Matter of Trust (39 page)

Curtis went to speak, but then shrugged in a gesture that suggested she knew there was no point in arguing.

‘I'll have the information to you by tomorrow,' she said, already bending to pick up her briefcase. ‘And by the way, I am being hassled by the funeral home that looked after Maloney's burial.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘The funeral home. The woman had no next of kin, Elliott.' Curtis said this as if she was expecting him to respond with some meaningful words of sympathy. ‘I had to release her body to the state so to speak, but the paperwork has to be approved before the invoice is paid so . . .'

‘I never saw any paperwork.'

‘Yes you did, Elliott. I reissued the death certificate once we'd clarified her ID.'

‘You're talking about the request for her dental records.'

‘No.' Curtis had the gall to sigh in frustration. ‘That was the request to her health insurance company to provide us with information relating to the name and location of her dentist. We found the dentist and he gave us her records, which we used to confirm her ID. I'm talking about the actual death certificate,' she went on, ‘and the forms relating to her state-funded burial.'

‘Don't the police normally handle that?'

‘Yes. And McNally would have obliged if he hadn't been encouraged to take compassionate leave.'

Curtis gave the last two words particular emphasis, and Marshall bristled at her insubordination.

‘Why won't her insurance company cover her burial?' He could tell she was annoyed by his economically relevant questions, but he really didn't give a crap.

‘She had health, not life, insurance, Elliott.'

Marshall shook his head. ‘Well forgive me for being concerned about wasting taxpayer's money, Doctor Curtis, but the fact that the woman's killer is loaded, and the hardworking people of this state are being called upon to fund the results of Chris Kincaid's handiwork makes me sick.'

‘You want to penny pinch on the woman's burial?' Curtis shook her head – those ridiculous curls sashaying around her shoulders like they had a life of their own.

‘I tell you what, Elliott,' she continued, a look of pure disgust on her face as she finally got to her feet. ‘I'm going to find out exactly how much this woman's burial costs the state, and then I'm going to divide it by the population, and then I'm going to work out
your
share, and then I'm going to pop into your office and hand you the cash in
person
– given this little visit has been so delightful, and you are so much fucking fun.'

M
cNally found them a two-room space on Broad Street. He had a friend in property management who gave them a good deal on the rent.

The office was small and sparsely furnished, and the old wooden windows wouldn't stay open without being propped up by a complimentary block of wood, but it took the pressure off David's mom (and off David, considering Sean, who was a frequent visitor at their mom's house, was yet to confront David about his return), was a short walk to the Superior Court building, and even better, was a place they could call their own.

‘What about now?' called David from underneath a fold-out table set against the far western wall.

‘It's still just a blue screen,' said Sara. ‘No, hang on. You've done it! I'm getting a picture of the Hilton's sixth floor corridor. But why is it frozen like that?'

‘Because I've got it on pause,' said McNally, holding up the plastic remote. ‘I'm waiting for Jim Carrey here to get out from under the table. How much did these pieces of tin cost you in any case?' he asked David, pointing at the TV and DVD player hastily picked up from Wal-Mart.

‘Three hundred for the lot,' said David.

‘Not bad,' said McNally. ‘You ready?'

‘Just about.' David's heart skipped a beat as he finally got to his feet. ‘Let's take a look at this guy.' He reached out to pull Sara into a red fold-out chair beside him. ‘You did good,' he said to her.

‘Thanks. But I don't think you should get too excited until you've seen the DVD,' she warned. ‘We only get a glimpse of our guy for a minute.'

‘It's more than we had this time yesterday,' said McNally.

Sara nodded. ‘It is, isn't it?' She smiled.

McNally hit the play button and not much changed – given the timer on the screen showed it was 11.13 pm and there was no activity in the gold-carpeted corridor. There was the slightest hint of background music, a sort of generic classical tune, until the timer hit 11.15.36 and a high-pitched siren cut across the quiet.

‘Whoa,' said McNally. ‘That's gotta pack a punch at bedtime.'

Another thirty seconds or so passed before the first of the floor's inhabitants, a woman in a pale blue nightgown, stuck her head out into the hall. She then turned back inside as if calling for her companion to join her out in the corridor.

‘If the alarm wasn't so loud, would we have been able to hear their voices?' David asked of McNally.

‘Probably. This is top-notch security equipment, super expensive. From what I've heard about this system, it picks up even the slightest of sounds.'

David nodded, turning his attention back to the screen.

Just then, two more doors opened as another three guests moved out into the corridor. One of them, an elderly man still dressed in his day clothes, said something to the woman in the blue nightgown who turned to speak to her husband.

‘They're discussing the possible cause of the alarm,' said Sara as all five people on screen looked up at the ceiling as if trying to find smoke detectors. One of them, a younger man in T-shirt and sweats who had moved into the corridor with his fair-haired female companion, pointed to what must have been a smoke detector not far from where the camera was pitched, which was when the siren seemed to up itself a notch.

Finally, about five seconds later, a sixth guest emerged from room 605.

‘There,' said Sara, pointing to the figure on the far right-hand side of the screen.

The young man stuck his head out into the corridor and then immediately withdrew – but he did not shut the door.

‘He doesn't want to be seen,' said McNally.

‘But he's curious,' said David. ‘He wants to know what's going on.'

The main group talked some more – perhaps about calling down to reception, before the two couples returned to their rooms, leaving the elderly gentleman in his day clothes the only person in the corridor.

Then the young man appeared again.

‘Watch,' said Sara.

The angle of the camera was downward and diagonal, but even from this perspective, they could tell he was tall, broad-shouldered with close-cropped dark brown hair. He was wearing dark pants – perhaps even dark blue denim jeans, with a similarly coloured cable-knit sweater and dark grey trainers on his feet.

His facial features were hard to distinguish given his head was tilted down, and David found himself willing the figure into the corridor proper.

‘Come on,' he said, as the young man appeared to vacillate as to how far he should emerge. ‘
Come on
,' he repeated, just as the man appeared to make a decision and call out for the older man still facing the smoke detector at the far end of the hall.

The older man turned and walked toward him, and the two talked,
they talked
 . . . for at least twenty seconds before the alarm abated and the older man held up his hands as if to say, ‘Thank God for that'.

The man nodded – and perhaps smiled as the older man lifted his hand in farewell and said, ‘Looks like a false alarm, no pun intended.'

The younger man returned his smile.

‘Sleep safe,' said the older man before returning to his room – suite 603.

‘I'll try,' said the young man with a tone of forced joviality.

And then, as luck would have it, their subject decided at the very last minute to look quickly toward the smoke detector himself. In a flick of a second McNally caught his dark eyes in a freeze frame, pausing the now somewhat distorted image before the young man turned away once again.

‘I don't believe this,' said David.

‘What?' asked Sara. ‘Do you know this guy?'

‘I think so.' He drew his eyelids into a squint. ‘No, I mean –
yes,
I know him.'

McNally put up his hands as if to say, ‘Well, this would be a good time to share.'

‘It's the kid from the Kincaid house. The boy named Will.'

‘One of Connor Kincaid's best friends?' asked McNally, incredulous.

‘Yeah, McNally, that's him.'

‘G
oodness gracious, Michael!' exclaimed Father Patrick as he moved through the door of his own darkened office – the unexpected visitor now sitting quietly under the muted light of the dusty brocade lamp. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me.'

‘It's peaceful in here,' said Mike. ‘I didn't want to disturb the stillness by turning on the light.'

‘Rubbish,' said the old priest, pulling his desk chair out and toward the lamp so that he might sit quietly with his colleague. ‘You're trying to scare me into legalising iProds.'

‘They're iPods, Father. The small “i” came from Apple's iMac meaning internet and the word Pod was inspired by the movie,
2001 A Space Odyssey.'

‘Well, that changes things then,' said the priest, his tongue firmly in his cheek. ‘And if the students would like to park their spaceships in the study hall, then that's more than fine with me too.'

‘I'll tell them,' smiled Mike.

‘You do that.' Father Patrick returned the smile before lifting his right hand above his head as if he had forgotten something. ‘Care to join me?' he asked as he rose from his seat to make his way back to his desk – before unlocking his bottom drawer and withdrawing a bottle of Johnny Walker and two smudged glasses.

‘Is the Pope a Catholic, Father?' replied Mike with a smile.

Father Patrick handed Mike the whisky before re-taking his seat. ‘You came by this morning?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry I missed you. I had a meeting with the board – end of financial year budgets and the like.' The priest rolled his eyes. ‘Was it something important – besides the iProds, that is?'

‘I'm not sure,' said Mike, his brow knotting.

Father Patrick frowned. ‘Is this about Chris Kincaid? I hear your old friend David Cavanaugh is back on the case.'

Mike and Father Patrick hadn't spoken about Chris for some months, neither of them sure how to approach the subject given they had both cared for Chris but were unsure as to where they should stand on the matter.

‘I heard that too,' said Mike. ‘I saw David's mother at mass. She said he'd arrived back on the weekend and was going to give me a call.'

Mike had not spoken to David since his return, but had to admit to feeling a sense of relief at the news that he had come back to represent Chris. Truth be told, Mike had been tying himself in knots over his decision to reveal the contents of Marilyn's confession to his old friend all those months ago. So many contradictions had been spinning around in his brain. On the one hand, he felt he'd crossed the line when it came to his commitment to clergyman/penitent confidentiality, but on the other, he felt a responsibility toward Marilyn to share what she had told him. He remembered her words with absolute clarity, but now wondered if, in her alcohol-fuelled confusion, she had exaggerated Chris's potential reaction to her making their relationship public.

Worse still, in recent weeks, Mike had been doing a lot of soul-searching – a lot of self-examination which had made him wonder if, deep down, his motivation for telling David had come from his long-held frustration at Chris's mistreatment of the girl Mike had once loved. For years Mike had watched a lonely Marilyn play second fiddle to Chris's family and career – an incredibly frustrating exercise, given he knew how he would have treated her, if she'd chosen him instead.

‘This isn't about Chris,' Mike said, returning his attention to the priest, ‘although the boy in question is quite close to the family.'

Father Patrick shook his head. ‘Will Cusack is causing trouble again?'

‘Not exactly,' replied Mike. ‘But I have a feeling he may be involved to some degree.'

‘In all the years I have known him, I cannot remember a time when the boy did not have a self-gratifying agenda, Michael. An odd couple they've always made, he and Jack Delgado.' And then Father Patrick eyes widened as it came to him. ‘This is about Jack.'

‘Yes.'

‘What seems to be the problem?'

‘I'm not sure. I ran into him this morning and he was nervous, panicked.'

‘That doesn't sound like Jack. The lad's just been accepted into Harvard – he should be on top of the world.'

‘Yes,' said Mike.

The old priest nodded, perhaps wondering exactly where this might be going. ‘Is there a problem with his mother – a concern about leaving her alone perhaps? Or maybe a financial issue? But I thought he got into Harvard on a scholarship?'

‘I thought so too. But he told me this morning that he and his mother decided against it. He went on about how he didn't deserve a scholarship when boys like Will have suffered a similar loss.'

‘They have both suffered greatly, but without meaning to sound callous, Michael, some of us emerge from the darkness of tragedy with a selfless determination for the betterment of those around us, while others . . . well, I know Vicki Delgado has done her best for Will, but perhaps the boy wasn't born to a life of altruism.'

Mike nodded. ‘Jack said his college fees were covered by a fund set up by his father.'

‘But you don't believe him?'

‘He seemed determined to make a point of it.'