False Mermaid

He’d awakened this morning just as he had three years ago—with a sore head, and a curious, buoyant feeling that lasted only until he’d turned over to find himself alone. Three years ago, after their one night together, Nora had managed to avoid him, and then left the country without a word. Not even a phone message or a note to say she was going away, that what had happened had been a mistake. That part he’d had to figure out all on his own. He’d been present when the need took her, but now it seemed he was nothing but a momentary lapse in judgment, a slightly embarrassing memory. Strange—even knowing all that didn’t seem to change the way he felt. Something had taken hold of him that night, and he had never been able to shake it off.

Nora finally spoke. “There’s nothing here, Frank. Nothing to connect her to Peter—except the river. He used to run down at Hidden Falls. That’s probably where he was the morning after Tríona disappeared. And the blows to the face—”

In addition to the dental match, the forensic odontologist had determined from the fractures that the injuries to Natalie Russo’s face had been made by someone with remarkable upper-body strength, most likely using a heavy, rounded object about the size and shape of a small grapefruit. Frank knew that Nora was thinking about the profiler they’d consulted at the time of Tríona’s murder. Injuries to the face—like those sustained by Tríona, and now Natalie Russo as well—that sort of an attack was usually personal. Much more likely to occur, according to the profiler, when the killer and the victim were involved in an intimate relationship. As if murder itself wasn’t enough, whoever had destroyed these women’s faces had taken a step beyond and tried to rub them out, deny their very existence. A strange sound floated through his head, an old man’s voice, like the buzzing of a fly: Susto, susto. He felt a tightening inside, a queasiness that hadn’t gone away since last night. He never should have started drinking tequila.

Nora said, “Have you checked through the evidence from Hidden Falls? If we could line up the two crime scenes, or find something that would link Peter to Natalie Russo—”

“The crime scene unit just finished processing, but we’ve got some of the stuff logged in down at evidence storage.”

“If they found something of Tríona’s at that site—”

When they arrived at police headquarters a few minutes later, Nora followed Cordova down a chilly stairwell, listening to their footsteps reverberate against concrete. The few people they passed greeted Frank by name, and she felt their eyes surreptitiously checking the name on her visitor’s pass. Some of them would remember the trouble she’d stirred up five years ago—and no doubt pity Frank, having to deal with her again. When they reached the basement, he led her to property and evidence storage, a vast expanse of shelving behind a glass window, home to thousands of cardboard file boxes. And this wasn’t even a tenth of it—there was another whole warehouse somewhere close by, filled with thousands more sealed cartons. Somewhere in this place they could also find Tríona’s blood-soaked clothing, all the physical details that painted the gruesome picture of her last moments. As many times as Nora had been here, for some reason it had never struck her before in the same way, this vast system of enumerated transgressions. This library of crime reduced every offense, even the most horrific, to office work. Perhaps boxing up and storing away all the disturbing details of robbery and rape and murder was a way to feel as though you could contain them somehow.

She hung back while Frank signed out the evidence files. He took the first two boxes from the property officer; they’d have to wait while the others were retrieved.

In the meantime, Frank led her into an evidence exam room and shut the door behind them. He set his boxes on the table. “Like I said, there’s probably more on the way, but we can go through what’s been collected—” He suddenly winced and tilted forward, pressing two fingers to his chest.

Nora felt stabbing fear. “Frank, are you all right?”

He waved her away. “It’s nothing—I’m okay.” He fumbled in his pocket and quickly popped two antacids.

“How often are you taking those?”

“I don’t know—a couple of times a day.” Cordova straightened, but his face was ashy. He let out a slow breath. “It comes and goes. I’m fine.”

“Have you seen a doctor? It could be more than heartburn.”

He turned on her. “Jesus Christ, Nora—will you stop mothering me?”

She took a step back, shocked by his sudden flash of anger. “I’m just worried about you, Frank.”

“Well, do me a favor and stop worrying.” He kept his face turned away, shielded his eyes with one hand. “For three years, I’ve been trying to tell myself that what happened with us was a mistake. Unprofessional on my part, a slip-up. But every time I try to get that night out of my head, it won’t seem to shake loose. I’m not sorry it happened.”

“But it wasn’t real, Frank—”