Maid of the Mist (5 page)

'Run
what
past me?'

'The interviews.'

'Jesus Christ, Mark. There's a dead girl out there and all you can think about is interviews.'

'I can't do anything about the dead girl, Frank. But I can do something about Mister Celebrity cokehead in there.' He slapped his hand against the cell door. His face had coloured a bit and he was looking at Corrigan as if
he
was the crazy one. 'I arrested him, why shouldn't I benefit from it? You can be fucking sure somebody will; why shouldn't it be me? Or us? Look, I'm cutting you in and all you can do is piss on it. I thought you'd be up for it.'

Corrigan sighed. 'Look, Mark, I'm not trying to piss on it. I just . . . fuck, get a statement from him first, OK. One step at a time, OK?'

'But we can keep it under wraps?'

'We'll keep it under wraps for a while. Sure. It's the middle of the night. See what he has to say.'

'He keeps asking for the FBI.'

'He knows he's in Canada?'

Stirling nodded. 'Sure. Keeps saying we're too small.'

Stirling stepped out of the way as Corrigan moved to the cell door, then pushed it wide with his foot. He stood in the entrance shaking his head at the forlorn figure inside, the Artist Formerly Known as Pongo.

Corrigan suspected that someone, somewhere, was doing a rain dance. It was a little after 5.30 a.m. and it had been pouring since shortly after he was born.
It never rains but it pours.
The psycho Indian over the Falls, and Pongo in the cells. Neither of them talking. Well, one of them ranting in an ancient language, the other hugging his knees and repeating
FBI, FBI
for hours on end.

He needed to get cleaned up. There would be camera crews and photographers there in the morning. Hundreds of them. They'd decided to keep the Pongo thing quiet, but word would have leaked out. It was bound to.

He reached his apartment building and tramped unhappily up the stairs. He unlocked the front door and stepped in, kicking some bills out of the way in the process. It was perfectly dry inside, but it
felt
damp. His intake of alcohol was now just a sour brain-aching memory. He stripped off his clothes and left them lying in a heap at his feet. In the bathroom he used his elderly electric shaver, then razored the rest of the growth off under the shower. The hot water relaxed him almost to the point of a standing sleep. When finally he staggered out, Corrigan stood for several moments examining his ghostly reflection in the mirror, then sprayed shaving foam under his arms.

He burst out laughing and returned to the shower to wash it off. And suddenly he wasn't laughing any more. It was the sort of stupid thing he might have done before, but the joy of it would have been walking into the bedroom and showing Nicola; they both would have roared with laughter. But now there was no one: there was a pile of wet clothes and the faintly musty smell of a lonely life.

He dressed, and was heading out of the door when he noticed the red eye winking on the answerphone. He tutted and hurried across. There were three messages: the first from a reporter called Madeline Hume from Channel 4 in Buffalo; her voice was warm, with a hint of flirtation, which he thought was pretty depressing in a complete stranger on a friggin' answerphone, saying she'd heard about the Native American woman who'd gone over the Falls.

Can we talk? Of course we can, we can talk about how you managed to get my unlisted number.
He glanced at his watch and wondered how much Sitting Bull had managed to wring out of the swimmer.

The old Indian had insisted on being left alone with her. He had also insisted on a bottle of whisky and cigarettes, and then he'd locked the door. Neither Annie nor Corrigan thought it was a great idea, but the girl, although she looked confused, had remained silent while Tarriha spoke, and she did seem calmer. In the end they decided to take the chance. Annie, naturally, insisted on her putting the nightie back on before they left.

Annie and Corrigan sat on the stairs at the end of the hall. Corrigan smoked. Annie coughed. It was a true partnership. Every twenty minutes Corrigan knocked on the door and asked how much longer they'd be, but all he got in response was something guttural from Tarriha that he would probably have found quite offensive if he'd understood it. Finally he'd whacked his fist against the door in frustration.

'Hey Corrigan,' Tarriha said, remaining behind the locked door, 'this story, it don't come in one straight line. It comes in knots, man, know what I mean? I gotta untie, I gotta straighten, I'm earning my money, Corrigan.'

Corrigan tutted. 'C'mon. Give me something. Do you even know her name?'

There was silence for several moments, then Tarriha said slowly: 'Lelewala.'

Can we talk? Sure, we can talk, we can talk about Lelewala. It's a hit and myth affair.

The myth:
an Indian princess who sacrificed herself by rowing over the Falls to appease the Gods who had loosed a terrible evil among her people.

The rumour:
a story made up by white men to attract more tourists.

The hard-sell:
t-shirts, mugs, umbrellas, sweaters, all bearing her likeness.

The second message was from Nicola. She was crying. 'Corrigan, are you there? Can we talk?'

Yeah, sure, you've had a blow-up with Born Again Bob and you want to cry on my shoulder. Except you divorced my shoulder. And my head, and my heart.

The third message was from Nicola as well; the information panel above the tape said it had been recorded at 4.15 a.m., two hours after her first. She sounded calmer, but somehow sadder. He could just hear Bob's dull monotone in the background. If Bob had started at, say, midnight, it would probably take him another three weeks to read her the whole Bible.

Nicola my dear, you've made your bed, and now you're going to have to lie in it with that big fucking whale.

At a little after seven he met Stirling at the Clifton Diner. They ate eggs and bacon while Stirling hummed and hawed over a press statement he'd typed up about the illustrious Pongo. By rights it should have gone through headquarters, but Corrigan didn't mind his partner having his little moment in the public eye. He'd probably shuffle into the photographs himself. There'd been half a dozen reporters outside the station. All of them for the swimmer. Evidently the station wasn't as leaky as he'd thought.

Although the summer rush to the Falls was over and business was now winding down for the winter, the diner was as busy as ever. As usual there was a convention in town. Horticulturalists, this time. Here to network and see the Falls. But it took five minutes to see the Falls and you couldn't work all the time. So they were filling up on a big breakfast and getting ready to hit the casino. Corrigan had half expected them to be little old lady florists here for a winter break, but they were big guys, tough and sharp and bejewelled. It was just like any other business, he supposed; say it with flowers, sure, then nail them on the percentages.

His phone rang. 'If it's Letterman,' Stirling said, 'tell him to join the queue.'

Corrigan rolled his eyes. 'What?' he said.

'Corrigan? It's Annie Spitz.'

'Annie. What's happening? Has Kissinger emerged yet?' 'I think you better come down.'

She sounded stressed. 'What's the matter, what's wrong? Is it . . . Lelewala?' He surprised himself by using the name so easily.

'Just get down here,' Annie said plainly, then put the phone down.

Corrigan was searched then ushered down the hall to Annie's cluttered office. She nodded grimly as he took a seat.

'By my calculations,' Corrigan said dryly, 'yer man upstairs has cost the Canadian taxpayer somewhere in the region of $500 already. I hope to God you have good news for me.'

Annie sighed. 'Corrigan, I don't normally do this, in fact I
never
do this, but as we seem to be working together . . . I should tell you that your ex-wife is upstairs.'

'She
speaks
Tuscorora?'

'She came in a couple of hours ago. I'm afraid she's been assaulted.'

His first reaction was involuntary: his face reddened and he said: 'It wasn't me.'

Annie's look was initially confused, and then sympathetic. She had first thought of him as arrogant and self-possessed, but this confirmed her later assessment of him as merely insecure. She could see the pulse throbbing on the side of his head, the fingernail going to his lips, the eyes settling on nothing, nowhere. She wondered which way he would go. Prior to her work at Turner Annie had worked as a probation officer and she reckoned there were two classic reactions to this type of situation: those who would rush immediately to console the injured party, and those who would first seek revenge on the perpetrator. Those who sought revenge first, she found, generally didn't love their wives at all, but were merely re-enforcing property rights; those who consoled their wives were generally in love. Those who did neither were rare. And usually unbalanced.

'Is she badly hurt?'

'Her face is pretty banged up. It'll heal. She asked for you.'

Corrigan nodded. His eyes flitted to the pictures of the battered women on the wall. 'I loved her more than anything,' he said slowly, 'and she broke my heart.'

'That's sad, Corrigan.'

'Yeah.' And then his eyes jolted suddenly back towards Annie. 'Jesus Christ – Aimie. My daughter, is she . . .'

Annie raised a placatory hand. 'She's OK. We've a play area out back; she's with the other kids.'

Corrigan let out a sigh of relief. He pushed his chair back and stood. 'I should go and talk to Nicola.'

Annie shook her head. 'Can't do that, Corrigan.'

'Why the fu . . .'

'He broke her jaw.'

'Oh.'

'We have a surgeon on permanent stand-by. We could do a heart transplant upstairs if we had to. Her jaw's all wired up.'

The fingernail returned to his lips. When he spoke his voice was slightly strangled, although it wasn't the question she expected.

'How did she ask for me then?'

'Pen and paper.'

'She called me twice last night. Looking for help.'

'You refused?'

'I was
here,
for godsake.'

'Ironic.'

'Where is she?'

'I'll show you.'

Corrigan sighed loudly. 'Can't you just tell me? I'm not a fucking child.'

'I know what you are, Corrigan. You're a man. And that's why we're so fucking busy.'

She had panda eyes. So swollen that the tears had to go on an uphill journey before they could flood down her cheeks. He hugged her gently while Annie hovered in the doorway.

When they parted Annie said: 'Do you want me to leave you alone?'

Corrigan nodded, but she stayed where she was. For a moment they didn't understand, then it dawned on Nicola and she nodded. Annie left, but the door remained ajar and her footsteps sounded down the hall, although not very far down the hall.

'Oh God,' Corrigan said, looking at her face. She lifted a notepad from beside the bed and scrawled quickly,

Am I that bad?

'No!
No.'
Her eyes remained fixed on him. 'Well, yes,' he added. 'What happened?'

Aimie saw you kiss me through the window. She told Bobby.
He wasn't impressed.

'So it's my fault.'

No!

'I'm going to throw that fucker in the river.'

No.

'Nick, he's going inside for this.'

No.

'You're just going to let him get away with it?'

She shrugged.

'Has he done anything like this before?'

She shrugged again.

'Why do you stay with him?'

I love him.

'But you call me when you're in trouble.'

I love you too, Corrigan.

His face was red and his heart was drumming. He kept saying to himself: leave it, let it be, it's not your business any more. Police business, sure, but not
your
police business. But the pedal was to the board and before he really knew it he was outside the Sir Adam Beck Generating Station. There were about thirty pickets standing with placards by the entrance, and two cops keeping a lazy eye on them. They straightened up as he approached and he chatted to them for a few moments, like he was just there to check up on them, then drove on through to the administration block.

He arrived at the front desk and asked to see the wife beater.

'Wife. . .' said the receptionist, looking at first down a list of employees as if it might be a position within the company. Something down among the generators, something oily. Then she looked up and said: 'Oh.' She was a matronly woman with a tight black perm and lipstick on her teeth.

'Bobby Doyle.'

'Why, Mr Doyle isn't married.'

'My
wife, missus.'

'Oh, well, I don't. . .'

'Just tell him I'm here. Frank Corrigan.'

'And what company are you with, Mr Corrigan . . . ?'

'The Royal Shakespeare.'

She looked at him blankly for several moments, then lifted the phone. 'Mister Bobby? There's a Mr Corrigan from Royal Shakespeare to see you.' She gave a little giggle to whatever the response was then nodded and replaced the receiver. 'Go on up. The elevator's on the left. Second floor.'

Bobby sat behind an expansive desk, in an expansive office, with expansive views. He had an expansive girth and an expansive mouth and the way he sat, with his head tilted down, his chins seemed to cover a wide expanse of his chest. This was the man Nicola regularly climbed on top of to make love. At least that was the way Corrigan figured it. He couldn't imagine Bobby on top at all. The poor woman would die. Bob waved Corrigan into a chair and said, 'To what do I owe the pleasure?' Corrigan crossed the floor and took the seat, all the time trying not to picture Bob naked and rippling and screwing his wife.

'You broke my wife's jaw,' he said.

Bob closed a folder, sat back, put his hands behind his head and smiled. 'I broke your ex-wife's jaw.'