False Mermaid

“It’s Frank Cordova. I wanted to thank you for coming to the visitation the other night. I saw you come in as I was leaving. Sorry I couldn’t stay.”

“That’s okay—I happened to see the notice in the paper. Thought I’d pay my respects. I’m sorry—”

“Thanks.” Frank felt his chest constrict, and braced himself for the stabbing pain, but it never came. “Does that offer of a free rowing lesson still stand?” He closed his eyes and pictured the two of them out on the water, pulling in the same direction, her turning to him with those eyes the color of the river in sunlight.

“Anytime. If you wanted to drop by after practice tomorrow—”

“I’ll be there.”

“You might not believe this, but when you called, I had just picked up the phone to call you. I’m organizing a kind of a memorial for Natalie. She wasn’t religious—neither am I, really—but I thought a few of us could meet down at the river some evening next week, maybe go out on the water for a while. A sort of remembrance. I can tell you more about it tomorrow.”

“That sounds good. See you then.”

As Frank passed through the station’s front lobby a few minutes later, the duty sergeant waved him over, indicating a figure slumped in one of the plastic chairs beside the front door. Truman Stark sat with his hands clasped before him, staring at the floor between his feet, both legs jigging to some internal rhythm.

“Somebody to see you, Detective. Wouldn’t give a name. Says he’s got information for you on an accidental death.”

In the interview room, Truman Stark once again avoided eye contact. And once again, Frank waited. The kid asked to see him. Maybe his hunch had been right; maybe Stark hadn’t spilled everything. A bit of a childhood prayer ran through Frank’s head: Ruega por nosotros pecadores. Pray for us sinners. Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte—now and at the hour of our death.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to put the kid at ease. “When you were here before, you said if you told the truth, I wouldn’t believe. Why don’t you try me?”

It was clear that Truman Stark had made up his mind to tell what he knew. He just had no idea how to begin.

“The duty officer said you mentioned an accidental death—” Frank prompted.

Stark nodded. “Five years ago, in the Sturgis Building.”

“Didn’t happen to be a guy named Nick Mosher—the guy who fell down the elevator shaft?”

“I was there—” The kid looked as if he might choke.

“Relax, Truman. We’re in no hurry here.”

Stark nodded, and settled his shoulders. “I followed the redhead to the Sturgis Building that day. She met up with this guy on the fourth floor. He was wearing dark glasses.”

“Nick Mosher.”

“That was the last time I saw her, I swear.”

“Did she seem happy to see Mosher?”

The memory clearly pained him. “She kissed him.”

“Just a friendly kiss, or something more?”

“I don’t know—why are you asking me? She kissed him, and handed over a coffee she’d brought him from downstairs.”

“And then?”

“I hit the elevator button. I wasn’t going to stick around. I had to get back to work.”

An image began to form in the back of Frank’s brain. The flowers, the jilted lover. He kept quiet—the kid might clam up. “So you don’t know what Tríona Hallett was doing on the fourth floor of the Sturgis Building that day?”

Stark shook his head.

“But you had some idea?”

“I knew she was married. I thought maybe she was fooling around.”

“And you wanted to get your feet wet as a private eye, was that it?”

“No—no. I just wanted to find out why she was always looking over her shoulder. I saw the blonde following her a couple of days before. I thought maybe the blonde was a private eye the husband sent to check up on things.”

“You didn’t know who the redhead’s husband was?”

“Not then, no. I saw his picture in the paper, after—”

“Let’s get back to that day. You go back to work, you put in your shift, until what time?”

“Nine. I might have left the ramp around nine-fifteen.”

“And then—”

“I went back to the Sturgis Building.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know—”

“To see if the redhead was still there?”

“I told you, I don’t know why.” Stark was getting agitated. “I got in the elevator—it was the old-fashioned kind, with the gate that comes down—”

“A freight elevator.”

“I didn’t see anybody around, so I opened the gate on the fourth floor and got off. Then somebody upstairs must have called the elevator, ’cause it took off.”

“With the gate still open?”