False Mermaid ng-3

by Erin Hart

  “What did she say, Nora?”

  “What I told you once before, that Peter seemed to get some strange pleasure from hurting her. I thought he was hitting her, but it turned out to be far worse than that. And—”

  Cormac took her face between his hands. “Tell me, Nora, please.”

  “She said that she had done things, too, unspeakable things—that she had lied and deceived everyone. That she had to find out the truth. The last thing she said was: ‘Isn’t it shocking, what you’ll do when you love someone?’”

  “Oh, Nora—”

  “She doubted herself more than she doubted him. That’s what drove her to the woods that night. It wasn’t the truth about Peter she was looking for, it was the truth about herself. She truly loved him, and he used that to destroy her. He goes on destroying her, in the eyes of her child, the eyes of the world. I can’t let him do it any longer. I won’t.”

  “You’ve been carrying this alone, all these years?”

  “Only one other person in the world ever knew as much as I’ve just told you.”

  “Frank Cordova.”

  “He was the only person who took me seriously—do you have any idea what it’s like, to be undermined and disbelieved for so many years? What it means to have one person stand by you? I didn’t mean for it to happen, that night with Frank. It was before I met you, Cormac. I just couldn’t go on—”

  Cormac moved closer, but she pushed him away again. “Do you understand? I can’t—what we’ve had these past few months—I don’t deserve it, any of it. I should have listened to Tríona, I should have seen—”

  But he moved in again, slowly, gently, folding her body into his. After a few moments, she stopped resisting and her head dropped forward, finally coming to rest against his chest.

  Out beyond the harbor at Port na Rón, Ferghal O’Gara hit the switch to reel his nets in for the night. Another pitiful catch. He’d have to give it up, if things didn’t improve. But what would he do? Fishing was all he knew—the tides and banks, maneuvering a boat through rough seas, running the nets, negotiating a price for his catch—but it was all going by the wayside, with the corporate crowd taking everything over.

  Ferghal didn’t allow himself to trust anything that operated on such a colossal scale. It was madness. Because when disasters came—for they had always come and always would—those disasters were on a colossal scale as well. All he wanted was to bring home enough to feed the children. Was that so much to ask? And maybe enough for the odd pint once in a while.

  Once the nets were in, and the catch (what little there was) safely stowed, he started up the diesel engine and began motoring back to port. The moon was high and bright, and as he passed by the harbor at Port na Rón, he could see a disturbance in the water. Seals, dozens of them, calling out and splashing in the bay. What could have set them off? He’d never heard of killer whales hunting at night.

  Ferghal cut his engine and stepped out onto the foredeck, listening to the eerie wailing, and remembering a story his grandfather had told him, about a group of men, a hundred years ago or more, out hunting seals in the caves below Port na Rón. One of the men had raised up his club to strike a pup when he heard the mother cry out in Irish: Mo pháistín, mo pháistín! My child, my child!

  Ferghal himself was well used to the creatures—he’d practically been reared with them, always swimming around the boat looking for any fish that might escape his nets. He had to admit there was something about them, the way they looked up at you from the water, that expression in their eyes saying they knew and shared your deepest sorrows.

  All at once, the sound of a single voice rose above the others.

  Oro, mo pháistín! Oroo!

  It carried like the voices of the old women he’d once heard at a wake, with their strange prayers and incantations. There was no more. He strained to listen, but the noise of the water and the wind in his ears made it impossible to tell if what he had heard was true, or only his imagination.

  The boat heeled suddenly, as the broad back of a killer whale breached the water on his starboard side. Ferghal grasped the gunwale and scrambled to keep from falling back against the wheelhouse. As the huge predator glided by, he almost felt that if he could only reach out far enough, his fingers might brush against the creature’s high dorsal fin. But the whale moved on, and as it dived and disappeared, the white underside of its tail glowed briefly in the moonlight. The seals had fallen silent.

  Ferghal shivered and switched the diesel engine back on. He’d have a mug of strong tea when he got home tonight, maybe a drop of something stronger. Then he’d go to bed, have a tumble with the wife, if he were lucky and she were willing. And he would never, ever tell anyone what he had seen and heard out here tonight, in case they would say he was mad.

  5

  Frank Cordova sat at his desk, trying to piece together all he knew about Miranda Staunton. She’d been spotted following Tríona Hallett around Lowertown, and if Truman Stark was telling the truth, she knew about the parking ramp security system. All the work they’d done to try to nail Peter Hallett, and now everything was beginning to point away from him and toward Miranda.

  Frank glanced at his watch. Already after four, and he had to be down at the funeral home by six for a private family viewing before his brother’s wake. The phone at his elbow rang, and he picked up. “Cordova here.”

  “Okay, here’s the lowdown on all those clothes you asked me to check.” Frank could heard Jackie Smart sorting through papers as she spoke. “The blood on the U of M tee shirt and shorts matched your vic from Hidden Falls, Natalie Russo. I got some wearer DNA from the inside as well, but the sample was pretty cross-contaminated—”

  “Which means?”

  “Just that more than one person seems to have worn them. At least one male, one female. Don’t ask me why. Still working on those profiles.”

  So even though Tríona had possession of clothes worn by the person who likely killed Natalie Russo, they couldn’t prove she had worn them. They also couldn’t prove that she hadn’t. What mystery man would have worn Tríona Hallett’s clothes?

  Jackie continued: “The DNA on your hit-and-run was pretty interesting, too. The newer bloodstains on the Galliard sweatshirt were a match to the accident victim, Harry Shaughnessy—no surprise there. The older stains were pretty degraded, but with amplification I was able to get a match to your cold-case vic—Tríona Hallett.”

  Frank felt a flare of emotion. “That’s great, Jackie. I appreciate you turning everything around so fast—”

  “I haven’t even come to the interesting part yet—the third DNA profile from inside the sweatshirt.” She shifted more papers. “I got Harry Shaughnessy’s DNA from the collar and cuffs—probably the only areas that ever made contact with his skin. But I got additional wearer DNA from inside the shirt. No hits against any forensic profiles or convicted offenders in the system. All I can say for sure at this point is that the other person who wore the clothes was female.”

  “Female?”

  “Yup. The fancy running shoes were the same; blood on the outside was a match to the same cold-case vic, Tríona Hallett. And inside, the same unknown female who wore the shirt.”

  Cordova sank down into his chair. Peter Hallett was slipping away from them—again. “You’re absolutely positive it’s a female?”

  “As positive as any forensic scientist will admit to being. Sorry if it’s not what you wanted to hear. Since we got no hits in the database, it’s going to be tough to find out who our mystery woman is—unless you have some idea.”

  “I might.”

  “We’d need a known sample to run a comparison.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He hung up the phone. Another round of evidence pointing to Miranda Staunton. There was also her direct link with Natalie Russo, through the rowing club. A strong rower like Miranda must have good upper body strength—enough to render a human face unrecognizable? And where was he going to get a k
nown sample from Miranda Staunton? Frank let his memory travel back to the last time he’d seen her—in the rowing club locker room. He picked up the phone.

  When Sarah Cates met him at the door of the boathouse thirty minutes later, she was dressed not in workout gear, as he’d expected, but in a dark blue-green suit that set off the color of her eyes. “Welcome back, Detective. What can I do for you this time?”

  “I need to get into the women’s locker room again.”

  Sarah Cates led the way, again making sure the coast was clear before bringing Frank inside the locker room. He made a beeline for the bench where he’d seen Miranda lacing up those odd-looking shoes. Sliding an evidence envelope from his pocket, he opened his penknife and crouched down beside the bench. There it was, the wad of chewing gum Miranda had stuck on the underside of the plank two days ago. He prized the gum loose and let it drop into the envelope.

  Sarah Cates spoke behind him. “I have a question, when you’re finished there.”

  “Done,” Frank said, climbing to his feet. “What’s your question?”

  “You asked me before if anyone might have resented Natalie’s ability—”

  “You said you couldn’t think of anyone.”

  “But the question got me thinking. The finals were screwy at one of our big races that year. There was some controversy about handicapping. I don’t even remember what the disagreement was about; I just know the person who took second thought she should have won. The judges’ decision was final. She was pretty steamed—”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  “You asked me if I knew her last time you were here—Miranda Staunton.”

  “You mentioned that she joined the club right after college.”

  “And we were lucky to have her. Galliard had a great rowing program—really top class.”

  6

  At six-thirty, Frank Cordova stood looking down into the casket at his brother’s face. Composed, expressionless—completely unlike the way it had been when he was alive. Frank touched Chago’s cheek, knowing it would be cold, but he was surprised nonetheless. Like a wax figure, a puppet. Not the real Chago. He knew Veronica and Luis were worried that he might lose it again, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. Chago was beyond anyone’s help now. He wished he could believe what Veronica said, that Chago was with their mother in heaven now, that there was a reward for those who had suffered, but he could not believe it. He had tried.

  Frank turned away and sat down in the back row of chairs, watching his sister greet the mourners at the door. She saw him sitting, and came to rest her feet beside him. As a boy, he had thought her the most beautiful of his sisters, and she still was. A little extra bulk around the middle now proclaimed her age, but Veronica’s hands and feet had always been small and delicate, and her face remained as lovely as ever. He could see the worry in her eyes.

  “I’m all right, Noni. I won’t make any trouble.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m worried about, Paco.” She put an arm around him and squeezed his hand. “We never knew it was so bad for you and Chago, I swear. We never would have left, Mila and Luisa and I, but we needed those jobs at the luggage factory up here. We didn’t know how bad things were back home. Mami always wanted to bring you here, you and Chago, to have a better life, I know she did, but she couldn’t leave Papi. She knew he had the spirit sickness. She even brought in the healer, the curandero—”

  “The old man in white? I thought he came for Chago.”

  “No, for Papi. You were too young to understand, Paco. We didn’t know how much you would remember, how much of it you or Chago would even understand. He didn’t know what he was doing, Paco, it was the sickness inside him, the spirit sickness. He never would have hurt Mami like that, I know.” She laid a hand on his chest. “You may look like him, Paco, but you are not Papi. Do you hear me? You must never worry about that.”

  He looked up at Chago’s composed face in the casket, and a kind of effervescence began to rise up inside him. Everything in his life up to now had been part of a confusing dream. Now that Chago was gone, he could begin to wash off the dust, to unwind the jagged wire that had lashed them together all these years. Veronica’s voice broke in beside him. “Paco, your phone is buzzing.”

  He pulled it out, and stared at the unfamiliar number. “I’m sorry, Noni. I have to take this—”

  “Go,” she said. “Chago knows you love him. Go.”

  Frank stepped out onto the veranda. As he closed the door behind him, he thought he glimpsed a figure in a blue-green suit at the front door of the funeral home. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Frank Cordova.”

  “Detective Cordova? Gordon MacLeish, Maine State Police—retired. I heard you were looking for information about an old case of mine.”

  “That’s right. The Nash murders.”

  “How much do you know about the case?”

  “Not a lot, just what was in the papers—that the Nashes were killed on board their boat, and the son’s friend confessed to it—”

  “That’s right—Jesse Benoit. All the physical evidence pointed to him—”

  Frank sensed a hesitation. “But?”

  “Well, Jesse never gave any reason for the murders. After he was sent down to Augusta—that’s our state mental hospital—his mother came to me and claimed he couldn’t have planned and carried out a double murder, not on his own. She said he was her son and she loved him, but he was easily led. She thought Tripp Nash put him up to it, planned the whole thing.”

  “How did she figure?”

  “After he went down to Augusta, Jesse told his mother why he’d killed the Nashes. He said it was for Tripp. Years before, Harris Nash had discovered the two of them fooling around with makeup, trying on Connie Nash’s clothes. And according to Jesse, Nash threatened Tripp if the boy didn’t perform certain… services for him. Jesse claimed Connie knew, and did nothing, just kept herself medicated with booze and tried not to think about it. Jesse’s mother said her kid couldn’t stand seeing his friend used like that any longer.”

  “Why hadn’t he said anything earlier?”

  “He said Tripp begged him not to tell anyone about their little dress-up adventures. Jesse’s mother claimed that he had never lied. She said he might hear voices, or think he was a bird sometimes, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t telling the truth. I believed her, but before I could arrange to talk to Jesse, he’d managed to hang himself from one of the windows in his room. I went back to the Nash kid. He swore up and down there’d never been any cross-dressing or sexual abuse, that Jesse must have made the whole thing up.”

  “And nobody but himself left to argue.”

  “Exactly. It smelled rotten, but we didn’t have a scrap of physical evidence to tie Tripp Nash to the murders. I kept at him, tried to wear him down, see if he wouldn’t slip somewhere. After about six months, he said he felt like he could trust me.” Frank could hear MacLeish shaking his head, remembering.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he and Jesse had been best friends since they were kids, but in the past year, Jesse had started to ‘act strange.’ That was the way he put it. When I asked for examples, he said Jesse got jealous if he talked about any of the girls he’d met at boarding school. That made him uncomfortable, so he’d tried to ease things off, but that just made the situation worse.”

  “How?”

  “He said Jesse got upset, started to make threats against him and his family. All my years in law enforcement, and I swear I’ve never met such a convincing liar. He knew exactly how to play it, how far to push—the kid was only seventeen, but he’d figured all the angles. He knew I couldn’t touch him, and he was right.”

  “So you think it was murder by proxy?”

  “I’d stake my life on it. I never told anybody this, but I used to drive down to his college, park at the edge of campus and just sit in the car—out in the open, where he could see me, wondering if he had the nerve to try something right under m
y nose. He never did—way too smart for that. I lost track of him after he left college. But you know what it’s like—there’s always one case that gets stuck in your head. I’m retired eight years now, but I still flip through my notes on the Nash case every once in a while, just in case something might pop. And I have to tell you, I’ve kind of been expecting this call. The last time I talked to Jesse’s mother—must be at least five years ago now—she told me she’d finally found Tripp Nash. After all this time. But before I could get the details, she died.”

  “What happened?”

  “Heart attack. I tried to find out what she knew, but she was living in a halfway house in Portland by then. They’d pitched her stuff by the time I got the news that she was dead. I’m curious—what’s any of this got to do with your case?”

  “I’m not really sure. We found an article about the Nash case in with a bunch of newspaper clips about one of our victims, Natalie Russo. Does that name ring a bell?”

  “Not really.”

  “There was a note in with the clips as well. Addressed to our suspect. Unsigned. ‘You’re gonna pay. For what you did.’ Postmarked in Portland, Maine.”

  “And what’s your suspect’s name?”

  “Hallett. Peter Hallett.”

  MacLeish cursed on the other end of the phone—softly, but vehemently. “Connie Nash was Tripp’s aunt—his father’s sister. The kid’s maternal grandfather became his legal guardian after the parents were killed in a car crash, but the old man never paid much attention to him, so Connie and her husband took the boy in. He went by Nash when he lived with them, but there was never any legal adoption process. And Tripp was just a nickname. The kid’s real name was—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Frank said. “Peter Hallett.” Now it was his turn to swear. He filled MacLeish in on Tríona’s murder, the discovery of Natalie Russo’s body at the river, how they hadn’t been able to establish a connection between Hallett and the first victim. “We’re convinced he was involved, but all the physical evidence so far points to the killer in both cases being female.”