Sydney Bauer has worked as a journalist and TV executive. While Director of Programming for a major Australian network, Sydney was able to indulge a personal passion for US dramas like Law & Order, CSI and 24, and meet with revered TV writers such as Dick Wolf. Matter of Trust is Sydney’s fifth novel.
Also by Sydney Bauer
Undertow
Gospel
Alibi
Move to Strike
MATTER
OF
TRUST
SYDNEY
BAUER
First published 2010 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Sydney Bauer 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Bauer, Sydney.
Matter of trust / Sydney Bauer.
9781405039598 (pbk.)
A823.4
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typeset in 11/15pt Birka by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane, Queensland Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Matter of Trust
Sydney Bauer
Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74262-052-7
Online format: 978-1-74262-055-8
EPUB format: 978-1-74262-053-4
Macmillan Digital Australia
www.macmillandigital.com.au
Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.
CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT SYDNEY BAUER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
PART TWO
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
PART THREE
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
For K and C, and all unconditional childhood friendships
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First up, a big thank you to all at Pan Macmillan – James Fraser, Emma Rafferty, Jane Novak, the artistic Deb Parry and, most of all, my publisher and friend, Cate Paterson.
Thanks also to my New York mentor Harvey Klinger and his Sydney-based counterpart Brian Johns.
Newark, NJ was new territory for me and this book would not have been possible without the help of: Veterans Courthouse Trial Administrator Collins Ijoma, Newark Police’s 3rd Precinct Captain Dennis O’Reilly and Detective Louis Plaza, Essex County Corrections facility Director Scott Faunce and Deputy Director Al Ortiz (thanks for the amazing tour, guys), Essex County Prosecutor’s Office Homicide Squad Director and Down Neck local Greg DeMattia, and the brilliant and incredibly hospitable Northern Region Medical Examiner Chief Doctor Lyla Perez.
Special thanks goes to the ‘two Johns’ – my FBI heroes and friends who not only gave me all the legal background I needed, but also bought me dinner!
And to Boston-based Detective Kevin Molis – for his good heart and constant inspiration.
Finally, a huge thank you to all my family and friends – especially Jarrod and Claudia, who remind me each and every day how great life can be if you never, ever give up.
PROLOGUE
December 12, 25 years ago
Newark, New Jersey
‘All right then,’ said Father Patrick, the word ‘then’ sounding more like ‘den’ as the Irish priest flicked his tongue around the last of the three words. The smoky-haired clergyman had finally stopped pacing, sweat forcing its way through the pores of the thick, pink skin of his brow.
‘Enough is enough.’ He glared at the guilty trio before him, his face framed by the portrait of Saint Stephen, the first Chri
stian martyr, which sat like a warning on the far office wall.
‘Your mothers are waiting just beyond that door, their weekend peace ruined by the unspeakable crimes of their children. But before I confirm to them the heart-breakin’ news that they have bred a trio of heretics, I need to know just how far you lads have taken this – meaning, have you ever done this before?’
None of the boys answered. They hadn’t raised their heads during the entire diatribe, preferring to play it safe by focusing on the headmaster’s large scuffed shoes. David watched the right of the two, his eye catching on a smidgen of red sock that peeked irreverently from a small hole at the toe.
‘I can tell by now that I might as well be whistlin’ a jig to a milestone, or to this machine, which, as you can see,’ he said, as he nudged the broken tape recorder on the floor before him with the same exposed toe, ‘. . . will never be used for the devil’s work again. But the law states that every accused man deserves a fair hearing, and despite my utter disgust at the unspeakable violation you three appear to have perpetrated, I am willing to hear your version of events as long as they are spoken truthfully – with an eye to contrition and a knowledge that your punishments will be exponentially equated to the amount of shite you spin.’
Father Patrick shook his head as the shattered tape recorder tilted awkwardly on the old rug in his third-floor office. He had thrown it down in fury seconds after listening to the cassette tape inside it – up to the moment when old lady Flannigan began speaking about her brother-in-law and the impure thoughts she had about him.
‘Just so there is no question,’ the priest went on, the old wooden crucifix behind his overcrowded desk now swinging slightly on its hook as it caught a gust of chill that pushed determinedly through the crack at the bottom of the east-facing window, ‘as far as your parents are concerned,’ his eyes flickered across the three culprits – David in the middle, the broad-shouldered, dark-haired Chris Kincaid on his left and the skinny, freckled, fresh-faced Mike Murphy on his left, ‘I will give you one more chance to tell me who initiated this most satanic of crimes. But once this moment is gone,’ Father Patrick’s thick pointer finger hovered mere inches from David’s wide green eyes, ‘your opportunity will be lost and the judge and jury – all thirteen of them represented by me – will sentence you to life imprisonment in the Saint Stephen’s Preparatory detention hall.’ He turned to Chris. ‘Which means no basketball, Mr Kincaid, for the entire length of the season.’
David felt his tall friend flinch.
‘So what’s it to be, Mr Murphy?’ Father Patrick now focused on the smallest of the three. ‘Are you going to speak up and provide me with the details of your heinous deed? Or are you going to pay the price of your silence and suffer the consequences threefold?’
David braced himself for what he knew was bound to follow . . .
‘Well, Father,’ Mike began, ‘first up, I want to apologise for our violating your personal space like we did. I’d never thought of confessionals as personal sanctuaries, but the hot water bottle under the seat cushion, the packet of fags next to the holy water, well, obviously you’ve made yourself at home in there, Father, and I can see how our intrusion might have rankled.’ Mike managed a smile as the colour rose once again in Father Patrick’s cheeks.
‘But here’s the thing, Father,’ Mike went on, shaking his head as if puzzled. ‘Just last month, in our literature class, you were quoting James Joyce who said “Mistakes are the portal to Discovery”, and on more than one occasion, I’ve looked up at you in that pulpit with great admiration as you assured us that our Holy Father loves those who learn from their mistakes, that failure is inevitable along the road to salvation.’ Mike shook his head once again.
‘You know,’ he went on. ‘Thomas Jefferson once said something like “You haven’t succeeded until you’ve failed ten thousand times over”, and I suppose our actions,’ Mike gestured at Chris and David beside him, ‘. . . well we were just impatient, Father. We figured that, along with our own mistakes, there must be hundreds more others were making that we could learn from. We’re always trying to be better men, Father – but it seems unfair that we should be restricted to our own failings for inspiration. And the knowledge we gained from this . . . research, Father – the lessons we learned from hearing about Mr Suarez’s propensity for falsehoods, Mr Gunther’s issues with the demon drink and Mrs Flannigan’s desires for her much younger brother-in-law—’
But Mike never finished outlining those lessons learned, for Father Patrick, obviously no longer able to restrain himself, grabbed him by the collar and attempted to physically shake the insolence from his deeply blackened soul.
The priest was almost hissing with rage, his nostrils expanding and contracting in an animalistic fashion. David and Chris stood anxiously by, unsure how to help their friend without sending their headmaster completely over the edge. But it was Mike himself who put an end to it, by simply standing his ground – his headmaster was so intent on extracting some sort of rise out of the smart-mouthed teenager that he lost his footing and tripped over the tape recorder lying ominously on the floor.
As Father Patrick hit the ground, Mike, David and Chris held their breaths one more time before meeting each other’s eyes and breaking into fits of uncontrollable laughter. And in that moment, all three knew that whatever else happened, they would always have this – the day they stood up to the most powerful man in their lives.
Many years later, some decades after their prank went so horribly wrong, David would see the irony in that strangely wonderful day. For while their ‘sin’ consolidated their friendship, it would trigger consequences too brutal to imagine – drawing them back together, before tearing their worlds apart.
PART ONE
1
Newark, New Jersey; present day
‘Bless me, Father for I have sinned,’ she said.
Despite himself, the priest, her friend, felt warmed by her presence. ‘How long has it been since your last confession?’ he asked, the muted bulb above him throwing his shadow across the narrow confessional floor.
‘Jesus, Father, do you think I shop my sins around?’
‘I . . . No . . .’ he offered, the slightest of smiles on his narrow freckled face.
‘Then it’s been as long as since the last time I confessed something to you. You may not have been wearing those fancy white robes at the time,’ her shadow shifted as she pointed through the thin wire screen before her, ‘but you were always a good listener, Father – one of the few people I could trust.’
And he took comfort in knowing she was right.
‘What is it you need to share with the Lord today, Ms Maloney?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, do not call me Ms Maloney. And I don’t have anything to “share” with him, Father. I came to talk to you.’
‘You don’t need to come to the confessional to talk to me, Marilyn,’ he said.
‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Father. I don’t exactly fit in with your congregation. I mean, can you see me sitting front and centre with the diehard regulars at your Sunday morning service?’
And he couldn’t, because, once again, she was right.
‘What is it then?’ he asked after a pause.
‘It’s . . .’ she began, and he could have sworn he smelt the slightest trace of bourbon on her breath. ‘I have a decision I need to make and I’m not sure how to make it.’
He heard the quiver in her voice, her customary bravado shaken by whatever she needed to resolve.
‘What’s wrong, Marilyn?’ he asked.
‘It’s . . .’ She paused, a breath caught in her throat. ‘I’ve been offered a proposal.’
‘A proposal?’
‘Some money. A lot of money. To leave him. To walk away.’
The priest closed his eyes.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she went on. ‘I was told I’m jeopardising his future. That I’m a thorn in his side.’
More in theirs, thought
the priest, but he knew better than to voice it. ‘Does he know?’ he asked.
‘God, no,’ she said. ‘If he did, he’d have nothing of it.’ A pause. ‘Don’t you think?’
But the priest realised that he did not want to think on this one at all – because the possibility of it would kill her.
‘The thing is,’ she went on, ‘if he did know, if he condoned it, then my decision would be easy. He’d effectively be calling me a whore. If I thought he was part of it, I’d beat him senseless with my bare fists before telling him that I was going to tell the world about our lifelong affair. That would hit him where it hurts, wouldn’t it, Father? He’d want to kill me – in fact he would kill me – I am sure of it. And then Gloria would cover it up, and nobody would ever know. Except for you Father, you would stand up for me, you and Rob, wouldn’t you?’
‘Come on, Marilyn,’ said the priest, more than just a little uncomfortable with where this conversation was going. ‘That isn’t going to happen. First and foremost because I know you – and you would never tell.’
‘Well, of course not.’ The smell of bourbon was stronger now. ‘But I’d take pleasure in scaring the hell out of him before I threw the hundred grand in his face.’
‘You’ve been offered a hundred thousand dollars?’ asked the priest, incredulous.
‘Yes. But I’ve never put a price on our relationship, Father. You know that.’
And he did.
‘You know what, Father?’ she went on after a pause. ‘I miss the old times. Back when we were all equal. You know?’
And once again, he did.
‘Do you remember how much we loved The Outsiders?’ she said referring to the 1983 movie starring Matt Dillon and Tom Cruise. ‘How we used to see ourselves as rebels?’
The priest smiled. ‘I wanted to be Johnny Cade,’ he remembered.
‘But we made you be Ponyboy.’
‘Because I was Irish.’
‘Because you were cute – and you were definitely more C. Thomas Howell than Ralph Macchio.’
‘I’d rather have been DC’s Rob Lowe or Chris’s Matt Dillon.’
Marilyn smiled. ‘You know, even now when I meet with him, at the hotels I mean, we still use the character names – like Dallas or Doyle or Tex.’