A Madness of Sunshine

by Singh, Nalini

  Grabbing his navy jacket but not putting it on over the finely pinstriped gray of his shirt, Will stepped outside the station, Anahera preceding him out. He locked up before leading her to his SUV. It wasn’t until they were inside and he’d thrown his jacket on the backseat that he said, “But you did miss some things about it?” Pulling away from the curb, he made automatic note of the cars on the street, the people on the sidewalks.

  “You’ve seen the best of us in this hunt for Miriama,” Anahera said softly. “Rich or poor, wild or civilized, asshole or saint, when bad things happen, we come together.”

  Will thought about that. And then he thought about the dark side of such closeness. “In a town this small,” he said, “there’s a tendency to imagine that you know everything about your neighbors. But everyone has secrets.”

  Anahera’s laugh was cynical. “Is that your way of telling me you dug deeper into my sordid family history? You won’t exactly find any surprises.”

  “No. But I did run a background check on you the day after you came into town. I had to see if you’d brought trouble with you.”

  “What did you find?”

  Will concentrated on the road in front of them, the trees that shadowed it so thickly canopied that they nearly shut out the sun. “That you had a reason to leave,” he said as they passed the spot where Peter Jacobs and his brother were in the midst of towing Vincent’s crashed Mercedes.

  Will didn’t stop; he’d already been out here just before he returned to the station.

  “I was sorry to read about the circumstances of your mother’s death.” Just because they both knew he had the information didn’t mean the words didn’t need to be spoken.

  “Everyone was sorry.” Flat tone, her eyes fixed on the windscreen. “Just like everyone was sorry when my father hit her every night. Just like everyone was sorry when they glimpsed her bruises. And everyone was so sorry when she was found dead in the cabin they couldn’t be bothered to visit. But no one did anything to the man who caused it all.”

  Will had read the case files, knew what she was talking ­about—­and it wasn’t just the abuse. “There’s no reason to think your mother’s death was anything but an accident. Her injuries were consistent with a fall from a ladder.” That ladder had been found next to her, as had a smashed photo frame.

  An empty picture hook on the wall had stood silent witness.

  “I’ve done my reading, too.” Harsher words now. “So I know that cops and forensics people can’t always distinguish between a fall and someone pushing you off so that you fall and break bones, crack your skull.”

  Will couldn’t argue with her; he’d witnessed a number of ­high-­profile cases where the question of whether a fall had been accidental or not had never been answered. “Why didn’t your mother ever press charges against your father?” The lack of any such report had meant the outside investigators had no reason to consider foul play.

  Anahera’s head swung toward him. “Are you saying it was my mother’s fault?”

  “No.” Will kept his tone even by sheer strength of will. “Abuse is the abuser’s fault.” It was what he’d always believed, what had led him to promise a little boy named Alfie that he’d be safe, that the monster wouldn’t get to him. “I just don’t understand her choice.” As he hadn’t understood the fatal choice made by Alfie Hart’s mother.

  “From everything I read in the file, your mother was a strong woman.” Haeata Rawiri had run her own small dressmaking business throughout the marriage, was spoken of as a valued member of the community. Yet she’d stayed with her violent husband. And she hadn’t reported his violence. Not even when her husband hit their child.

  Will’s hands squeezed the steering wheel.

  Anahera didn’t reply.

  Eventually, Will turned on the radio and the two of them moved through the lonely, beautiful landscape while listening to the cohosts bantering with one another about a rock star who had an addiction to rehab.

  He’d long ago given up on getting an answer when she said, “He saved her once.” Her voice was cold, distant. “My mother was born into an abusive family and my father came along on his motorbike and whisked her away to a life of adventure and exploration. The first three years, she always told me, were wonderful. She was free and she wasn’t afraid and he was her Prince Charming.”

  “What changed?”

  “My father likes to blame everything on losing his job when the big factory out Greymouth way shut down.” Her tone made it clear what she thought of that excuse. “That’s what my mother used to say as ­well—­that he lost his manhood when he couldn’t support his family and we had to rely on her income and on welfare.” She snorted. “All pure bullshit. What kind of manhood is it to pound on your wife and child?”

  Will’s mind blazed with the image of a burning house, flames licking up to the roof and the heat so violent it scalded. “That’s not manhood,” he said as the scarred skin on his back seemed to tighten. “That’s weakness.”

  Anahera went silent again, and the two of them drove on through empty roads surrounded by trees and tangled undergrowth, past a ­glacier-­fed river that glittered arctic blue, and in the shadow of mountains that had stood for thousands of years, their peaks capped with snow.

  They stopped for coffee midway, but neither one of them was hungry for lunch.

  Traffic began to pick up during the second half of their journey, but it was ­free-­flowing, no breakdowns or delays. They’d made excellent ­time—­just over three hours, ­forty-­five ­minutes—­and all too soon were in the heart of civilization and it felt like a bright flashlight shining into the face after the smudged light of Golden Cove.

  Too many cars, too many people, too many ­noises—­from the construction site on the corner to the teenager banging out a rhythm on an outdoor drum set to the driver gesticulating angrily at another.

  “Do you have anything else to do in the city?”

  Anahera stirred. “I need to pick up a new laptop. I ordered it online and they’re holding it for me. I didn’t want to risk it coming via courier.”

  “Let’s pick that up last. Otherwise, you’d have to carry it around or risk leaving it in the vehicle.” He was too pragmatic to imagine that this being a police vehicle would stop thieves from breaking ­in—­some people lived to cross boundaries, the thrill of the act as important as what they might get.

  “That works for me. How many jewelers will we be visiting?”

  “I’ve got a list of ten.” He stopped at a red light. “That doesn’t include the more ­mass-­market jewelers. We’ll head there if we strike out at the specialist jewelers and ­watchmakers—­even if they didn’t make or import it, they might know who did.” New Zealand was a small country and the jewelers were in a niche industry.

  “You sound pretty sure about it being a specialist piece.”

  “I woke before dawn this morning. No use doing the patrol in the dark, so I spent the time online, trying to find watches similar to the one gifted to Miriama. Zero results. My gut says it was ­custom-­made and the ten places I have on my list all do custom jobs.”

  “It’s possible it was purchased internationally.”

  “I found a tiny koru design in the platinum of the ­band—­on the underside, where it locks into the right side of the watch face.” Inspired by the curl of a fern frond, it was a distinctly New Zealand symbol, one that signified new life and creation, growth and change. “That doesn’t rule out an overseas watchmaker, but it lessens the chances.”

  He maneuvered around a large roadwork truck. “If the trail does run cold, I’ll do what you’ve suggested and upload the image to the web, see if someone recognizes the design or workmanship.” But first, he’d search closer to home. Miriama’s lover ­would—­at the ­time—­have had no reason to think anyone would come looking for the origin of the piece.

  The lover had also come across as highly possessive and controlling in the journal entries. A man like that would
probably want to direct the design process, possibly even supply his own gemstones. Far easier to do that with a local. “Our first stop is a boutique in the city. According to a friend of mine who works in ­high-­end thefts, the boutique’s known for its discretion as well as the high caliber of its work. You okay to wait on something to eat till after this stop?”

  “I’m not the one who’s been up since before daybreak.”

  “I’ll fill up at lunch.”

  Managing to find a parking space only about five minutes ­away—­a miracle in a city lined with orange cones and construction ­vehicles—­he got out and the two of them began the short walk to the boutique. The midday sunshine was crisp against their faces, the city buzzing with life, but scars from the earthquake that had devastated it years earlier remained impossible to avoid.

  Beside him, Anahera took care not to step on a hairline crack in the pavement that had escaped repair, and he wondered what it must have been like for her to be so far from her friends when news of the quake first broke. “There.” He nodded toward a discreet little shop tucked in between an electronic goods store and a designer clothing boutique. “That’s our first stop.”

  36

  The jeweler didn’t boast a security guard, but Will spotted two video cameras and an automatic metal grille that could be slammed down at a moment’s notice. He’d bet the window glass was bulletproof and that the staff all had access to silent alarms under the counters. He also wouldn’t be surprised if some of the items on display were beautiful fakes, with the real gems kept in locked safes and only brought out for serious buyers.

  Pulling open the heavy door, he walked into the ­air-­conditioned inner sanctum behind Anahera. The woman who looked up from the other side of the pristine glass counter was an expertly groomed brunette in a maroon dress that hugged her body without being too tight. “Hello,” she said with a warmly professional smile. “How may I help you today?”

  Clearly, the clerk had been trained to never judge a customer based on appearance. It was good advice, given what Will knew of the multimillionaires who lived in the region. One had a habit of walking around town in ­flip-­flops, while another drove a ­twenty-­year-­old junker and dressed like the eighties had never gone out of style.

  “Good afternoon.” He showed her his police ID. “I’m working a missing person case and I’m hoping to track down the origin of a piece of jewelry.”

  The woman’s professional facade fractured. “Oh, goodness.” Wide green eyes. “Of course, I’ll be happy to help, but our master jeweler’s probably the one you should talk to.”

  “Does he come into the shop?”

  “Not normally,” the clerk said, “but you’re in luck today. He’s here this morning to personally accept a delivery. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go fetch him.”

  Instead of leaving the sales area, the clerk went to the back of the room and picked up a phone, speaking quietly into it before returning to her previous post.

  A small man who might’ve once been blond, but whose hair had faded to ash gray, bustled out from the back soon afterward. “Detective,” he said, holding out a sinewy hand. “Ava said you were looking to identify a piece of jewelry?” His eyes held a question, but it wasn’t about the ­jewelry—­his attention was on Anahera.

  “I’m sorry for staring,” he said when she raised an eyebrow, “but I could swear I’ve seen you before.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  The jeweler began to turn back to ­Will… halted midmove. “You create the most extraordinary ­music—­your gift is truly angelic,” he said in a hushed tone. “I’m deeply honored to have you in my store.”

  Anahera went still. “Thank you.”

  “I was very sorry to hear of the passing of your husband.”

  Shoulders stiff, Anahera gave the man a tight smile before turning to look at some of the jewels on display. Will, meanwhile, took charge of the meeting. Removing the watch from his pocket, he took it out of the evidence bag to show it to the jeweler. “Is this one of your pieces?”

  The man shook his head at once. “No, I do watches in partnership with a trained watchmaker, but this isn’t my style. Too flashy. That said, the craftsmanship is ­exquisite—­nothing ­mass-­market. Not even an elite ­mass-­market line. This is definitely custom.”

  The clerk, who’d come to hover near her boss, craned her neck to look at the watch. “I don’t recall seeing anything like this ­before—­the design, I mean,” she said. “And Dad and I know most of the other jewelers in the country who do custom work.”

  Her ­boss—­her ­father—­frowned. “Ava’s right. It’s very unique, especially that sunburst design with the diamonds. Some of my competitors do have new jewelers on ­staff—­it might’ve come from one of them.”

  Will didn’t sense deceit in either of these two; if anything, they seemed eager to help. Putting the watch back in the evidence bag, he said, “Would you recommend I speak to any other jewelers or watchmakers in particular?”

  Together, father and daughter came up with a list of seven, all of whom were already on his list. “Thank you.”

  Anahera walked out with him without saying anything further to either the jeweler or the clerk, though she did incline her head toward them in a silent ­good-­bye.

  “Why release your music under the name Angel?” Will asked once they were on the sidewalk.

  Anahera rolled her eyes and her shoulders, as if shrugging off the stiffness. “Record company’s idea. They did a search on the meaning of my name, decided the stage name would be great for promotion. You know, the ‘plays like an angel’ shtick.”

  “Is it true that you’re ­self-­taught?”

  “I used to sneak into the church and practice on their piano.” A faint smile. “When Pastor Mark came out to the cabin the day I got back to Golden Cove, he told me I could come play on the church piano anytime I wanted.”

  “I hear they tune it once every ten years, so you might be in luck.”

  Anahera laughed, and for a moment, they were just a man and a woman taking a walk in the sunshine.

  A minute later, she stopped by a food truck selling ­fresh-­made wraps. “Yes?”

  Will nodded and they were soon eating their lunch as they walked to the next stop. “What’s it like being a famous musician?”

  “Famous pianist,” Anahera corrected. “We’re nowhere near as ­well-­known as pop stars. I have no idea how he recognized me.” She took a bite of her wrap, waited until she’d swallowed before continuing. “I only ever did a few shows and the photo they used on the cover of the last album is all darkness and broken shadows.”

  Much like the music on that album. “You planning to get a piano in the cabin?” He finished his wrap. “Must be hard for a pianist to be in a place where you can’t practice your passion.”

  A skateboarder whizzed down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, expertly dodging the orange cones that marked out a construction zone. He stumbled to a stop when his cap flew off and he had to run back to retrieve it, but a few seconds later he was off again. “Do you remember ever being that young?” Anahera asked, her eyes following the boy until he disappeared down the street. “Having no responsibilities, no real worries.”

  “I had a cop for a father and for a mother.” Will threw both their wrappers into a trash can after holding out his hand for Anahera’s. “I grew up waiting for them to come home. Later, when I realized how dangerous their jobs could actually be, I was always ­half-­afraid to answer the door in case the news was bad.”

  Anahera looked at him, her head angled and her eyes incisive. “Yet you became a cop.”

  “I guess you can’t fight destiny. We are who we are.”

  “Isn’t that a little fatalistic?” A sharp question.

  “Don’t you believe that we’re shaped by our experiences?”

  “If I believed that,” Anahera said, “I would’ve never escaped Golden Cove. I’d be like Matilda, giving my trust t
o the wrong man over and over again.”

  Even as Anahera spoke those words, she knew she was being a hypocrite. Maybe she hadn’t fallen for a physically abusive man like her father, or like the users Matilda dated, but she’d fallen for a liar, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that a kind of abuse, too? Making a woman fall in love with you, then smashing an anvil into her already broken heart.

  “This is our second stop.” Will opened the door of what looked to be nothing but a vestibule and his next words held the cool caution of a cop. “Better if I go up first here.”

  Anahera followed to find herself facing a narrow flight of steps, the kind that usually led to dingy apartments or fading internet cafés. But these steps were not only well lit, with the wood polished to a shine, there was also tasteful artwork on the ­walls—­including a reproduction of one of Monet’s water lily paintings.

  At the top was a heavyset Asian male dressed in a black suit; he stood with his feet braced apart, one hand loosely clasped over the wrist of the other, and his face expressionless. The only thing missing was a neon sign with the word SECURITY on it. Will had clearly already spoken to him, because he said nothing as she walked in through the door Will was holding open for her. She could see it was much heavier than the one below and reinforced with metal.

  Beyond was the hushed quiet of an upscale jeweler’s. Anahera knew immediately that this wasn’t a place for casual browsers. You made an appointment during opening hours, or, if you were important enough, they’d accommodate your ­schedule—­or bring the jewels directly to you.

  Not surprisingly, there was no friendly smile from the clerk this time. Instead, he gave them a supercilious sneer down his blade of a nose before scanning his gaze up then down both their bodies. “I’m afraid we’re not open to the public,” he said in a voice that matched the look on his face. “I do apologize if the security guard gave you a different impression.” Not an ounce of sincerity in those words.