The 3rd Victim (13 page)

28

The following morning

D
avid was twenty-five when his father died.

Sean Cavanaugh Snr had worked on the docks of Port Newark Container Terminal for most of his life, David's memories of him were still tinged with the smells of salt and grease and end of the day sweat. The older Cavanaugh suffered a heart attack right on knock-off time on a Friday evening while he was collecting his belongings from the Marine Operations office. And everyone who knew him said how typical of Sean Cavanaugh that was, given he would never think of quitting until his shift was done.

For some reason this memory clung to David as he sat hunched over a strong black coffee at the back of Myrtle McGee's. It was early, barely past dawn, so the café was reasonably quiet. But Mick, who had no doubt already read today's front page headlines, was giving David some space.

The events of the past twenty-four hours were still spinning in David's head. He had left Sienna Walker's brownstone not long after the discovery of her baby daughter's body, ignoring Katz, avoiding Joe, and giving Marc Rigotti his only statement to the press.

He knew how this would play out, Katz milking every last drop from his twofold evidentiary coup. The
Tribune
showed front page photos of the DA taking centre stage on Sienna Walker's brownstone steps, his face appropriately respectful to the memory of the murdered infant, and his carriage – chest out and chin high – saying
by hell or high water, I will fight until justice is done.

David played it the only way he could, by telling Rigotti – and as a flow-on his 400,000 readers – that the discovery of Eliza's body, while important to the case in evidentiary terms, in no way went to consolidate his client's guilt. He asked that the media appreciate this was an extremely difficult time for Sienna Walker, who had been charged with a crime she did not commit, and said he looked forward to the trial that would clear her name and enable her as a mother to finally put her child to rest.

Of course he wanted to say that he was sure subsequent forensic tests and a medical examination of the baby's body would not only prove his client's innocence but give the police clues as to the identity of her real killer – but in all honesty, he sensed that this would probably not be the case.

David had a horrible feeling that the autopsy of the child and the analysis of the nightshirt would not only consolidate Katz's case but add more fuel to his fire, a situation that would, if at all possible, put him in an even more precarious position than he was in right now.

‘Hey,’ said Joe Mannix as he slipped into the seat across from David.

‘Hey.’

Late last night Joe had texted David suggesting they hook up early at Myrtle's. And David, the pure sense of sorrow surrounding the macabre discovery of that little girl's body diluting his anger, had agreed, knowing that in the end Joe was just doing his job, and that cases like this were as hard on Joe, as the principal detective on the case, as they were on the lead counsel for the defence.

‘I'm sorry,’ Joe said as he took off his scuffed leather gloves and signalled Mick for a coffee. He gestured toward Rigotti's front page. ‘I should have told you what we had.’

David shook his head. ‘It's okay. I know you were just doing your job, but …’ He needed to confirm it. ‘Is Rigotti right when he says they found my client's blood in her daughter's bedroom?’

Joe didn't hesitate. ‘Yes.’

David exhaled.

‘I'm sorry,’ said Joe for the second time.

David nodded, as they both took a sip of their coffees and fell into silence, until Joe asked the next obvious question.

‘Have you spoken to your client?’

His client – Sienna – the woman he believed, or at the very least wanted to despite this new and incredibly damaging evidence against her.

‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘but not for want of trying. I went straight from Sienna's house to County, but visiting hours were over and a security breach by a male detainee up on six meant the place went into a temporary lockdown – no one in, no one out.’ David took a breath. ‘So then I went to go back to the office, knowing that my client would probably find out about the discovery of her daughter's body from some deputy or news report or another prisoner passing it on, but I found myself heading for home instead. I relieved Stacey early, spent the afternoon hugging my kid.’

Joe nodded once again. ‘I spent all of yesterday evening pitching curve balls to my boys in the rain.’ His shoulders slumped just a little. ‘Except for Joe Junior. He thinks pitching balls with his dad is naff.’

‘They grow up too fast, Joe.’

But Joe just shrugged, as if grateful they were growing up at all.

‘The Kat's gunning for an Academy Award for this one,’ he said after a pause. Joe pointed at the front page photo of the DA – the one aligned with another shot of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Eliza Walker.

‘Don't think I've ever hated him as much as I did yesterday.’

‘What'd he say to you?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Probably not.’

David took a sip of his coffee, the steam rising slowly around his face. ‘The blood on that nightshirt, it's going to belong to my client, isn't it?’

Joe nodded. ‘Probably.’

He cut to the chase. ‘You're wondering why I haven't ditched her.’

‘I didn't say that.’

‘But the Kat's case is solid.’

‘The fuck can't stop smiling.’

‘And you – how do you see it, Joe?’

‘I never make a call until all the evidence is in, David, and the preliminary forensics won't be in until tomorrow.’

‘But if you had to make a call.’

‘Not my place, and besides, you and I both know, in the business we are in, things are not always as they seem.’

David placed his mug on the table, now wondering if Joe had found something out of kilter. And when Joe craned his neck toward the front of the café as if to check that they were beyond earshot, the wondering turned into hope, and he prayed that there was something – anything – for him to hold on to.

‘Did you see Daniel Hunt outside her house yesterday afternoon?’

Hunt …
Hunt.

‘No.’ David sat up in his seat, trying not to let that hope turn into anything resembling excitement. ‘Where was he?’

‘In a black sedan parked on a far corner. The glass was tinted but I thought I caught a glimpse of him when he cranked the window before taking off in the opposite direction.’

‘You ran the plate?’ said David, anticipating Joe's next move.

Joe nodded. ‘It was registered to Hunt and Associates.’

David returned the nod, wanting to give Joe his hypothesis – that this was bigger than Eliza – but understanding that he needed to give Joe some breathing space.

‘These people still creep me out, David.’

Still David said nothing.

‘I know I've never been one to warm to men like Hunt or that conceited prick Dick Davenport, but their whole attitude …’

David looked up. ‘You interviewed Davenport?’

Joe nodded.

David continued to tread carefully. ‘And you discussed my client's emotional state?’

Joe sighed, knowing his friend was hedging. ‘Jesus, David, we just saw a two month old dragged from the confines of a drainpipe. I'd say the time for tiptoeing has passed.’

A grateful David nodded. ‘Is he going to brand her with the PPD?’

‘If he did, would it be of help to you?’

It was Joe's turn to probe. He was basically asking David if he intended to go with a diminished responsibility defence, which, after all, would be the obvious way to go.

‘No,’ said David, knowing he could trust Joe implicitly. He could see the surprise in Joe's expression.

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘At the very least, you'll be throwing the Kat a loop.’

‘Give him something else to do besides looking at his own reflection.’

Joe managed a smile before his expression turned serious once again. ‘In answer to your question about Davenport's call on the depression, I'm not sure which way he'll play it given he wouldn't hand over your client's medical file without a warrant – which has been issued, by the way.’

‘But your gut?’ David fished a little deeper.

‘My gut tells me that while the doc plays all happy families, he'd be quite comfortable with selling your girl up the river.’

This was not what David was expecting – or then again, maybe it was. ‘How might he do that?’

‘By suggesting the dead husband was the one who wanted the baby.’

‘He said Sienna was against having the kid?’

‘He said the IVF was the husband's idea.’

‘IVF?’

‘The kid was conceived in-vitro. Your client didn't tell you?’

‘I've only had the chance to have one decent interview with her, Joe. We had a lot to cover.’

Joe nodded. ‘Understandable,’ he said. ‘I have to ask, David, are you considering requesting a pass on this one?’

‘No.’

‘Because you feel Weeks locked you in?’

‘Because I believe she's innocent.’

Joe said nothing, the pause extending as if he was deciding which way to go. ‘You need my help?’ he asked after a time.

David felt the relief rush over him. While Joe was on the side of truth, it was rare for him to outright volunteer his services on a case he was investigating – unless he had reservations about the way things were playing out.

‘I want to know more about Jim Walker's accident.’

‘You want to tell me why?’

‘Maybe best for you we hold off on that until you see what you can find out.’

Joe nodded, understanding that David, as much for Joe's sake as he own, was determined to play things carefully.

Joe got to his feet and put on his jacket. ‘I gotta go,’ he said.

David sighed. ‘And I have to see my client.’

Joe pulled his car keys from his pocket, before hesitating. ‘You might want to check on your client's medical reports – not the one Davenport is hoarding, but the ones from Mass Gen and County.’

David got to his feet. ‘What am I looking for?’ he asked.

‘Her blood had to come from somewhere, David.’

David knew exactly what Joe was suggesting – that Sienna must have cut herself for her blood to be left at the scene.

‘You're putting yourself out on a limb here, Joe.’

‘The kid was stuffed up a drainpipe, David.’

And David nodded once again, knowing there was no more to be said.

29

D
r Richard Davenport took off his shoes. It was early. He was alone. His office curtains were drawn against the earliest signs of sun. He was wearing socks – fine knit, but incredibly warm, one hundred per cent wool socks that cost him close to forty dollars from Barney's on Huntington. He flexed his toes, grinding them into the plush Italian rug. He paced, releasing his stresses through his extremities and pondering on what had happened and what it meant to their plans.

The body had been found – just as he knew it would be. He knew that his friend would leave nothing to chance and yet still Davenport marvelled at his efficiency. Of course Sienna was screwed – had been the moment she … well, the moment she got ‘screwed’. Davenport was not a crude individual but the truth of it was obvious – Sienna Walker was fucked the moment she fucked her husband. It was a serious case of poor judgment, and now it was time to pay.

Davenport knew he had done as instructed. His handling of the interview with Mannix and McKay had been close to impeccable. He had stumbled somewhat at the mention of the midwife, at the suggestion Eliza was not his ‘patient’, but he doubted his hesitations were seen as anything but attempts to uphold his loyalty to Sienna. He had made all the right noises, issued all the right protests and, as of half an hour ago, surrendered Sienna Walker's carefully adjusted medical file as per the warrant's request.

Most importantly, he had upheld the initial impression that he and Daniel Hunt, as friends of the late Jim Walker, were desperate to protect Sienna. This impression was essential to maintaining control of the case and, as a flow-on, the future. If Davenport could manage to keep the authorities diverted, then his friend should be more than capable of making sure their franchise was protected – despite his situation, and the secrecy their business required.

Davenport moved to the window. He took a breath and flexed his toes and looked out onto Beacon Hill where the exhaust from the steady flow of early morning traffic created a fog between himself and the Public Gardens. He saw the scene before him as symbolic – the gardens his destination, the cars and their fumes hazards to his reaching the place he needed to go. They were so close. This was their last deal in this location. But he would be a fool to turn a blind eye to the latest problem before him – the one he had yet to mention to his business partner and friend.

It had to do with the girl, and what he feared he was about to discover about her. The problem wasn't the girl specifically – in fact, she was a non-issue. Sophia was only nineteen, but she was healthy and stupid and, most importantly, had no emotional attachment to the child that grew inside her – which is the way it should be, the way it
had
to be, to avoid any unnecessary fuss when it came to the final exchange.

The problem was with the foetus. He had questioned the radiologist's initial report. He had conducted a second ultrasound of his own which turned out to be a fruitless exercise because of the baby's position. And then, still in doubt – or perhaps denial – he had decided that the only way to find out for sure was to extract some foetal blood. That was a tricky business, extracting the blood without harming the foetus, but Davenport was an expert and he had taken extreme care and he was sure the foetus was still developing nicely.

Now he would have to wait, probably until Monday considering today was Friday, but at least the results would be definitive because DNA does not lie. If the results came back as he prayed they would not but suspected they would, he knew there would be no time to ponder on how this had happened, he knew he would have to deal with the reality that what was done was done, and that the unexpected setback of mammoth proportions would need to be addressed as a matter of priority.

Davenport was not afraid of him, or at least, he had never been in a situation where fear could enter the equation. But he was in that potential situation now, and he had to admit, there was a spark of something – not fear, but certainly apprehension, maybe even trepidation – the same feeling Sienna Walker must have experienced when she got her first glimpse of the truth.

But Davenport stopped himself there, reasoning that Sienna's circumstances were nothing like his own. He had done the right thing by not mentioning this potential issue until it was confirmed. He reminded himself that he was a winner and his performance for the team had been flawless – until now.

Davenport moved back to his desk, and heard Madonna enter the outer office and place her designer knock-off handbag inside her bottom right-hand drawer. He moved to his desk and decided to call pathology and see how quickly he could expedite the results.

And as the call connected he made a silent prayer that a miracle would occur in between the pathology lab and his office, preventing the catastrophe that was rearing up behind him like a tsunami carving its way toward the shore.