False Mermaid

He saw the cops as soon as he turned the pickup into his own street. A man and a woman. Detectives. You could tell by the way they were dressed, the way they moved. The woman was smoking, but dropped the butt on the weedy boulevard when she saw his truck. That was when he remembered all the pictures tacked up on the wall in his room. He thought briefly about gunning the engine and making a run for it. But he didn’t. For one thing, the street was a dead end, and besides, they’d already spotted him. He didn’t have a hope of getting away. There was something else, too. Some part of him was itching to find out what they knew.

“We’re looking for Elwyn T. Stark.” Karin Bledsoe flashed her badge and ID. “Are you Elwyn?”

The young man squinted at her. “Nobody calls me that.”

“What do they call you?

“Truman.”

“All right, Truman. I’m Detective Bledsoe; this is Detective Cordova. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

“I don’t mind.” The kid practically grinned at her. Frank could see Karin’s eyes flash, and heard her voice in his head: You cocky little son-ofabitch—who do you think you are? They knew who he was. Stark worked for Centurion, the company that provided security at a dozen downtown parking ramps, including the one where Tríona Hallett’s body had been found. They’d matched his fingerprints from the company database. Stark shifted his weight and avoided looking at the house, a posture that said he wasn’t anxious to have them any closer.

“Just checking to see if you happen to know this woman.” Frank held up Nora’s photo, the image he’d pulled from DMV driver’s license records.

Stark examined it. “Never met her.”

Not quite a straight answer. “But you’ve seen her before?”

“Might have. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember seeing her at your parking garage on Thursday afternoon? Your supervisor told us you got off at three that day.”

Stark was starting to look alarmed. “What’s this about?”

“Do you mind telling us where you went after work on Thursday?”

Stark looked away, uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I was just driving.”

“Did you stop anywhere, talk to anyone? Can anybody vouch for your whereabouts?”

“Probably not. I told you, I was just driving around.”

Karin said: “We have a description of a pickup like yours at a disturbance in Frogtown just after eight that night. A security guard in a Centurion uniform chasing off a bunch of neighborhood kids with a baseball bat. Was Frogtown one of the places you just happened to be driving around?”

“Might have been. Like I said—I don’t really remember. I went lots of places that night.” He crossed his arms in front of him.

“You asked what this was about,” Karin said. “We got your prints off the car that was involved in the Frogtown incident. The same car that crashed into a ravine at Hidden Falls a little while later that night.”

“What about this person—do you ever remember seeing her?” Frank held up a photograph of Tríona Hallett, and watched Stark’s face go pale. “Maybe I can refresh your memory. Her body turned up five years ago at the parking garage where you work. Ring any bells?”

Stark licked his lips nervously. “I kinda remember something like that, all right—”

Frank held up Nora’s photo again. “But you’re telling us you didn’t follow this woman after she left your parking garage Thursday afternoon? Maybe you’d better look again.”

Karin said, “I guess you thought things had died down after the murder. Maybe you didn’t appreciate somebody poking around, stirring everything up again. You wanted to make sure she wasn’t going to make trouble for you.”

“That’s bullshit. I never touched those brakes—” He stopped, too late to snatch the words back.

Frank rubbed his chin, letting Stark twist for a long couple of seconds. “Tell me, Mr. Stark, why would you jump to the conclusion that brakes had anything to do with why we’re here?”

“No reason.” The young man’s whole body suddenly shut down.

“I’m sure I didn’t mention it,” Karin said. “And I don’t think you did either, Detective Cordova. Looks like we’ll have to go over a few details with Mr. Stark back at headquarters.”

A tiny, gray-haired woman came to the screen door of the house and peered out at them. “Truman—what’s going on? What do they want?”

“Nothing, Ma. Go back in the house.”

The woman’s voice climbed into a higher register. “Why are you people bothering my son? He’s a good boy. Truman?”

Stark tucked his head to one side and barked: “Jesus Christ, Ma, just go inside and shut the fucking door!”