Hogan described the drive as an unusually long, wide strip on the substantial property's northern boundary and explained that he undertook the job back in January, not long after the New Year.

‘Mrs Kincaid called me early in the month. She said I had been recommended by a neighbour. I told her I could come round for a quote the following Wednesday with a view to starting the job on the Saturday, January 12.'

‘And your quote was approved?'

‘Yes.'

‘And so you came on the twelfth?'

‘I'm a man of my word, Mr Marshall.'

Marshall said he did not doubt it. ‘And could you describe this job for us, Mr Hogan? Was it easy, difficult . . . ?'

‘It was a big job but reasonably straightforward. The light rain was a little annoying but the adhesive I use is topnotch – it dries hard and fast – so the moisture wasn't such an issue. In fact,' Hogan went on with a faraway look in his eyes, ‘I can remember that after Mrs Kincaid left to go out, I stepped back and surveyed my work and realised that this drive was one of my finest – perfectly symmetrical, not a paver out of place.'

‘Once again I have no doubt, Mr Hogan – but allow me to backtrack a little. You said Mrs Kincaid left to go out?'

‘Yes, at about seven she came out with the two little girls and her older son – who was carrying a big bag of clothes to the car for her. I imagine she was dropping them off at the good will or something.' Hogan took a breath. ‘Anyway, she said she was taking the little girls to a movie and I told her not to drive on the pavers for a good twenty-four hours, and she promised not to before getting in her Mercedes and driving off.'

‘She took the Mercedes?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are sure?'

‘Certain. I remember because I admired the car. It was a new model S500, black, sleek, smooth.'

Marshall moved back to his desk and picked up a photograph that he had left on top of a pile of other documents. ‘Would this be the car you are referring to, Mr Hogan?'

Hogan waited for the court clerk to approach him with the photo. ‘Yes. Mrs Kincaid popped the trunk and I saw the Mercedes logo flash as the older kid put the clothes in.'

‘There's no doubt in your mind, Mr Hogan?'

‘Not a one, Mr Marshall.'

Marshall turned to the court. ‘Let the record show that the witness recalls seeing Mrs Kincaid getting into her husband's Mercedes at approximately—'

‘Objection,' David was up. ‘Relevance, Your Honour. Mrs Kincaid gave a statement to the police regarding her taking her husband's car to the movies that evening and, as soon as the defence is permitted to commence its case she will reaffirm this in her testimony.' It was a cheap shot but David
couldn't resist. ‘Mrs Kincaid's own car was parked some distance up the street, in the same location it was spotted early the next morning.'

‘Your Honour,' Marshall turned to Jones at the ready. ‘If you will allow me some latitude, I promise I will show relevance forthwith.'

Jones considered Marshall's response. ‘Objection overruled. I'll allow you some movement here, Mr Marshall, but believe me when I stress you are on a very short leash.'

David re-took his seat, trying desperately to resist the urge to turn to his client and ask where the
hell
this might be going.

‘This was not your last visit to the Kincaid residence Mr Hogan, am I right?'

‘That's right. Mrs Kincaid called me back a few days later. She said there was a problem with the job. She was nice about it, but I sensed she thought I'd mucked it up somehow. She said the tiles near the top of the drive were all squashed up.'

‘And were they?'

‘Yes. But not because I did a botch job, Mr Marshall. Those pavers had been driven on. I've seen it a million times before – folks too anxious to get their car on top of those spanking new pavers. The tyre marks at the top of her drive were from a heavy, thick-tyred vehicle coming in, stopping short and my guess is, reversing out once again when the driver realised what they'd done.'

‘And you know this because . . . ?'

‘The indentations were only at the top of the drive – made by the two front tyres. If the car had been parked there for some time there would have been indentations near the back wheels as well. No,' Hogan shook his head, ‘this car, it came up and backed out quickly, probably even rolled the wheels some as it tried to grip the pavers which were sitting on still wet adhesive.'

‘And you said the tyre marks were thick.'

‘Yep. In fact I knew at the time that it wasn't the Merc. These tyre marks came from a bigger, heavier car – like the SUV.'

‘And you were aware that Mrs Kincaid drove a BMW 5 series?'

‘I'd seen her get out of it the day I came over for the quote.'

‘So you assumed Mrs Kincaid had forgotten – and accidentally either late on the twelfth or early on the thirteenth, driven up her own drive.'

‘That's what I figured. But she denied it. She said she'd left her car up the street.'

‘And you thought she was lying out of embarrassment.'

‘No – to be honest, I found Mrs Kincaid to be real nice. She didn't look like she was lying. She apologised for getting me over again, but she swore she didn't drive on those pavers.'

‘And you believed her?'

‘Yes. She seemed honest, genuine, and to this day I still think she still thinks it was a case of me botching the adhesive.'

‘But you know that wasn't so. Did you come to any other conclusions regarding the broken pavers?'

Hogan nodded. ‘I figured someone else could have taken the car out and brought it back up the drive without thinking – her husband, maybe. I thought he might have gone out and made the mistake and then reparked the car up the road deciding it was best not to rock the marital boat by telling his wife about it.'

‘
Objection
!' shouted David.

‘Overruled,' countered Jones. ‘You'll have your turn on cross, Mr Cavanaugh.'

Marshall gave a quick nod of gratitude.

‘In other words, Mr Hogan, you supposed Senator Kincaid acted in a deceptive manner in order to save his own skin.'

‘I guess you could say that.'

‘I guess you could indeed.'

And then nothing. Silence, as the entire room took it in. Even Judge Jones did not speak as the extended pause continued.

And then the heads started to turn slowly, toward the defendant and his lawyer, everyone sensing that this is where the ‘objection' was meant to come.

But it didn't – and Marshall looked more shocked than anyone, like an amateur cyclist who had just lapped Lance Armstrong.

‘I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honour,' said the now glowing FAP, barely managing to contain his excitement.

And the shocks didn't stop there, as David – with no other alternative left to him – floored the courtroom once more. ‘The defence has no questions for this witness, Your Honour,' he said, seemingly throwing in the towel.

‘Are you sure?' urged an equally as stunned Jones.

‘Yes, Your Honour,' replied David, trying to ignore the stares from his now pale-faced client and confused co-counsel.

And as the judge agreed to David's request for an early adjournment, Sara moved to his side, desperate to know exactly what was going on. ‘David, I know you must have a reason for what you just did – or rather what you
didn't
do. But seriously,' she shook her head in pure frustration, ‘that was . . .'

‘We were wrong,' David interrupted her, meeting her pale aqua eyes.

‘Wrong about
what
?'

‘About everything.'

Sara frowned. ‘No. I know how this looks David, but Chris is
innocent,
he is your friend – and he
did not kill that girl
.'

‘I know.'

‘You know?' Sara took hold of his wrist and squeezed it. ‘But if you
know
 . . . Jesus, David!'

‘There were three of them,' he said. ‘He said it himself – you should stand by your friends.'

‘Three? What three?' she asked, but even as the words left her mouth, he could tell by her eyes that she saw it.

She met his eye. ‘Oh God, David.'

‘I know. What the hell are we supposed to do now?'

Half an hour later

W
ill Cusack did not believe in destiny. There was no such thing as fate. People both made their own luck and fucked up their own futures. The fucking up bit tended to come when a person failed to acknowledge that it was time to get out (his father had been like that), when good sense made way for gluttony and opportunity morphed into greed.

After three days of thinking on it, Will had decided that there was no option left to him but to cut his losses. For while they had not achieved what they had set out to, risking their futures was not an option – or
future
more to the point, considering he wasn't the one with the prospects that were way too promising to shatter.

Not that he was giving up. Will promised himself that he wouldn't rest until the debt was paid – or ‘debts' to be specific; one left by a good man who could no longer make amends, and a second on his own ledger which he wanted more than anything to settle.

He was in Chris Kincaid's study.

The family was in court.

He had waited for the maid to leave by the front door before slipping quietly in through the back.

It was getting late. He would have to be quick. He glanced quickly through the study window to see the maid lowering herself into her Mazda coupe before moving toward the cabinet.

A shadow from a garden elm cut across his face, the silence consumed him, as he unlocked the cabinet and returned the antique pocket watch to its rightful place. Will, unlike his father before him, had never taken anything unless it served a greater purpose, and he wasn't about to start, not now.

Ring!

The shrill of the telephone rocked him, so much so that he almost knocked over a series of family photographs that lined the top of the cabinet like evidence of the big fat lie.

Ring!

‘Shut the fuck up,' he whispered as he took a step back to glance out the window at the maid who had still not shut her freaking front car door. She was getting out.
Shit!
She was coming back in to answer the fucking phone. Now she was running for fuck's sake, with her goddamned keys held out in the ready.

There was no time to think about it. Will knew the closest phone to the front door was this one in the study. And if she came in here, if she—

‘Hello.' Will picked up the phone. His eyes glued to the maid who, ears now primed at attention, shook her head and turned slowly to retreat to her beaten-up hatch.

Will sighed, his shoulders relaxing in relief, until he registered that there was someone talking to him on the other end of the line. He was going to hang up, but then he realised, as crazy as it seemed, the caller actually thought that they were talking to Chris Kincaid.

He felt it then, the stab of shock that started in his chest and spread through his entire body like a million fluttering fireflies. It was followed by a wave of adrenalin that pumped his heart and fuelled his body with everything from feelings of guilt and self-admonishment to relief and opportunity, and hope.

And that was when fate – yes,
fucking fate
– stepped in, not once, but
twice,
as Will managed to corral his thoughts and say his piece to the caller, before hearing the ring of his own cell screaming for attention from his pocket.

And then, at least in Will's mind, the first call shook hands with the second.

And then his new friend destiny came valiantly in to play.

W
hen David was a boy and attended Sunday mass with his family, his mother always led them to the same scratched wooden pew. It was the one at the front of the back section – halfway down the church. He had no idea why she had chosen it, but as he got older, he guessed it was because it had a walkway in front. It was the place where the old men who passed around the plate cut across from one side of the church to the other – the spot where the offertory table sat stocked with bread and wine. It had no kneeling ramp but it offered plenty of leg room – and space for three energetic children to move about reasonably freely without too many eyebrows being raised.

There had to have been three.

If Will had acted alone, in order to avoid detection, he would have left Rebecca's car where he found it – way up the other end of the street. But the car was driven up the drive, and then reversed, which meant the person driving it not only did the natural thing and drove the car home, he also knew of the paver's warnings regarding the wet adhesive – warnings Connor Kincaid had overheard the paver reiterating to his mother earlier in the evening.

As far as Jack Delgado was concerned – he had to be involved for the three-way alibi to work. Both Will
and
Connor couldn't have slipped out
of the Kincaid's house without Jack knowing. But now David was guessing that Jack and Will were never at the Kincaid house to begin with – and that Connor had gone out alone.

And so here they were – David, Mike, Rebecca – three of the original five, plus Connor, the boy who had paid the price of their friendship. In the end, David knew there was no other way to play this – which was why he had called Rebecca and told her that with Chris in prison and Connor about to snap, she would have to be the one to hold this whole thing together.