Maid of the Mist (14 page)

Madeline nodded.

'No, I don't think it was Lelewala.'

'I don't know whether your loyalty to her is quaint or sad or suspicious.'

Corrigan shrugged. 'That's up to you.'

Madeline smiled. 'I think you're half in love with a myth. Except she's not a myth, she's a little miss. Close, but not the same. Gretchin . . .'

'Solyakhov, I know.'

'Convictions for prostitution and . . .'

'Coke. I know. What's your . . .'

'And didn't even survive going over the Falls. Nothing very mythical. . .'

'Didn't even survive what?'

'The Falls. She didn't . . . you
didn't
hear my report?'

'I told you. I was too busy looking at my dead wife.'

'Right. OK. I'm sorry.'

'The Falls?'

'The Falls. She didn't go over. That was part of my report. I turned up a couple of witnesses saw her being thrown into the river below the Falls.'

Corrigan drummed his fingers on the dash.

'You're disappointed, aren't you?'

'Why would I be disappointed?'

'I've seen her. She's a stunner.'

'She's not that great. When did
you
see her?'

'About half an hour ago. When she got released. I'm on my way to interview her.'

It wasn't an appointment. Madeline had tried to talk to her outside the station, coming out on the arm of her lawyer, one Thomas Vincenzi, a.k.a. the Barracuda, but had been brushed off. A cop with a Hitler moustache had begrudgingly released her home address to the lady from the press, but refused to answer questions.

Corrigan was surprised to find that Lelewala, Gretchin,
whatever,
lived only a few blocks from his own apartment. They probably used the same stores. Had rented the same videos.

It was the top apartment in a rickety three-storey house. The front lawn was strewn with rubbish.

'Pretty rich neighbourhood,' Madeline said.

'Sarcasm,' Corrigan replied, 'is the lowest form of wit.'

'I'm not being sarcastic. You see that stuff ?'

She was looking at the rubbish in the garden. Corrigan looked closer. There was a CD player sitting on the lawn. And beside it there was a video. A microwave. Shirts. Shoes. Handbags. He looked back at the video. It was fractured. There was a dent in the grass where it had landed. As they got out of the car there was a sudden movement on the top floor. Then a crash as a television hit the ground and a boom as the tube exploded with a sullen thump.

Corrigan saw a familiar face looking out at them. He tutted. 'Mrs Capalski,' he shouted up, 'what on earth are you doing?'

She glared down at him. 'Oh my God,' she said, 'I knew you two killers connected. What the fuck you think I do? Ain't no killers stay in my apartment. I go to your place next, Frankie Corrigan. I throw your stuff outta window too.'

'Mrs Capalski, there's no need . . .'

A lamp exploded to the left of them. Madeline gave a little shout.

Corrigan walked forward, his shoes crinkling over broken glass. He bent his neck back to talk up to her. 'I paid my rent, Mrs Capalski, I'm all up to date.'

'I don't give a fuck, Frankie Corrigan. Some bills you can't settle.'

'Mrs Capalski . . .'

'Don't
Mrs Capalski
me . . . that poor girl murdered.'

'It wasn't me, Mrs Capalski! Look at me, aren't I standing here? I'm innocent.'

'Mr Big Police Man, you not so high and mighty now. You kill your wife, you get the fuck outta my apartment.' She stepped back from the window.

Corrigan rolled his eyes. 'C'mon,' he said to Madeline, 'let's take a look.'

He started towards the door. 'Why don't we just wait here?' Madeline said. 'It's all coming down anyway.' Then she smiled and followed.

When they arrived at the top floor the door to Lelewala's apartment was open and Mrs Capalski was back at the window emptying out a drawer full of underclothes. She glanced round at them and said: 'You not the first.'

'I not the first what?' Corrigan asked.

'Come looking for her. I have no time for men with guns! You have a gun with you, Frankie Corrigan?'

He opened his jacket, showed her he was clean.

'What you do, leave it at the crime scene? Anyway,' and she took a break to fire a shoe out of the open window, 'I don't know where she is, if that's what you want. I tell you that for nothing. Or in fact I tell you that for five hundred dollars, 'cause if you think you gettin' your deposit back after this, you can go whistle up a fucking stick for it.'

'Mrs Capalski,
keep
the five hundred dollars. Tell me who was asking for her.'

'How the fuck do I know? Men. Men with guns. You know more about that sorta thing than me. They come round, threaten to shoot if I don't tell them where she is. I tell them with great pleasure, but I don't know where the fuck . . .'

She let fire with another shoe. Corrigan tried to get more out of her while Madeline nosed about the apartment. But she couldn't tell him anything beyond the fact that they looked like standard-issue hoods. She hadn't seen Lelewala for weeks. He switched tack. He tried to save his own apartment. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. And then even while he was arguing with her he started thinking about Nicola again and the house they had bought together. Would it revert to him now? Had the sale gone through? Would the purchasers change their minds now? Would the realtors amend the sales pitch from Niagara Falls views to Niagara Falls views plus free chalk outlines of murdered previous owners?

'I'm sure a simple notice to quit would have sufficed,' Corrigan said.

She looked at him. 'I'm an old woman, I don't need this shit. You betta get right round to your place, Frankie Corrigan, and clear it out, 'cause all your gear's going the same way as this hooker's.' She threw another shoe out of the window. 'I was like a mother to you . . .'

'I didn't see you from one end of the month till the next!'

'Didn't I rent you an apartment, good rate too? Didn't I feel sorry for you, thrown out by your wife, and make sure the refrigerator was working OK, and get a man to fix the window that broke when the last no-good bastard broke it with his basketball? Didn't I do that? I never asked for nothing in return, but rent. What do you do? You murder your wife and then the whole world knows I rent rooms to the son of the bitch who kills his wife and a fat person.'

'I didn't kill anyone!'

'I saw it on the news. You sure as hell killed someone!' She heaved another armful of clothes out of the window, then nodded across at Madeline. 'Hey,' she said, as if she was seeing her for the first time, 'who the fuck are you?'

Corrigan sighed. 'Just a friend.'

'Your wife not cold yet, already you have another woman.'

'She's just a . . . oh fuck it. It doesn't matter.' He walked across to Madeline and snagged her arm. 'You ready to go?'

'Sure.' She'd been looking in a duffle bag, which she hoisted up over her shoulder. 'Let's go.'

They hurried down the stairs, both of them smiling, though there was little to smile about. 'So,' Madeline said, 'we're not the only ones looking for Lelewala.'

'We?' said Corrigan.

Madeline smiled. 'We're a team now, aren't we?'

Corrigan cleared his throat.

'C'mon, Corrigan. What have you got to lose?'

'I don't know where to begin.'

She climbed into the car. Corrigan got into the passenger seat. 'I better get home,' he said, 'pick up my stuff. The lady's not for changing.'

Madeline nodded. 'I wanted to show you something first,' she said, pulling the duffle bag round into her lap, 'might change your mind.'

'That's theft,' Corrigan said.

'So call a cop.' She opened the top and pulled out a photo. It was Lelewala, maybe ten years younger, just a kid, with her parents, he presumed. Her father wore an army uniform and there were a couple of medals on his chest, but nothing to suggest he had attained any significant rank. Her mother wore the kind of smart pink dress that had been fashionable in the fifties, or last month in Eastern Europe. Neither of them looked as if they could summon up a rain dance for the Tuscorora Iroquois.

'You should have seen the bedroom,' Madeline was saying. 'Or should I say
the office
? Smelt of incense, and dope. There was a nice black satin sheet on the bed and a mirror on the ceiling. A packet of condoms on a locker beside the bed. Do you want me to go on?'

He shook his head.

'She's no Julia Roberts, Corrigan.'

'I thank heaven for little mercies.'

'Do you know what I think you are?' He looked at her, then shrugged. 'A romantic. You believe in love at first sight, and all that shit, don't you?'

'What were you going to show me?'

She smiled and returned her attention to the duffle bag. Her hand delved back inside it and felt around for a few seconds. Then she produced a book. A children's book. 'I found it in her room.' Thick, hard pages. On the front there was the picture of an Indian woman rowing her canoe over the edge of a raging waterfall. The book was called
The Legend of the Maid of the Mist,
and its author was one Tarriha Long Fellow.

She was waiting for him to say, 'Do you want to come in?' But he just got out of the car and walked towards his apartment. She wasn't sure if it was a curt dismissal, bad manners or simply that his mind was elsewhere. So she got out and followed and when she drew level with him he turned slightly and looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. A sad little smile appeared on his face. She said: 'Are you OK?'

He nodded. He led her up the back stairs and unlocked the door. 'Come on in,' he said. 'You'll have to excuse the mess.' He paused. 'And the guns.'

She saw two men standing just inside the door, pointing guns at them. Corrigan looked at them for several moments, then shook his head and walked between them. 'Just make yourselves at home,' he said. He crossed to a cupboard and pulled down a bottle of vodka. It was half-empty. Or half-full, depending on your outlook.

The men stood looking at her suspiciously for several moments, then turned to Corrigan. He'd taken down four glasses from the same cupboard and was starting to pour.

The tallest of the men had a Hitler moustache. He pocketed his gun and said: 'Sorry, Frank, it had to be done.'

Corrigan handed him a glass. He lifted the second and held it out for the other man. 'What changed your mind?' he asked.

The second man let his gun drop to his side. 'You sowed the seed. It just took a while to sink in.'

Corrigan brought the third glass to Madeline, then pushed the door shut behind her. 'Madeline. Let me introduce you. This is Mark Stirling. My erstwhile partner down at the cop shop, although latterly the man who had me arrested.'

'We've met,' Madeline said dryly.

'Have we?' said Stirling.

'And this is James Morton, formerly of the FBI and lately dismissive of the biggest criminal conspiracy this country has ever known. Guys, this is Madeline Hume; she's a reporter from Channel 4. She's made me a household name, like Charles Manson.' He held up his glass and drained it in one. Then he wiped his mouth and said: 'Do youse want to form a fucking fan club for me, or what?'

Morton had shaved. He had washed. His hair was still long but it sat OK. You couldn't wash away fatigue and depression; Corrigan could still see that in his eyes, and there was a limited amount he could have done in a matter of hours about the saggy folds of flesh hanging from his jaw. But he looked one hell of a lot better.

Stirling was trying to justify himself. 'I had to do it. You know that. You would have done the same.' Corrigan looked at him. Stirling looked pained. 'Well you
might
have done the same.'

'I
might
have given you the benefit of the doubt.'

'C'mon, Frank. It had to be done. I thought they'd just send in a couple of detectives. I didn't expect the heavy artillery. The fucking place is swamped.'

'You're telling
me
this?'

'I know. I'm sorry. What can I say?'

'Sorry. Again.'

'Sorry. Again.'

Corrigan turned to Morton. 'And what brought you out of the woodwork?'

'He did,' said Morton, pointing at Stirling. 'He asked for help.'

'What happened to the paranoid delusions of a coke addict?'

'I didn't want to believe it. Then I did a little checking. I'm still plugged in to the system, even if I'm no longer a part of it. I was able to check names, movements, patterns of movements, movements of patterns. And when you see everyone moving in one direction then you tend to give a little more credence to what remain, essentially, the paranoid delusions of a coke addict. If you're right about the convention, and I believe you are . . . well, you're going to need all the help you can get.'

Corrigan nodded. From behind, Madeline said: 'What convention?'

They all looked at her. Then at each other. Morton said: 'Can you vouch for her?'

Corrigan shook his head.

'Thanks,' Madeline said.

'I want your word that nothing you hear goes outside this room,' Morton said. 'Unless we approve.'

Madeline pursed her lips.

'You're asking a reporter for her
word?'
Stirling asked.

'You mean it's off the record,' Madeline said.

'No,' Morton said,
'that
means you can write about it but not name your source.
This
isn't to be written about, talked about,
breathed.'

'If I don't know what
this
is, I can't make that kind of promise. I mean, it might be in the national interest.'

'This
is
in the national interest. And that's precisely why you can't talk about it.'

'You'll need to tell me more.'

Morton rolled his eyes.

'Throw her the fuck out,' said Stirling.

'Madeline,' Corrigan said, 'do you want to hear this, or do you not?'

She sighed. She nodded. 'OK. I won't tell a soul. Promise.'

'Promise,'
said Stirling.

'OK,' said Morton.

Corrigan poured himself another glass and pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. The others followed suit. They sat about the table, eyeing each other up like strangers at a high-stakes poker game. 'OK, Mr Morton, James, Jimmy . . . do you want to start? Do you want to tell us what you know about the convention?'