False Mermaid

Impossible. That tattered green cloth cover, the spidery white lettering on the spine—she had seen it, held it in her hand. The blue-green hues of the watercolor plate stood out in her memory. Doubt began to pull at her. But maybe it didn’t matter—after all, Frank had the paper she’d found here, perhaps with Tríona’s fingerprints on it. They had the things from the hiding place. Nobody could doubt those—they were solid forensic evidence, concrete clues.

When his dark-haired subject finally came out the library’s front entrance, Truman Stark, waiting in his truck, watched her unlock her car and get in. She’d been in there for ages—what could she possibly be doing for so long? He’d checked the car last night, out in front of her house. Clean—like it was brand-new, or maybe a rental. That was when the notion had struck him—she could be a private eye, or a reporter, digging up stuff for a story on one of those true-crime things on TV. He had to admit, that last idea had sent a small shiver of excitement through him. He liked those shows, seeing how the people who did the crimes were stupid enough to get caught. They hadn’t spent time figuring out all the angles. Not like he had.

But the grinding feeling in his gut said the brunette was onto something. The way she’d gone straight from the garage to the coffee shop, she knew something was up, he was sure of it. Hadn’t spotted him, though. And she wouldn’t. He had been honing his surveillance technique for years. He’d gotten very good at it.

Remembering back to five years ago, he considered how the redhead always parked down on the lower level of the garage. Like she was hiding from somebody. That was how he’d first noticed her. He remembered studying the tilt of her head on the TV monitor as she waited for the elevator, the glances over her shoulder, in case someone might be tailing her. But she didn’t know he was watching her. She couldn’t have known.

7

Frank felt like he’d spent the whole day running back and forth between the crime lab and his office. The fingerprints lifted from the papers Nora had brought in were headed over to the state crime lab for analysis. The substance on the clothes was definitely blood, but now he’d have to wait for DNA results to find out if the blood matched anyone in their small circle of victims and suspects, or whether they’d have to start looking further afield. He had just retrieved the file on Nick Mosher’s accident—probably just coincidence that he’d died the same day as Tríona Hallett, but everything was on the table now. They were quickly running out of time. He’d just returned to his desk with the file when his phone began to vibrate.

“Detective Cordova, it’s Sarah Cates—from the rowing club. When you were here yesterday, you asked about the lockers, so I took a closer look. Some of them seemed abandoned, so I cut the locks. Thought you might want to see what I found.”

It was after five when he arrived at the road above the Twin Cities Rowing Club. For the second time in two days, he parked at the top of the river bluff and skidded down the steep road to the boathouse. This time Sarah Cates met him at the huge sliding door.

“I haven’t touched anything except the lock. I saved that in case you needed it—I wasn’t sure.” She handed him a clear plastic bag with the cut padlock inside. At the door of the women’s locker room, she paused to shout inside: “Everybody decent? I’m bringing somebody in.” A chorus of voices shouted an all-clear, and they advanced into the steamy locker room. “It’s right over here. I put my own lock on until you arrived.” She quickly dialed the combination and removed the temporary padlock, then stepped out of the way.

Cordova pulled on a pair of gloves and swung the locker open to find a series of snapshots stuck inside the door—Natalie Russo with various teammates, all grinning triumphantly at the camera. In one of the photos, there was a large silver cup blurred at the edge of the frame—a victory?

“That was the Winnipeg regatta,” Sarah Cates said, watching his reaction. “Natalie broke all the club and event records that day. That’s when we knew she was Olympic material.”

“I’m going to take this all back to the shop. See what we can shake loose.”

“So I did right to call you?”

“Yeah—you did.”

Just then, an athletic-looking blonde rounded the corner, apparently not anticipating a man in the locker room. She seemed confused, and turned back to check the sign on the door. “This still the women’s locker room?”

Sarah Cates stepped in: “We’ll be out of your hair in just a minute.” The blonde gave a shrug of indifference, and Frank knew it was the same face he’d seen in Natalie Russo’s team photo. He was finally able to place her.

Miranda Staunton.

He’d interviewed her at the time of Tríona’s death. But if his face rang any bells for her, it didn’t show. She ducked past them without another glance. He turned to Sarah Cates.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare box or a bag—something I could use to carry all this?”