False Mermaid (16 page)

He remembered how the bright beam had crossed the space number on the monitor upstairs, and then it struck him—114 was the same parking space where they’d found that girl, the redhead. He hadn’t known her name until he saw her picture on the TV news. His job might have been in danger if he’d said anything to the police. But he could have told them plenty. How he’d seen her—three and four times a week, all through that spring and summer. He could have told them how he’d watched her, even followed her outside sometimes, admiring the way her long hair seemed to float around her when the breeze came up. How he’d imagined all that beautiful hair spilling over him when he looked at the pictures he’d taped to the sloped ceiling above his bed. But the police had no need to know any of that. There was no way they were going to find out. Because if they did, all those private moments would be destroyed, and he could never let that happen.

Leaving the garage and heading back to the car, Nora walked along the south side of Mears Park. The square itself was shady this late in the afternoon, but yellow sunlight still glinted from the windows above the trees. The pavement radiated heat, and the air felt sticky. She wasn’t over the shock of returning home. All the wide streets, the broad-shouldered buildings still felt strange and unfamiliar.

Pedestrians crossed the square with their dogs, accompanied by classical music piping from speakers in the modern band shell. Suddenly the true purpose of the music dawned: it was not about offering pleasure to the masses, but about repelling young people. The whole proposition rested on a presumption that no self-respecting, rap-loving juvenile would be caught dead within earshot of Mozart. There was something a little sad about that.

Nora pictured the timeline tacked up on the wall in her apartment, with at least eight hours in Tríona’s last, fateful day still unaccounted for. Every minute of every hour was made up of so many intricate layers and intersections, places where one stream flowed into another. What were the chances that she was walking by something vitally important right now?

Her ears became attuned to the sound of running water, which came from the stream that cut across the park. It wasn’t a real stream, of course, but a fountain that tumbled through faux boulders and feathery native grasses. An artificial prairie creek in the heart of the city. She followed the water to the opposite side of the park and crossed the street, moving to sidestep a couple of teenage girls walking by a large plate glass window of an empty office space. As she passed them, one of the girls shouted, “Hey, Latrice, that was us on the TV!” She yanked at her friend’s arm, and Nora had to swerve to avoid a collision.

“No way,” Latrice said. But she stared through the glass where her friend was pointing. Nora couldn’t help being drawn in. The whole window became a video collage: multiple fast-motion images shot from
above turned pedestrians into ants, and slow-motion, street-level video was interspersed with still photos.

The friend insisted. “I know what I saw.”

“You trippin’,” Latrice said. “I don’t see nothin’.”

“I’m tellin’ you,
it was us,
” her friend said again, annoyed. “There!” She yelped and smacked Latrice’s bare arm. “Right there! Told you I wasn’t lyin’.”

Latrice finally caught a glimpse of her larger-than-life self. “Aw man, that’s wack!” She started trying out a few dance moves. “Here’s Latrice, baby. For real. Come on, everybody, get a good look!”

As she preened and strutted for the camera, her friend backed away, doubled over and breathless with laughter. A few other people stopped to watch the show. It was almost impossible not to get caught up in their high spirits. But when the images changed again, the girls moved on, jostling one another and laughing, embarrassed now at the stir they’d caused. Nora turned back to the window and saw her own image through the glass. She moved one hand slowly up and down, and her oversized likeness followed suit. The main screen suddenly switched to a street-level shot of a crowd in slow motion, perspective oddly flattened by the camera’s stationary single eye.

Nora felt her breath stop as a face in the crowd emerged, then disappeared for a long second, only to emerge again from behind a blurry figure in the foreground. The long, loose hair lifted and seemed to float for an instant in the slow-motion breeze. She had not been mistaken.

The face was Tríona’s.

Nora watched her sister’s graceful approach, caught in a web of memory. There was so much she had forgotten, and she felt the need to drink it all in, every detail. Even in slow motion, it was far too fast. Tríona overtook the camera and disappeared into the edge of the frame. Nora spun around and scanned the faces around her. It was impossible, she knew, yet the image had been so clear. She turned back and studied the picture, trying to fix the camera’s location. The shot had come from in front of the building where she stood, that much was certain. But the image also caught the edge of a distinctive stone arch half a block down. Tríona had been walking past that arch. Nora began to run, excusing herself to the passersby she jostled in her haste. She thought of the photo she’d shoved hastily into her bag and dug it out on the fly. She was on the verge of holding it up, saying to the passersby:
You must have seen her—she was
just here!
But all at once she saw herself reflected in the blank stares all around her. They already saw her as a crazy person. The hand holding Tríona’s picture dropped slowly to her side, and in a few seconds, the foot traffic closed around her once more.

She had gone away three years ago, angry and frustrated, and thinking every possible avenue had already been explored, but it was clear from the few brief, chance encounters that had begun piling up today that she had been wrong. She walked back to watch the projection in the window again, and finally realized that not all of the pictures were live. Herself and the two girls, yes, but most of the footage was a video collage that could have been shot at any time—five years ago or more. She stood at the window long enough to see that the whole thing ran on a continuous loop. There was her sister’s face again, exactly the same as before. Standing in front of the glass, Nora knew what she had seen was a shadow, an image captured and reassembled in a stream of ones and zeros. A digital specter.

But what it meant was that Tríona had been here, on this street, at least once, perhaps many times. Where was she going? Nora scanned the buildings ahead for a sign, anything that might have drawn her sister inside. A half block down, the dark silhouette of an animal caught her eye.

The Blue Coyote Café was in the corner space of the Sturgis Building, one of the few old warehouses in the neighborhood that had resisted gentrification, and still gloried in its original cast-iron and raw timber framework. When Nora pushed open the coffee-shop door, not one of the half-dozen people sitting at brightly painted, mismatched tables even raised a glance. As she approached the counter, the glum barista set down her half-eaten apple and her paperback copy of
Anna Karenina
and stood up, eyeing her prospective customer without a hint of curiosity or interest. The girl was about eighteen, with impossibly jet-black hair, dark green lips, and a heavily studded dog collar.

“I’m not here for coffee,” Nora said. “I’m looking for anyone who might have been working here five years ago.”

“You’re not looking for me, then,” the girl said. “I was only twelve. But I think Val was around. Just a sec—” The girl ducked into the back room and returned a few seconds later in the company of a woman with spiky gray hair who sported a bright white chef’s apron over street clothes.

“I’m Valerie Marchant,” the woman said, wiping soapy hands on her apron front. “What can I do for you?”

Nora handed over Tríona’s photo. “I was wondering if you recognize her.”

The reaction was immediate. “Tríona Gavin. She used to come in here a lot. Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say—Nora Gavin. Tríona was my sister.”

Valerie Marchant’s demeanor changed. “I’m so sorry. We were all shocked to hear what happened. And doubly shocked when that husband of hers was never charged, when he was so obviously guilty—”

Nora interrupted: “I’m sorry, you said Tríona used to come in here?”

Valerie Marchant looked surprised. “All the time. She did voice work at a studio upstairs, Nick Mosher’s place. Nicky always had actor friends coming through. I knew Tríona a little from her acting days, before she got married—I used to be a theater director once, before this place took over.”

Nora was trying to understand. “If you and this Nick Mosher knew my sister, why didn’t you come forward at the time of the murder?”

“I was abroad, in Helsinki on a fellowship, didn’t get back until the following January. And Nicky—” Valerie Marchant shook her head sadly. “Nick Mosher is dead. He fell down the elevator shaft here in the building. The police said it was an accident.”

Nora felt as if she’d missed something. “I’m sorry, when was this?”

“It happened five years ago yesterday. We always have a sort of memorial here on the anniversary. Nick’s old buddies come over, I close up shop, and we all sit around and get roaring drunk on red wine. I apologize if I’m a little bleary—we’re still clearing away the empties.”

“What sort of work did Nick do?”

“Sound engineer. Radio ads mostly, some audiobooks, and a bit of music. He still did theater work—that’s where he got started. But the real money was in advertising.”

“And you said he had actors going up to his studio all the time?”

“Nick kept his friends in steady work. The money was good, too. He was a lifesaver.”

“How did the accident happen?”

Valerie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Nick was always so safety-conscious. I’ve always had my suspicions about whether it was really an accident.”

“But you’ve never talked to the police about any of this?”

“I wasn’t here at the time—didn’t think I could offer any useful information.”

“How did my sister seem when she came in here? Did you ever happen to see anyone speaking to her, following her?”

“Not that I can recall. She’d come in, get hot tea with lemon for herself, and a double cappuccino with an extra shot for Nick, then head upstairs.” She tapped her temple. “It’s amazing—some of that useless crap never goes away.”

“Hey, Val, where do you want these?” The barista held up a slightly warped pair of dark glasses. Valerie pivoted and craned her neck to see.

“Oh, just set them on my desk, will you?” Turning back, she spotted Nora’s curious gaze.

“One of the melancholy mementoes we drag out every year—Nick’s glasses. I guess I forgot to mention that he was blind.”

“You never saw my sister’s husband around here?”

Valerie shook her head. “I’m sure somebody would have told me if he’d come prowling around. Not exactly the kind of guy who escapes notice easily, is he? Or who liked sharing the spotlight, from what I’ve heard. Your sister was so gifted—we were all disappointed when she gave up acting. When I started seeing her down here, I was hopeful; it seemed like she might be getting back into it. But she always seemed a little edgy. I’m pretty sure Nick was paying her in cash, but I don’t think it was the tax man she was trying to avoid. I’m not sure your sister’s husband knew about her work down here. From the few things Nick said, I got the distinct impression that something bad would happen if he ever found out.”

Nora remembered Tríona’s words:
I’ve lied and deceived everyone.
Was it the work she’d been doing behind Peter’s back, or was it something much worse? She asked: “Does the name Natalie Russo mean anything to you?”

“I can’t say it does. I’m sorry. But listen, I really wish you luck. We were all hoping the police would nail that sonofabitch.”

Outside the coffee-shop window, Truman Stark stopped and pretended to look for something on the ground, stealing a glance at the brunette who stood at the corner of the pastry case inside, talking to the owner. The same one he’d just seen at the garage, he was sure of it. She was putting something back in her bag—a picture of the redhead. They were
connected somehow. He knew he’d seen her before, nosing around in the lower level at the parking ramp, right after the body turned up. But she hadn’t been back lately, not for a couple of years at least.

Truman pretended to look at the menu board, keeping an eye on his subject. Some people had hobbies, like woodworking or raising pigeons or growing tomatoes. What he did in his spare time was much more important than any of that stuff. More like a calling.

He had tailed the redhead into this building a few times. The very last time, he’d followed her across the square. When she stopped to sit on a bench, he’d fallen back, used the time to pick a handful of flowers from one of the beds along the stream. A wrinkled old broad on a nearby bench pulled a face at him, like the park was her personal garden or something. He didn’t care. He’d watched the redhead take a note from her purse. She stared at it for a minute, then she stuffed it in her pocket and started walking toward the Sturgis Building again. He’d caught up to her as she was waiting for the light. He thought about leaving the flowers somewhere she would find them. She’d be surprised, maybe even touched by the gesture. That’s the way she was; he’d seen it plenty of times. He wouldn’t leave a note or anything—that would be too much. When she walked into the coffee shop he stopped outside to observe through the glass, watching how her lips moved silently as she chatted with the girl at the counter, how her body swayed slightly as she waited.

He was going to head up to the fourth floor—he knew from the last time that’s where she was headed. He’d leave the flowers for her there. He thought he’d timed it just right, but the coffee-shop line was faster than he’d anticipated, and she stepped onto the elevator just before the doors closed. She saw that the fourth-floor button was lit up, so he punched number five, glowing with embarrassment, pretending he’d made a mistake. Then she’d glanced at the flowers, and briefly at him. His knees had begun to tremble.
Open your mouth,
said the voice in his ears. For some reason, the voice always sounded like his father.
She likes the flowers—just open your mouth and say something, dickweed
. But all at once he felt the elevator sway on its cables, and knew that if he opened his mouth, he would throw up. He couldn’t make a sound.