up. Shit, he was going to arrest her anyway; get her to write it all down then flog off her statement to the networks. Corrigan tutted, shook his head. Were things really that bad?
Yes they were.
A damp friggin' apartment.
A permanent hangover.
Life's a bitch, then you die.
He looked at his watch. A little after 11 p.m. Maynard had phoned at 10.20. It was a wet, miserable Saturday night and most of the country was watching the hockey. There'd only be skeleton crews on most of the Toronto or Buffalo TV stations. Maybe he'd just ask for her autograph and inquire how she managed to hold her breath for so long.
They rode the lift to the Maid of the Mist dock in silence. The Falls illuminations had been switched off at eleven so there was nothing to see, but the sound was thunderous. Corrigan loved it. Loved the power of it. Sometimes he thought he didn't genuinely like Maynard at all, he just liked the excuse to come down here and see him and feel the Falls. Since he'd come to Niagara, Corrigan'd been out on the boat nearly two hundred times. Sometimes pressed in with three hundred Japanese tourists, them all decked out in the identical little blue macs they got free to keep the spray off, sometimes with just Maynard, late at night, cruising into the mist.
Maynard punched him on the arm and nodded forward. Corrigan explained about Aimie cutting off the call. Maynard shrugged. 'So what's the crack?' Corrigan asked.
Maynard stopped, looked towards the Falls. 'We pulled a woman from the water. She's alive. Wasn't even wearing a fucking lifejacket.'
'A suicide?'
'Who gives a fuck? She went over. She survived. We got a call from a tourist up on the Parkway, says he's seen a body in the water, just as the lights were being switched off. That's all we need, night like this and Canada one up in the second quarter, but hell . . . we get the Maid out there and spend fifteen minutes cruising up and down. Finally we see her, floating face down, and drag her in. Thought we just had another floater, but then she coughs up half the river and there she is good as new. Pretty beat up, but good as new.'
'So what'd she say?'
'Nothing. But get this: she's wearing a Native American dress.'
'She's a fuckin' Indian?'
'A Native American.'
'Uhuh. I'm Irish. You're American. She's a fuckin' Indian. That's all we need, an Indian protest. It'll be the friggin' environment. Or they'll be pissed off about not getting a casino on the reservation.'
Maynard shrugged. The rain was growing steadily heavier. Corrigan shivered again. Maynard spent half his life in the Falls' mist; dampness was second nature.
'So,' Corrigan said, 'she's in hospital.'
Maynard shook his head. 'I got Annie Spitz to take her. Keep her away from the vultures, y'know? Gave her a call, explained my situation, within five minutes she was down here, lawyer in tow, signed the Indian . . .'
'That's Native American to you . . .'
'. . . on the spot despite the fact that she was staring at a fuckin' wall the whole time, and now she has her own room down at Turner. You know that place.'
The Turner Women's Refuge. Through police work, of course. But also. Nicola had sought refuge there. Once. They'd been rowing for two days solid and she'd needed the break. To the best of his knowledge there were no refuges for men who needed a break from their wives, except for those that served beer. He'd sat outside in his car, but he hadn't gone in, and after a couple of days she'd come home and they were all smiles again. And then she'd filed.
'Yeah, I know it. Easier to get into fucking Fort Knox.' Corrigan's radio crackled. He said: 'Excuse me,' and turned away. Maynard lit a cigarette and listened in.
'You better come down, Frank.'
It was Mark Stirling, down at the station, sounding breathless.
'Tell me why.'
'Just come down, Frank.'
'Mark, stop being so fucking cryptic.'
'Trust me, you'll love this.'
'Trust me, I'm busy.'
'OK, your loss. I'll handle it myself.'
'Handle what
Yes they were.
A damp friggin' apartment.
A permanent hangover.
Life's a bitch, then you die.
He looked at his watch. A little after 11 p.m. Maynard had phoned at 10.20. It was a wet, miserable Saturday night and most of the country was watching the hockey. There'd only be skeleton crews on most of the Toronto or Buffalo TV stations. Maybe he'd just ask for her autograph and inquire how she managed to hold her breath for so long.
They rode the lift to the Maid of the Mist dock in silence. The Falls illuminations had been switched off at eleven so there was nothing to see, but the sound was thunderous. Corrigan loved it. Loved the power of it. Sometimes he thought he didn't genuinely like Maynard at all, he just liked the excuse to come down here and see him and feel the Falls. Since he'd come to Niagara, Corrigan'd been out on the boat nearly two hundred times. Sometimes pressed in with three hundred Japanese tourists, them all decked out in the identical little blue macs they got free to keep the spray off, sometimes with just Maynard, late at night, cruising into the mist.
Maynard punched him on the arm and nodded forward. Corrigan explained about Aimie cutting off the call. Maynard shrugged. 'So what's the crack?' Corrigan asked.
Maynard stopped, looked towards the Falls. 'We pulled a woman from the water. She's alive. Wasn't even wearing a fucking lifejacket.'
'A suicide?'
'Who gives a fuck? She went over. She survived. We got a call from a tourist up on the Parkway, says he's seen a body in the water, just as the lights were being switched off. That's all we need, night like this and Canada one up in the second quarter, but hell . . . we get the Maid out there and spend fifteen minutes cruising up and down. Finally we see her, floating face down, and drag her in. Thought we just had another floater, but then she coughs up half the river and there she is good as new. Pretty beat up, but good as new.'
'So what'd she say?'
'Nothing. But get this: she's wearing a Native American dress.'
'She's a fuckin' Indian?'
'A Native American.'
'Uhuh. I'm Irish. You're American. She's a fuckin' Indian. That's all we need, an Indian protest. It'll be the friggin' environment. Or they'll be pissed off about not getting a casino on the reservation.'
Maynard shrugged. The rain was growing steadily heavier. Corrigan shivered again. Maynard spent half his life in the Falls' mist; dampness was second nature.
'So,' Corrigan said, 'she's in hospital.'
Maynard shook his head. 'I got Annie Spitz to take her. Keep her away from the vultures, y'know? Gave her a call, explained my situation, within five minutes she was down here, lawyer in tow, signed the Indian . . .'
'That's Native American to you . . .'
'. . . on the spot despite the fact that she was staring at a fuckin' wall the whole time, and now she has her own room down at Turner. You know that place.'
The Turner Women's Refuge. Through police work, of course. But also. Nicola had sought refuge there. Once. They'd been rowing for two days solid and she'd needed the break. To the best of his knowledge there were no refuges for men who needed a break from their wives, except for those that served beer. He'd sat outside in his car, but he hadn't gone in, and after a couple of days she'd come home and they were all smiles again. And then she'd filed.
'Yeah, I know it. Easier to get into fucking Fort Knox.' Corrigan's radio crackled. He said: 'Excuse me,' and turned away. Maynard lit a cigarette and listened in.
'You better come down, Frank.'
It was Mark Stirling, down at the station, sounding breathless.
'Tell me why.'
'Just come down, Frank.'
'Mark, stop being so fucking cryptic.'
'Trust me, you'll love this.'
'Trust me, I'm busy.'
'OK, your loss. I'll handle it myself.'
'Handle what
Similar Books
Dark Challenge
Christine Feehan
Heroes (Hollywood Heartthrobs #1)
Kate Rivers
Love Falls
Esther Freud
The Hunter
Rose Estes
Horse Fever
Bonnie Bryant
Wrong Man, Right Kiss
Red Garnier
Franklin and the Thunderstorm
Brenda Clark
The Lawman Meets His Bride
Meagan McKinney