Sarah opened the door before Alexa knocked. “No one could ever sneak up on us,” she said and scolded the barking duo at her feet. “Echo and Iris, hush! Lovely to see you again. I’m glad you spotted my note. Come in. I can’t tell if we’re soon to have more rain or if this wind is chasing it away.”
Alexa stepped into the small foyer and offered her hand for the dogs to smell. Iris licked and Echo pranced. Something savory was simmering. Soup? Stew? Alexa’s stomach rumbled.
“Lucy and Stevie won’t be home until six, so we have the place to ourselves. Let me put these guys out, and then you can fill me in on why a jiggy police officer stopped by after tea the other night. We’re in a spin, not used to heaps of excitement. Go sit down.” Sarah pointed and disappeared.
The den had the same coziness as Trout Cottage plus the rubble of children: unzipped backpacks, dirty trainers, a stack of Wii games. Alexa walked over to the bookcase and started reading titles.
“Are you a reader?” Sarah asked. She returned bearing a tray of crackers and cheese. Her fair hair was exploding in a topknot again, adding inches to her height, and the dangling earrings were copper today.
“Yes. But not so much lately.”
“I could talk heaps about books, but sit down and tell me what happened that night. Officer Tall, Dark, and Handsome came an hour or so after you returned the basket and asked us questions. I almost did a poppie afterward, but I thought a knock at the door late at night would push you over. Do you always create such a twiddle? But wait—let me get wine first.” She disappeared and whirled back bearing a Marlborough Savvy and two glasses. “Cheers,” Sarah said after pouring each of them a glass.
“Cheers,” Alexa replied, toasting her neighbor, not sure how to start, and then set the wineglass down and smeared a cracker with cheese. She chewed and swallowed. “This is delicious.”
“Cambozola. Blue mixed with Brie.” Sarah watched impatiently while Alexa smeared and ate a second cracker. “I’m waiting,” she said. “Why a call from the coppers one day and a visit the next? Should I be worried?”
Alexa didn’t blame Sarah for being curious and launched into the attack at the station, the bird carcass in Trout Cottage, and her involvement in the mud pot murder. “I’m afraid there’s a connection and the bird was a warning to back off.”
Sarah stared for a moment and then said, “That’s an obscure warning, yeah. Like fishing for symbolism in The Garden Party.”
“The Garden Party?”
“Short story by Katherine Mansfield. She’s a Kiwi. The hat Laura wears supposedly symbolizes class consciousness. But maybe Mansfield just wanted Laura to wear a lovely hat.”
What the heck? Alexa preferred biographies and the occasional romance. “The case is intertwined with Maori culture. The cop that you met told me fantails are a Maori omen. Did Steve see anyone after he dropped me off?”
“No. The officer asked him, and he said he didn’t. It’s a lonely road. No traffic to speak of, and if anyone does drive down—usually it’s a fisherman looking for a spot on the river—the dogs let us know.”
Alexa, weary of speculation and symbolism, changed the subject. “Tell me about yourself. What do you do besides manage property and two teenagers?”
“I teach art at Rotorua Lakes High School. I make jewelry too. Glass and metals.” She shook her head to make her earrings dance back and forth.
“Those are fun.” Alexa admired the copper slivers, comparing them to the simple silver hoops she wore daily to avoid morning jewelry dilemmas.
“Trout. Tourists go mad.”
“I liked the ones you had on when I first met you. Were they greenstone?”
Sarah nodded.
“How do you get the greenstone?” Alexa sipped her wine and thought of the magical paddle at the museum, the way it glinted in the light as if alive from within.
“I used to buy raw greenstone from a supplier in Christchurch, but it’s gotten too dear. I’ve switched to Canadian jade. It’s cheaper even with shipping.”
“How come?”
“Five years ago, the government returned the greenstone mining rights to the Ngāi Tahu iwi on the South Island. Since then, there’s been no mining. That’s jacked up the price of greenstone already on the market. Supply and demand.”
Rawiri Wright had not mentioned the soaring price.
Sarah was a talker. Alexa relaxed into a plush recliner, picked a dog hair off her thigh, and listened. “My husband died four years ago. Cancer. He was a farmer and a pharmacist. We’ve sold off most of the stock, and Stevie takes care of what’s left. It’s teaching him way more about responsibility than any lecture from me. Lucy, on the other hand, lives to get out of any work at all. Her job is to help me clean Trout Cottage between renters. Ha.” As if on cue, Alexa’s cell phone barked at the same time as Iris and Echo started a frenzy of their own. It was a confusing moment.
“My phone,” Alexa explained.
“My children,” Sarah explained. “I’ll go greet them.”
“Hello?” Alexa said.
“This is Horne,” came the reply. “Have you returned from Auckland?”
“Yes.”
“I need you at Ponga Point on the lake. We have a drowning.”
“A drowning? Where’s Ponga Point? Will my GPS find it?”
“I don’t know.” Alexa could hear a voice in the background.
“Hang on, Sammie. I’m on the phone,” Horne said. “Sorry. My daughter is upset that she has to return to her mum’s house. Come to my place, and we’ll drive to Ponga Point together. I’ll radio for a forensics kit.”
“Who drowned?”
“Male adult is all I know.” He gave Alexa his address and hung up.
She stuffed another cheese cracker in her mouth, thinking this would probably be dinner, and was chewing as Sarah returned.
“Thank you for having me. That was work so I need to be off.”
Sarah searched Alexa’s face. “More mud pot?”
“A drowning. It’s not related.” Alexa met Lucy, who was yammering about play practice, on her way out.
“Be careful,” Sarah called.
A common refrain, Alexa thought. Stevie waved as he was walking toward the barn and she toward her car.
A lonely mist descended as she drove the deserted road. Sarah’s home, warm and bright, full of “What’s for tea?” and “Have you fed the dogs?” tugged at a raw spot. What price had she paid to be here and now? To make the decisions she had along the way?
Chapter Twenty
The GPS voice—Sheila, Alexa had christened her—calmly directed her through Rotorua traffic lights, roundabouts, side streets, and finally “You have reached your destination.” Six two-story attached town houses stood beyond the parking area, each with a patch of grassy front garden and a second-floor balcony. Maybe there was a lake view.
Alexa parked and was opening the car door when she heard Horne’s voice.
“Good timing,” he said. “Sharla just picked up my daughters. Not a happy scene.”
Sheila, her GPS woman, driving Horne’s daughters away? “What?”
“Sharla is my ex. Why don’t you ride with me? It’ll be easier, and we can talk.”
“Sure,” Alexa said, surprised by his friendliness. Had he forgotten their spat? She followed him to a battered Ford Ranger truck and couldn’t help noticing he looked attractive in jeans. They buckled silently.
The DI looked her way as he pulled out of the drive. “Mindy Koppel’s alibi pans out. Two people saw her and the lads at Papamoa Beach—a neighbor and a store clerk.”
“I’m glad.” She hadn’t wanted the boys to suffer the loss of both parents.
“There’s no hospital or medical records of spousal abuse,” he added.
“Have you located Officer Cooper’s uncle and the island caretaker?”
“Yes and no.” He paused. “Cooper contacted her uncle. Taylor Cooper is coming to the station in the morning. Lee Ngawata is joining him. But no one has been able to locate the caretaker. He lives on the island and has no mobile. We’re hoping the cooperating gentlemen can communicate our message to him.”
“Smoke signals?”
“Beats me.” He smiled as he drove down Littleton Street.
“He actually lives on Pirongia? Is there a cabin?”
“I don’t know. I was going to ask you.” The lake was ahead, and he turned left.
“The parts I saw were completely wild. But I didn’t see all of the island. Can I sit in on the interview?”
“Nine o’clock sharp. What happened in Auckland?”
Alexa brightened thinking about the glowing green print extracted from Fanny’s breast but recalled the No Matches result. “Dead end,” she said. “But it’s a modern lab, and Dan Goddard—he’s the director—was interested in the technique. Were you able to talk with Paul Koppel’s father-in-law?”
“I stopped by unannounced. Posh place. Russell didn’t think highly of Koppel, didn’t think he was good enough for his daughter. Called him dull and unmotivated. A poor provider for his darling daughter.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Russell is outspoken, used to controlling his family, I’d say. Mindy married Paul against his wishes. He thought she could do better.”
“You don’t think…”
“I asked where they were when Koppel was killed, and he and his wife, Marge, alibied each other. The wife defended Koppel, said Paul was a loyal husband and father, and it wasn’t his fault the housing market tanked.”
Silence followed, broken by Horne’s cell. He fished it out of his pocket without taking his eyes off the twisting lakeside road. “I’m on my way. Maybe fifteen minutes,” he barked. “Any ID yet?” He listened and then tossed the cell in a cup holder. “The drowning victim is Maori. No ID on the body. Probably a fisherman. A wife or friend will report him missing soon.” He glanced at her. “Drowning stats are down for New Zealand as a whole but up for Maori. They live in an island country and believe the sea and lakes and rivers are taonga left by their ancestors. I respect that. So why don’t they learn to swim? Teach their kids? What’s so hard about putting on a life jacket? It’s frustrating.”
Alexa listened to him explaining a program the police and Parks and Recreation departments co-sponsored to teach Maori kids swimming and water safety and thought of North Carolina drowning stats: most victims were male, African American or Hispanic. She hoped a similar program was available back home. But then she became distracted by the nearness of the DI’s thigh and turned to study the lake, close and restless.
The wind had abated; the waters of Ponga Point were rock- skipping calm and pink from the dipping sun. She unbuckled and shook off an urge to walk into the water and lie back, float on the pillow-top reflection of sunset.
Life is not a sunset, Glock.
Her head back in forensic mode, Alexa surveyed the scene: empty dog park, an arm-in-arm couple walking up from a lake- side trail, a playground in which two small children and a man stood like statues, the arms of all three akimbo, studying the commotion on the shore.
She followed the DI from the parking area to the fleet of one ambulance, a fire truck, and two patrol cars, all flashing lights, which formed a semicircle around a ribboned-off beach area. Portable lights were set up and turned on in preparation for soon-to-be darkness. Voices drifted from the fleet, but the emergency personnel stood back. There was no one to save.
The body, faceup, was clad in pants only and slightly bloated. Waves lapped a meter from bare feet. A police officer stood above it. Why hadn’t the body been covered? As she and the DI approached, a voice from behind said, “Bruce Horne. What can you tell me?”
Alexa turned around and recognized Dr. Redhead, the mud pit pathologist. What was her name?
“Just arrived myself, Dr. Hill. Rachel. How are you?”
“Busy, Bruce. You heard about the fatal wreck on Highway 33? Two teenagers, one inebriated. So frickin’ sad.” Dr. Hill spotted Alexa. “Ms. Glock. We meet again.”
“Good to see you, Dr. Hill.” She didn’t like the familiar way Dr. Hill said “Bruce.”
The doctor caught up as they reached the body and asked the officer, who turned out to be Senior Officer Rangiora, if the body had been moved. No drag marks led from the water.
“No. I only turned him over to check for a pulse. I wore gloves. We’ll need to move him quickly if the wind starts up again.”
“Who found the body?” The doctor’s Scottish brogue was annoyingly delightful.
“A lad walking his dog. He’s over there.” Rangiora pointed toward a bathhouse where a young man, seated at a picnic table, was speaking with another officer. A cocker spaniel was tangled in a leash held by the man.
“How did the body get beyond the water level?” Dr. Hill asked.
“The wind was kicking until half past five. Southerly blowing through. They’ve calmed. See that log?” Rangiora pointed up shore. Dr. Hill and DI Horne followed his finger and both nodded. “Same thing happened to it. Left behind when the wind calmed and water receded.”
While this weather report was going on, Alexa studied the drowning victim’s face, half obscured by sand, tats showing through the bare areas. She walked closer.
“Ms. Glock. Please stand back,” Dr. Hill said.
Alexa couldn’t believe it. She ignored Dr. Hill and leaned in. “Detective Inspector Horne, I recognize this man.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The body smelled of algae, amniotic fluid, fish. Alexa thought of water’s dual nature: power and calm, life and death, womb and birth. Water cleanses a body at birth, and water cleanses a body at burial. The new. The old. The yin, the yang. The man before her had fake brows chiseled in ink above the natural, slightly thinning brows. Even if this man had smiled, his expression would convey eternal anger. Alexa remembered those menacing black arches from the island. She had spoken to this man two days ago about Koppel and his guest. Alexa caught her breath and looked up at Horne. “It’s the caretaker.”
Horne’s eyebrows hit the sky. She could imagine the conversation in his mind. The very same guy we wanted to talk with in headquarters but couldn’t reach. Dead on a beach. No way it’s a coincidence.
“You know this man?” Dr. Hill frowned at Alexa.
“I met him two days ago, on Pirongia Island. Officer Cooper said his name is Ray Herera.”
“Pirongia?” Dr. Hill glanced toward the open water and snapped on gloves. She squatted next to Alexa, who stood and backed up. “You saw him alive forty-eight hours ago?”
Alexa nodded. Questions pop-rocked her brain, but she remained tight-lipped, not wanting to influence the doctor.
“That’s significant. Generally, a body will reach the lake bottom slowly as the organs and lungs become saturated. Deeper water compresses the organs, forcing out air, speeding up the sinking. Unless something gets in the way, the body reaches the lake bed.” The doc was tugging at the victim’s eyelids. “Bruce, how deep is Lake Rotorua?”
Where was she going with this?
“Not deep in most places,” he said. “Ten meters average.”
“What’s the water temp?”
“Sixty degrees—give or take—somewhat warm for New Zealand lakes because of underwater geysers.”
“It’s strange he washed up so quickly. He shouldn’t have popped up this soon. Like I said, it takes a while to sink. Then gases have to form to make a body buoyant again. If he’s been dead less than forty-eight hours, he should be a log on the bottom of the lake. With other causes of death, say a heart attack or drug overdose, the lungs won’t fill with water and the body will stay afloat, wash up quicker. I’ll check his lungs. This may not be a drowning.”
Alexa and DI Horne regarded each other. Was this another murder? The scene changed quickly, like New Zealand weather. The DI called in reinforcements. This family beach would now have to be processed in a different way, but it was unlikely to be the scene of the maybe murder.
The expanse of water was closer, louder, more menacing than minutes before. Alexa watched a gull calling ha-ha-ha-ha in alarm as it skimmed the now gunmetal-gray surface. She thought of what she knew about water deaths. Submersion in water could mask the cause of death. Water washes away fingerprints and DNA. Why didn’t more murderers use the cloak of water? Somewhere out there was the scene of the crime. Had it been on the forbidden island? Whoever killed Herera, if he had been killed, probably thought the body would not be discovered so quickly. Or ever. Gears were cling-clanging in Alexa’s mind as she listened to Horne issue orders.
“I want him fingerprinted right away,” he was saying. “Where’s the forensics kit I ordered?”
“Here, Senior,” Rangiora answered, nudging it with his foot.
“Glock, get to work and then go to the lab with the prints, see if we can make a positive ID.” Horne turned back to Rangiora. “When she’s ready, drive her to her car so that she can get to the station. It’s at my place.”
“Yes, Senior,” Rangiora answered, his eyes ping-ponging between his boss and Alexa.
“If the press talks to either of you, we are considering the drowning an accident.”
* * *
At half past eight, the lobby area was deserted, the floating albatross white silhouettes against a starless ceiling, the front desk unoccupied. Alexa debated whether to find someone, let someone know she was here. Then thoughts of Jenny’s attack crowded in. Maybe it was safer to come and go quietly.
Only the echo of her footsteps sounded in the stairwell to the basement floor, thin and empty.
She looked both ways down the basement hallway, annoyed the fluorescent light nearest the lab was blinking on and off, and unlocked the door with her key card. Horne had said that Jenny would be back in the morning. Good. There was plenty of work. She switched on the lights and locked the door from the inside. Alexa toyed with the idea of turning on the radio but decided she’d rather keep her ears alert. Paranoia clung to her as she pulled gloves out of the dispenser. She readied the comparator, carefully extracted the lift card with Herera’s prints, and laid it on the viewing platform. It had been easy taking prints from the lifeless hand, and Alexa let auto focus do its work. The middle tip of the right hand was optimal, although the prints were slightly enlarged from swelling. Turning on the scanner, Alexa waited, reminding herself to breathe, and in sixty-six whirring seconds of internal compares and contrasts of over a million prints gathered from criminals, suspects, government employees, school teachers, immigrants, and police officers, she was rewarded with a green light.
Molten Mud Murder Page 17