Matter of Trust (37 page)

‘No boots,' he repeated, the detail worrying him.

‘Then where did they go?' asked McNally.

‘I have no idea.'

‘Maybe the killer cleaned her out?' the detective suggested, joining David near the closet – both men stepping back to observe Marilyn's belongings as a whole. ‘I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but that doesn't look like much stuff for a woman.'

‘You're right,' said David. ‘I know Marilyn didn't have much money – but the girl I remember had a thing about clothes and shoes.'

‘Maybe that was before she had to fend for herself,' suggested McNally.

‘Marilyn's father was a drunk. I don't remember a time she didn't have to fend for herself. But that doesn't explain the missing boots.'

McNally nodded.

Searching the apartment had been McNally's idea. While an impatient David had argued, over breakfast for three at a downtown café, that he, Sara and McNally should hit the Airport Hilton as a team to try and get a visual on the man who called himself Dallas Winston, McNally had argued that Sara should go alone – stressing that any investigations they carried out at the busy hotel had to be discreet and under the radar.

‘The minute I walk in and start asking questions the investigation goes back on the record,' McNally had reasoned. ‘I need Marshall to believe I am still wallowing in self-pity, not out in the field trying to undo his case.'

‘But what if the manager asks me to produce a warrant to secure the security recording?' Sara had asked.

‘I've met the manager and she's obliging, smart, and, my guess is, savvy enough to understand that warrants mean car loads of police ransacking her hotel and tearing apart her security system. I think Ms Trudeau will be much more conducive to discreetly helping someone like you, Sara – a defence attorney with no agenda bar trying to discover the truth so you can prove your client's innocence.'

And so it was decided. Sara would go solo to the Hilton while David and McNally would go over Marilyn's apartment trying to get a fresh perspective.

‘Her toothbrush is missing,' called David from the bathroom – another odd detail that concerned him.

McNally met him at the bathroom door. ‘Maybe this mystery rapist used it, then confiscated it so as not to leave trace of his DNA.'

‘But why would a rapist stop to clean his teeth?'

‘It's happened before. A while back we investigated a serial rapist who
used to brush, floss, shower, even used the ladies' products to shampoo and condition his hair.'

‘Did he take her boots?' asked David.

McNally shook his head. ‘The boots are still a mystery.'

David moved out of the bathroom and toward the bedroom window. ‘How did he get up here?' he asked.

‘He could have used a key, but that's a long shot. Maybe Maloney buzzed him in?'

‘Then she must have known him.'

‘Not necessarily. She was drunk. Maybe the guy simply buzzed apartments at random, then took the lift up here and knocked on her door.'

‘Then why did he pick her door?' A reasonable question.

‘Because he knew where she lived,' speculated McNally.

They kept coming back to that same point – that it was most likely that Marilyn knew her killer.

‘There's not much here,' observed David, as he went through Marilyn's chest of drawers. The top one containing knicks and knacks including some free movie coupons, an old dry cleaning receipt and a letter from her health insurance company.

‘Marilyn had private health cover,' he said, picking up the note with the Blue Shield, Blue Cross logo in the corner.

McNally nodded. ‘The crime scene guys found her membership card when they did the initial search of the apartment. They would have taken it into evidence so the ME could use it to track down her dental records and make the official ID.'

‘The ID Chris failed to provide from the outset.'

‘He dug his own grave on that count, Cavanaugh.'

David couldn't contradict him.

‘Push me,' said McNally as they moved back into the small but neatly arranged living room.

‘Excuse me?'

‘Push me. I'm gonna pretend to hit my head on the coffee table.'

David shrugged before obliging, but found the action surprisingly hard to manoeuvre. ‘The table's too close up to the sofa on either side. I can't get the footing to give you the angle you need. Maybe the killer banged her head on the floor when he was raping her,' he suggested.

‘No,' said McNally. ‘The ME said the blow had an edge to it. What about the armoire?'

‘It has a flat surface,' said David, examining the wooden cupboard in the corner. ‘No protruding edges bar the drawer handles, and they're round. There was no blood, hair or DNA found on any of these surfaces, right?'

McNally shook his head. ‘Wherever she came down, the killer must have wiped it clean.'

David nodded. ‘Where did you find the satchel?' he asked.

‘Just under the armoire,' McNally replied. ‘The ring was underneath it.'

‘Like they'd been knocked off?' asked David.

‘No. More thrown on the floor in disgust.'

They stood in silence for a while.

‘Does Marshall think Chris asked the super to let him in so he could retrieve the $100,000?' It was a very pointed question. David was basically asking McNally to share the particulars of the prosecution's case.

‘Yes,' replied McNally without hesitation.

‘But if that were the case, it was pretty stupid of him to leave the satchel behind, wouldn't you say?' argued David.

‘Murder and ingenuity don't necessarily go hand in hand, Cavanaugh. Marshall will argue that Kincaid panicked.'

‘But they didn't find the cash at his house.'

‘Marshall will claim he banked it.'

‘If he did, Marshall would have found it in his bank records.' David was fishing again.

‘The last I heard there was no such evidence,' said McNally, another concession that resulted in David feeling both grateful and relieved.

They both surveyed the scene once again. David remembered that in years past he'd been able to read Marilyn in her silences. His friend had never been one to hold back when it came to offering her opinion, but on the rare occasions when she fell quiet, he recalled ‘hearing' her more clearly than ever. Now, surrounded by this small part of the world that Marilyn had called her own, David wished more than anything that he could picture her face, that her expression would tell him just how much she had suffered, and how he might avenge her death. But all that came to him was a sense of emptiness, and the feeling of despair that went with it.

‘She's not here,' he said, unaware that he had voiced it aloud.

McNally nodded, as if understanding him perfectly. ‘And if she was?' he asked.

‘She'd be giving me hell for not being able to work this out.' David managed a smile.

McNally responded with the smallest of laughs. ‘When my wife died, my local priest kept telling me if I listened hard enough, I'd hear her,' he offered.

‘And do you?'

McNally shrugged as if in answer. ‘I'm here with you, aren't I?' he said.

T
he Newark Airport Hilton is in Elizabeth, approximately five miles from the centre of Newark and less than one mile from Newark Liberty International Airport. It features all the usual facilities airport hotels tend to boast – a business centre, conference rooms, gymnasium, heated swimming pool, and a surprisingly spectacular window-framed lobby with a sweeping spiral staircase leading invitingly to levels above.

Sara was here to meet the manager – a woman by the name of Jacqueline Trudeau. It was Sara's first independent job in the case of the State of New Jersey versus Senator Chris Kincaid, and her first solo task in a criminal case since the birth of Lauren. And so she was feeling more than just a little nervous in her determination to get things right.

‘Miss Davis,' said Jacqueline Trudeau before introducing herself.

Sara had noticed the attractive woman walking down that impressive circular staircase but had wrongly assumed she was too young to occupy the post that she did. ‘It's nice to meet you, Ms Trudeau.' Sara took the manicured hand of the stylishly dressed executive before her. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.'

‘It really is my pleasure,' said Trudeau, already taking Sara's elbow and steering her toward the staircase. ‘But if you'll forgive me, Mondays are always terribly busy – I have a meeting at twelve and several phone calls to make
prior. You said you were interested in discussing a guest who stayed with us on the night of January 12, which of course I am happy to do if you can assure me I am in no way reneging on our hotel's promise of confidentiality.'

McNally had warned Sara this might be coming.

‘Ms Trudeau . . .'

‘Please, call me Jacqueline,' the woman smiled.

Sara returned the smile. ‘And I'm Sara. Jacqueline, as I mentioned on the phone, my partner David Cavanaugh and I represent Senator Chris Kincaid.'

‘Yes,' said Trudeau. ‘I've followed the case. And I must say it is all very difficult to fathom. I voted for your client, Sara, as did many other people in New Jersey.'

‘Yes,' said Sara. ‘And as you can appreciate, the situation is incredibly distressing for us and our client given we know the senator is innocent.'

Trudeau nodded.

‘To be perfectly honest, Jacqueline, we have a new lead in regards to another person who we believe may have had contact with the victim on the night of her death.' McNally had advised Sara to be as honest with Trudeau as possible. His theory – based on experience – being the more you involved the interviewee, the less you came across as guarded or defensive, the more likely they were to respond with cooperation.

‘And you believe this person was registered here under the name of Dallas Winston?' asked Trudeau.

‘Yes.'

Her brow furrowed.

‘Jacqueline, we know that the police have made certain enquiries as to the possibility of this person being registered at your hotel on the night in question. I believe they thought he would have checked in under the name of Matt Dillon.' Sara was trying to prove to the hotel manager that she was a hundred per cent upfront – and, more importantly, across the police's investigations. ‘But we have further information Dallas Winston was an alias for Matt Dillon.'

‘An alias for an alias,' said Trudeau.

‘If you like,' replied Sara. ‘In any event, you have my word that whatever I discover here this morning, I will forward it to the detective who contacted you in the first place.' It wasn't a lie.

The manager's face relaxed. ‘Then let's see what we can do to help,' she said, her arm motioning Sara up the plush carpeted staircase. ‘I'll take you up to the suite in question and you can ask me questions as we go,' smiled Trudeau.

‘Thank you, Jacqueline,' replied Sara. ‘I really appreciate your help.'

‘Are they the security cameras covering the lobby?' asked Sara after a moment, gesturing toward two discreet cameras in the lobby's far-western corners. The lobby contained a reception desk at one end and a nicely fitted-out bar at the other – with a small gift shop near the front doors, and a miniature Starbucks facing the entry way.

‘Why, yes,' replied Trudeau, perhaps a little surprised at Sara's sharp eye. ‘Our cameras are set up so that they cover the entire lobby area.' They reached the first level and Trudeau guided Sara to a balcony overlooking the impressive pillared space below. ‘While security is our priority, we don't want our hotel to feel like a jail. We try to keep all our cameras as discreet as possible – the downside of this being any recording of Mr Winston checking in or out may not provide the detail you're looking for.'

Sara felt her heart sink. ‘Because he would have been facing reception, in the opposite direction from the cameras.'

‘That's correct,' said Trudeau, before turning to meet Sara's eye. ‘After we talked on the phone, I spoke to the young receptionist who checked Mr Winston in. I'm afraid he cannot remember much about Mr Winston's appearance bar that he was wearing a beanie, dark scarf and overcoat. If you recall, it was very cold that night – and add to that the fact that we had two hundred delegates arriving for a conference on export control.'

Sara felt her stomach turn. ‘So we have no personal ID at check-in,' she confirmed.

‘Or check-out, given Mr Winston did not formally check out of the hotel. But that is not uncommon as most people who pay upfront don't need to check out if they have provided enough cash or a credit card imprint to cover any extras.'

‘And Mr Winston left cash?' asked Sara, guessing their unidentified texter was probably too smart to leave a credit card.

‘A hundred dollars,' replied Trudeau. ‘A figure he forfeited given he didn't order room service or take anything from the room. But while this all sounds rather depressing, the good news is that the camera coverage on
the individual floors is really quite comprehensive.' She turned to direct Sara toward the elevator.

‘The room in question, suite 605, is empty at present so you can have a good look around it. Not that it will be of much help I'm afraid, as the room has been occupied a number of times since.'

‘I understand,' said Sara. The relative fruitlessness of this expedition was becoming more and more evident. ‘Do most hotels have security cameras on every floor?' she asked.

‘Not all, but considering our proximity to Liberty Airport, we felt it a necessary precaution. What's the old saying, Sara?
To keep the peace we must prepare for war?
'

‘Something like that,' said Sara, as they entered the carpeted, mirrored elevator.

It took them swiftly to the sixth floor where Trudeau led Sara toward the far end of the corridor. They were at the suite door within seconds, the airconditioning humming softly under some pleasant nondescript music being piped from invisible speakers.