Matter of Trust (3 page)

In fact, it was not until he'd met Sara, almost four years ago, that he'd discovered there was more to life than arraignments and motions and lengthy trial depositions. Sara had shown him that no matter how tough a case got, they always had each other – which was the best lesson he had ever learnt – that, and the one that said if you loved somebody unconditionally, only good could come of it – good in the form of the smiling ball of pink now pulling at the collar of his snow-soaked jersey.

As for his family, he was pleased that his mother had remained in the family house in Newark after their father's passing some eight years ago, but he no longer thought of their Down Neck four-bedder as home. The old place was close to his heart, but it was the people he'd grown up with
that had made him the man that he was – never willing to settle, always pushing for the way it should be, rather than the way that it was.

‘Lisa's here,' said Sara, waving at David's younger sister who was making her way toward them, her long black hair whipping around her shoulders in the bitter, late afternoon wind.

‘Hey,' said David, bending to kiss her. He knew she'd just finished a shift at Mass General's busy ER unit where she was a nurse. Lisa pulled her niece from David's grasp, and used her other gloved hand to push her brother a good two feet away.

‘Hey! What kind of greeting is that for your favourite brother?'

‘Who said you're my favourite?' she replied. ‘And besides, your face is a mess.'

‘It's okay, sis.'

‘I know it's okay, you idiot,' she grinned. ‘I just didn't want you kissing me with all that blood and dirt on your face. And if you are about to ask me to stitch you up, big bro,' she added, now enfolding her niece in a big bear hug, ‘you can forget about me going back to the hospital to grab the analgesic.'

‘That's okay,' cut in Tony, obviously unable to stop himself. ‘DC was just telling us he was more of a “bite-down-on-a-stick” guy in any case.'

‘Oh for Christ's sake,' said David. ‘I don't know why I bother.'

Newark, New Jersey; later that night

‘J
esus! What the hell, Monroe? I don't know why I bother.'

She could just make him out at the top of the stoop to her University Heights apartment building. He was wearing that same scummy red robe he wore every fucking night – the one he never did up at the front, so that his hairy, fat belly was permanently on display.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Super,' Marilyn said, saluting him with one hand while knocking over a fourth trash can with the other. ‘It's not me, it's the fucking mutt.'

‘Bullet is not a mutt, Monroe,' said the apartment building's round-faced superintendent, Paul Sacramoni, trying to find a balance between keeping his voice as low as he could and being heard above the dog's incessant barking. ‘He's a guard dog paid for by the concerned residents of this building – a pedigree Doberman no less, and he's just doin' his job.'

‘He's a waste of goddamned money. Bullet wouldn't know an intruder if he fell over one,' she slurred. ‘'Sides, I said we'd be better off putting in for a security camera, but nobody wanted to listen to me. Our beloved landlord wanted a puppy so he got the building to pay for it, which is why I never put in for him, by the way.'

‘You don't put in for your rent, Monroe,' said Paulie, still referring to her by the moniker he had given her when she was just a kid. ‘So not helping out with the dog was a given.'

‘Ironic, isn't it?' she said, pushing her white-blonde hair behind her right ear as she stumbled up the stairs and reached out to give the now placid Bullet a pat. ‘For once I got the money to pay for things like this fucking pussy of a mutt and I make a decision not to use it.'

‘You win the lottery or something, Monroe?' asked Paulie, humouring her.

‘No sir, Mr Super. This was a loser's fee.' She made an ‘L' on her forehead with her finger and thumb. ‘I should have married money.' But then her brow furrowed as she gestured toward the apartment on the building's top floor. ‘Not that that always works either. Our rich landlord is a piece of shit and treats his poor wife like crap.'

‘You're a good friend to her, Monroe,' said Paulie. ‘You and Bullet here, the two of you make her smile.'

‘She should have got out years ago. But once a whore, always a whore.' And she gestured at herself. ‘Am I right, Paulie?'

‘You're not a whore, Monroe,' said a sympathetic Paulie.

‘Well, if I'm not, then maybe I should be. I believe it pays. Hey,' she said, stumbling toward him now. ‘What's say I fuck you and you cover me for a month or two's rent in return?'

Paulie frowned. He had never seen her as down as this, and she could tell the sight of it frightened him. ‘I've known you since you were a kid, Monroe, and saying things like that is, well . . . it's not right is all.'

And in that moment, despite her inebriated state, Marilyn Maloney could have grabbed the fat super and hugged him. ‘You're a good man, Paulie,' she said as he helped her up the steps and into the building, the heavy glass doors doing their best to close against them as Paulie ploughed inside and Bullet licked affectionately at his feet.

‘That's enough now,' he said to Bullet, giving him the gentlest of kicks. ‘It's almost one am and this little lady needs to get some sleep.' He used one arm to support Marilyn while pressing the elevator button with his free hand so he could take her up and make sure she got inside her apartment safely.

‘My dad was an asshole,' she said then. ‘In fact, all men are assholes,
Paulie, except maybe for you. I think it's time I got out of this shithole, found myself a better life – away from here, away from him.'

And Paulie nodded, like he'd heard this all before. ‘Go to bed, Monroe,' he said as he fished into her handbag to retrieve the key to her fourth-floor apartment.

‘Sure,' she said as she staggered through the door, unzipping her left black boot as she walked. ‘And don't worry, Paulie, I'll be better in the morning. I used to be a big Matt Dillon fan. Did I ever tell you that, Paulie? But not anymore.' She took off her left boot and looked at her watch. ‘I told him I'd be at the Airport Hilton at midnight. But he can wait for me in that fancy suite all he wants.'

Paulie nodded. ‘Dillon's loss,' he said.

‘You got it,' replied Marilyn, stumbling on her one high heel. ‘It's time I made a fresh start, Paulie, started looking after myself for a change. Tomorrow I'm gonna get my life together – and, you can believe me when I tell you, this'll
never
happen again.'

Boston, Massachusetts; twelve days later

I
n everyone's life there is that one person who rings only when they have news of their own advancement. This is not necessarily a bad thing. On the surface it might seem like this person feels the need to gloat or cast a shadow over your lack of accomplishments, but most of the time, at least the way David saw it, it was simply a case of an old buddy poking his head in to let you know he was doing okay – which had always been the case with Chris Kincaid, or, as he was better known as these days, the US Senator from New Jersey.

‘DC,' said the familiar voice down the line after Nora had put the call through to his office, and David could not help but smile. No matter how much time had passed between phone calls, it was always good to hear his childhood friend's voice.

‘Hey Chris, Happy New Year . . . or should I be calling you Senator? I know we haven't spoken since November but, seriously, Chris. That win was amazing.'

Chris Kincaid had called David when he won the senatorial seat for his home state in the previous November's mid-terms, but David had missed his call. He had, however, sent Chris and his wife Rebecca a bottle of
champagne and a bunch of flowers in congratulations.

‘You can call me Senator just as long as I can call you Dad. Mike told me the news, man. A little girl – they're the best, aren't they?'

David wondered how Mike knew about Lauren. He and Mike had not spoken in years. But then he guessed maybe his mom had run into Mike and told him of the news of Lauren's birth, which was highly likely given they worshipped at the same parish.

‘The best,' said David – meaning it. ‘Seriously, Chris, she's the cutest kid on the planet.'

Chris laughed. ‘Third cutest, DC,' he said. ‘Maddy and Gracie are cuteness personified.' Chris was talking about his twin six-year-old daughters.

‘We could argue about this all morning,' replied David with a smile.

‘Hmmm, an ex-county prosecutor and a criminal defence attorney having an argument,' replied Chris with a tone of mock bewilderment. ‘Now, that's a turn-up for the books.'

David laughed. Chris Kincaid was an ex-Essex county prosecutor and a good one. David had read of his crime-fighting policies and courtroom victories in the various law journals that circulated the national legal fraternity, and David's mother Patty had sometimes made comments about high-profile cases Chris was prosecuting.

‘How are Rebecca and Connor?' he asked. Rebecca and Chris had been married since their early twenties – a wedding everyone knew, but never acknowledged, had been prompted by the conception of their eldest son, Connor.

‘Rebecca's great. She's the perfect senator's wife, DC, the best political companion I could have asked for.'

And David sensed this was the easiest way for him to compliment the girl they had both known since they were teenagers.

‘As for Connor,' Chris went on, ‘he's all facial hair and hormones. The experts call it teenage angst. I call it pain-in-the-butt.'

‘Not that we ever caused said pain in our parents' posteriors,' said David.

‘Jesus, no – my mother never broke a sweat.'

David smiled – at least Chris could make light of his mother's hands-on approach to parenting.

‘So, what else is news?' asked David after a pause, half expecting this was where Chris would advise him of his latest career or personal
victory – a fourth child on the way, another political milestone? Maybe even plans for a bigger role in US politics? Chris Kincaid had never been one to rest on his laurels – at least, not with his mother constantly pushing his barrow.

Instead there was silence, and David heard his old friend take a breath.

‘What is it, Chris?'

‘It's probably nothing,' said Chris who paused again.

David sat up in his leather office chair, his elbows resting on the overcrowded desk before him, a biro twisting in his fingers, his feet tapping quickly beneath his seat.

‘It's just that . . . Well, I'm a little worried,' his friend said finally.

‘About what?'

‘Not about what – about who.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘It's Marilyn, DC. I . . . I think she's missing.'

David stopped with the tapping. He had not heard Chris speak of Marilyn Maloney for a very long time – and the fact that he was mentioning her now, mere moments after his friendly update on Rebecca and Connor and the twins . . .

‘How do you know?' he asked, figuring there was no way to go with this one but straight down the line.

‘We've . . . we've kept in touch.'

‘Jesus, Chris,' David could not help himself.

‘I know . . .' Chris's voice was now loaded with guilt, regret and perhaps the slightest trace of panic. ‘But she's an old friend, David, and she's not had it so good of late.'

David tried to think of a time when Marilyn Maloney had ever had it good. ‘Were you two . . . ?'

‘
No!
'

But David was not convinced. ‘How do you know she's missing?' he asked after a beat.

‘I haven't been able to raise her. She doesn't answer her cell or her home phone.'

‘When was the last time you spoke to her?'

‘Two Saturdays ago – the twelfth. We had coffee.'

‘You speak to anyone else who might have seen her?'

‘No, but yesterday a couple of my meetings got cancelled so I went around to her apartment in University Heights and ran into the super who . . . well, he told me he was a little worried too, said he hadn't seen or heard from her since the twelfth either.'

David registered the fact that Chris knew where Marilyn lived – and that he'd spoken face-to-face with her super. ‘This super say it was common for Marilyn to go AWOL?' he asked, figuring if Marilyn was still the Marilyn he remembered, the answer to this question was probably going to be yes.

‘Yes and no. He said the last time he saw her – which was late on the Saturday night, she'd had a bit to drink so he helped her upstairs to her apartment. Said he was out all day Sunday and then came down with a stomach flu that had him holed up in bed for a week, so . . . he might have missed her. She works at some nightclub in the city, so I called there and asked the manager if she'd been in in the past week, but they said the boss had pulled some of her shifts because she – well, apparently she'd been drinking on the job. After that, given she doesn't have any family, I didn't know who else to call.'

David knew Chris must be worried – given the lengths he'd obviously gone to to track Marilyn down. ‘If she is missing, it's been twelve days,' said David counting the days from Saturday the twelfth to today.

‘That's right. Look this may be nothing, David, but Marilyn, well . . . you know how she lived, balancing on that knife's edge almost willing someone to push her.'

Despite the distance of years and geography, David knew exactly what his old friend was talking about. Havoc had a habit of following Marilyn Maloney, whether she asked for it or not. ‘I think you should call the police. Get them to get the super to open up her apartment.'