False Mermaid ng-3 Read online

  She had grown used to late midsummer sunsets in Ireland, and found it surprisingly dark outside. The wall of humidity also came as a shock after the air-conditioned apartment, but within a few minutes her body adjusted, settling into the dewy atmosphere. She had nearly forgotten the sheer physical pleasures of a summer night, with a warm breeze stirring the trees, the brightest stars and the planets visible. She cut down the hill to Grand Avenue, then crossed over and followed the curved sidewalks into Crocus Hill, the tiny pocket of a neighborhood that looked out over the river flats to the bluffs on the opposite shore. The broad streets here, even the shapes of the houses, seemed strange after three years away. Perhaps it was only the darkness. Pools of shadow seemed about to swallow up the pin oaks and lindens; the trees themselves were devoid of color, recognizable only by their silhouettes, the peculiar rustlings they made in the night air.

  Nora slowed as she approached her parents’ home. She heard the music first, an Elgar cello concerto—her father’s favorite. She stopped to listen as the instrument’s deep vibrato, sonorous and sweet, spilled into the night. The broad screen porch at the side of the house was illuminated by a single reading lamp, and she could see her mother’s head bent in concentration over the crossword, a daily passion. Her father’s lanky frame was stretched on the daybed along the wall. He lay with his eyes closed, and fingers steepled over his chest as he listened to the music. Her parents had been like this always, Nora thought: two planets, each in its separate orbit. She remembered wishing once, when she was about thirteen, that her parents would shout or curse or throw things—display some feeling, anything at all. But the world around them was always calm and laid out according to scientific principles. Reason was the highest good. Nothing ever broke that peace.

  When the music ended, her father sat up and leaned over to lift the LP from the turntable and slid it gently into the sleeve. He had never caught up with the world of CD recordings. Nora’s heart suddenly squeezed tight, remembering how he had played that same recording incessantly in the weeks and months after Tríona’s death. Some people reached out to others for comfort, but her father’s grief had driven him ever more inward. After five years, this nightly dose of Elgar still seemed his only consolation.

  Eleanor Gavin set aside the folded newspaper and removed her glasses, rubbing her eyes as if plagued by a dull headache. Nora heard her father’s voice: “Are you all right, Eleanor?”

  “I’m worried about Nora. I should have told her about Miranda. I just didn’t have the heart to do it over the phone.”

  “She’ll find out soon enough.”

  Nora stood in the shadows, wondering if she’d heard right. The only Miranda she knew was Marc Staunton’s younger sister. Had something happened to her?

  “I’m sure she’d want to know, Tom. I should have said something. Peter said they were leaving on Saturday. Dublin’s not a large city. What if she were to run into them?”

  “Have you tried the flat again?”

  “No answer. Her office at Trinity will only say that she’s on break, and I can’t raise her on the cell phone.”

  “Wait until she gets home, love. It’s all we can do. She’s probably on her way now.”

  Nora stood in the darkness, a strange feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. What was it her parents had to tell her about Miranda Staunton?

  And then she knew. Peter Hallett wasn’t returning to Saint Paul with some anonymous, clueless female he’d picked up in Seattle. He was coming back to marry Miranda Staunton, his best friend’s sister. And he was taking his new bride on a wedding trip to Ireland, where he and Tríona had spent their honeymoon. Was it some sort of deliberate taunt, a demonstration that he could do exactly as he pleased, and no one could stop him?

  Nora wanted desperately to speak, but she couldn’t make a sound. It had been a mistake, coming here. The crickets’ thrumming suddenly turned unbearably loud and harsh. She turned and started back to the apartment, first walking, then running blindly, gulping air and trying to fight off the angry tears that stung her eyes. After two blocks, she slowed to a walk, suddenly so exhausted that she could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

  Turning in at the carriage house sidewalk, she caught sight of a figure standing in silhouette at the side door to the garage. The door to her apartment. Her heart lurched as she jumped back out of view, perhaps too late. When there was no audible reaction, she leaned forward and peered around the corner again, slowly this time. A man stood in the shadows—not tall, but solid and powerfully built. He seemed to hesitate, outstretched thumb poised over the bell. Then he tipped forward, slowly banging his forehead against the door. “Press the button,” he muttered to himself. “Just press the fucking button and get it over with.”

  She recognized the voice. “Frank—is that you?”

  Cordova’s head shot up and he stepped back, one hand reaching instinctively for his holster. “Goddamn it, Nora, don’t ever sneak up on somebody like that. Especially not a cop.”

  He’d kept his jacket on despite the heat, but his tie was loose and slightly askew. The street light in the alley threw most of his body into shadow, but Nora could see the crown of straight black hair, the sharp angles of the clean-shaven face, cheekbones that offered proof of Mayan ancestors. Cordova looked a little unsteady on his feet, and she realized that her sudden appearance wasn’t the only thing putting him off balance. He was holding onto the door frame for support. Something was a little off.

  “I’m just surprised to see you here, Frank. How did you find me?”

  “Give me a little credit. Carriage house, you said. Arundel Court.” He leaned forward and whispered: “I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s no other carriage house on this street.”

  Each word was carefully formed—a little too carefully. Something was definitely off. She ventured closer. “Are you okay, Frank?”

  “Perfect.”

  She was finally close enough to catch a whiff of alcohol. Not beer—something stronger. “You’ve had a few.”

  He looked wounded. “Maybe I had reason. You know, ever since you called, I keep seeing that bastard’s face.” He spat the name: “Hallett. Thinks he got away with it. I’ve seen guys like him, and they don’t stop. They never stop. He’s been laughing at us for five fucking years. Can’t you feel it?” The anguish in his voice tore at her. “You and I both know what he did. He knows we know. And that’s how he gets off, rubbing our noses in it, loving the fact that we can’t touch him. But we’re the same, you and me. Can’t let go.” His voice softened. “But we can nail him this time. I know we can.” Cordova pointed an unsteady finger at her. “He doesn’t know we found the other one.”

  “Frank, what are you talking about?”

  “The other girl, the one from Hidden Falls. You don’t know about her either. Nobody does. He thinks we’re stupid, can’t add two and two.”

  “Who is this other girl? What’s she got to do with Tríona?”

  Cordova squeezed his eyes tight. “You know, just forget about it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Jesus. I don’t know who she is, or if she’s got anything to do with anything.” He rubbed his head as if it pained him. “I don’t know why I told you. I’m not thinking straight—”

  He suddenly lost his balance and lurched forward, forcing her to reach out and place one hand against his chest. The liquor on his breath mingled with a faint, not unpleasant musk of perspiration and the barest whiff of cologne. That volatile mixture had done her in once before. If she wasn’t very careful, it could complicate matters again in a way that neither of them needed right now. Frank Cordova wasn’t in any shape to think things through tonight. Nora pushed against his chest with both hands, trying to set him upright. “We’ll figure it out, but not right now, not tonight. It’s late, and I’m completely wrecked—”

  He resisted her efforts and leaned in harder, pressing against her, his warm breath brushing her ear. “What’s the matter? You think if you let me in, we’d en
d up where we were before? Is it the worst that could happen?” As he spoke, his hands came up, the right around her waist, the left grasping her wrist as though they were dancing. Hot blood flushed her face and throat, a fierce flood of desire. She felt his eyes seeking hers in the humid darkness, and turned away, half afraid that he would find what he was looking for. Even standing with two feet on solid ground, she felt the heady, dangerous pull of that precipice. It would be so easy to go over, to forget about Cormac and all that had happened these past three years. Frank Cordova knew everything. He’d seen her at her absolute lowest point. As if he had read her thoughts, he said: “Don’t be afraid. I’ll catch you.”

  He stepped closer, and all at once she felt a sharp jab as Cormac’s hazel knot poked into her hip. It was as if the pain pricked her awake. “Come on, Frank—I haven’t slept for three days. What we both need is a good night’s rest. Where’s your car?”

  His face was still pressed into her hair. “Don’t ask me about the car. Fuck the car. God, you smell good.”

  She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he held on. She said: “Okay, we’ll forget about the car. Why don’t I call you a cab?”

  At that, he drew back and looked at her, wounded and groggy. “You think I’m being a prick.”

  “Frank, stop it—you know that’s not what I think.”

  “You do. You think I’m an inconsiderate, selfish prick. Maybe you’re right.” He put his head down and bulled forward, accidentally brushing against her as he made his way out the narrow sidewalk to the street. She held her breath as he lowered himself rather unsteadily to the curbstone and finally rested his head against crossed arms, like a wretched child. He was going to feel like hell in the morning, and there was nothing she could do about that either. She studied the back of his bowed head, trying to imagine spending day after day as he did, raking through the deliberate harm people did to one another. After a while, maybe even your own fundamental decency wasn’t enough protection. She reached for her phone to call a taxi, then headed out to join him at the curb.

  It was nearly eleven, and in the gradually cooling night, the damp air had begun to cling like mist, making a halo around the light of the single street lamp. The roar of freeway noise below them was overlaid with a sharp, constant chorus of crickets.

  “Get some sleep, Frank. We can talk in the morning.”

  “In the morning. Sure.” He inhaled deeply, as if suddenly exhausted, unable to say any more. It wasn’t only her own life she was disrupting by coming home. Nora found herself wondering what time Frank had been hauled out of bed this morning, how many other cases he was juggling. She could have asked how things were going, but from his appearance here tonight, she could venture a pretty good guess.

  When the cab arrived, Frank didn’t say even good night. He climbed into the backseat and gave the driver his address on the West Side. Nora watched the taxi pull away with his head slumped low in the back window.

  8

  As soon as the cab rounded the corner, Nora unlocked the carriage house door and began to climb the stairs, feeling as though she was moving in slow motion. Another eternity passed as she dragged out her laptop, and finally logged on to the archives at the local newspaper, the Pioneer Press. Another girl, Frank had said, at Hidden Falls. They had never found the exact spot where Tríona was killed. The words from the police report echoed in her ears: Because the body was moved, the location of the primary crime scene remains unknown. All they knew from trace evidence was that Tríona had been attacked in a wooded area, most likely along the Mississippi River. Maybe Hidden Falls. It was just one of many pockets of parkland along the river known as places to drink and get high, where people sometimes shed their clothes along with their inhibitions. Peter Hallett wanted everyone to believe that was what Tríona had done.

  Sleep now seemed impossible. Nora typed “unidentified female” and “homicide” into the paper’s search box, bringing up dozens of hits. She added “Hidden Falls.” Still too many, all old cases. Had Frank mentioned a time frame? They’d spoken on the telephone a few days ago, and he hadn’t said anything then about another victim. She felt the wheels in her brain turning like rusty gears, not even engaged, just spinning furiously in neutral.

  Maybe the Hidden Falls case was too recent to have made the papers. Then again, maybe it was just the booze talking, and there was no other victim except in Frank’s feverish imagination. He wasn’t usually like that. She’d never seen him drunk before, even when things were really bad. Maybe she had made a mistake in letting him go home instead of bringing him in, trying to sober him up. No, in the state he was in just now, that would have led to more complications. She would call him at the station first thing in the morning, get the whole story. Never mind the prospect that stretched before her, a long night of trying to force a second specter from her mind.

  Nora was just about to switch off the laptop when her inbox suddenly flickered with half a dozen new messages. Her heart lifted at the sight of Cormac’s name, but it was a pleasure immediately dampened beneath a wave of remorse. She had promised to get in touch as soon as she arrived, and had completely forgotten. The message had been posted just after midnight Irish time. He must have sent it off before going to bed. She checked her watch. Just after daybreak in Ireland now, not a decent hour to call.

  The subject read: Tune.No message, only an audio attachment. Opening it, she recognized Cormac’s flute instantly, hearing his breath in the low register that seemed to scour up dusky earth, and in soaring high notes that rang with the freshness of spring water and clear air. The music brought back that astonishing moment out on the bog only a few days ago when she knew all the way through to the center of her being that she loved him.

  She hadn’t been sure for the longest time, and then suddenly it was a fact, a binary value that switched from zero to one in the space of a single heartbeat. The sound of the flute filled her ears, playing out all the fierce, secret relief she had felt at the sight of him that day on the bog. He would have come along on this journey, she was certain, had she given him the slightest encouragement. But for some reason she had resisted. She couldn’t ask him to follow her, not here, to this terrible place. At least he had not asked for an explanation. She wouldn’t have known how to answer, except to say that since Tríona’s death, things like honesty and integrity and decency seemed strange to her—suspect, almost. After all, there had been a time when she had believed that Peter Hallett possessed all those qualities. Sometimes it felt as if she’d lost the ability to distinguish truth from falsehood. The whole world seemed skewed off-center, and try as she might, she couldn’t manage to get it righted.

  Cormac’s tune began again, and she let it play. You’re not a person who gives up, he had said. But neither am I. There was no doubt about the first part, much good it had done her so far. All she could do was to hold out hope that the second bit was true as well. Still, she could never blame Cormac for finding someone else, if he did. Someone who fit his life much better than she ever would. No promises, they’d agreed. Cormac had troubles of his own, without getting sandbagged by hers.

  An instant message suddenly appeared on her screen:

  —Are you there, Nora?

  She could hear his voice in the words, and her heart jumped again. She turned down the music and picked up her mobile. He answered on the first ring.

  “Cormac, I meant to call. I’m so sorry—”

  “Everything all right?”

  How could she tell him the truth? “Everything’s fine. You’re up early.”

  “I was going out for a row. Just thought I’d see if you were around.”

  “How’s your father?”

  “Actually doing what he’s told—for once.”

  “I’m glad. Where is his home place, exactly?”

  “Just up the road from Glencolumbkille. A very remote spot. Hard to believe, really. I didn’t know places like this still existed.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

 
; He hesitated. “I actually like it—the wind and the waves. You know me—the wilder the better.”

  “Speaking of which, thanks for the tune. I was having a listen when I got your message just now.”

  “So it came through?”

  “Like you were right here beside me.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “That was the general idea.”

  “What do you call it?”

  There was a slight pause, and she imagined him looking up at her from beneath dark brows—nervous, hesitant, unused to rituals of self-revelation. “What if I tell you the next time we meet?”

  “So mysterious. What was it that ancient Greek said about the Celts?”

  “‘They speak in riddles, hinting at things, leaving much to be understood.’”

  “Some things never change, apparently.”

  His voice turned serious. “Still got your hazel knot?”

  She felt for it in her pocket. “Right here.”

  “Good—hang on to it. I feel bloody useless over here.”

  “Cormac, please don’t—”

  “Nora—” He was on the verge of saying something more but demurred. “You’re probably knackered. I’ll let you get some sleep. Mind yourself now—and sleep well.”

  “Good night, Cormac. Thanks again for the tune.”

  She hung up, and placed one hand over his picture on the screen. To her surprise, an instant message popped up beneath her fingers:

  —Oiche mhaith.

  Followed almost immediately by another:

  —P.S. I like hearing you say my name.