Songbird (Daniel Trokics Series Book 3)

by Inger Wolf

  Simon was one of their youngest officers. Crew cut, a bit of a flat nose, full lips. Too young to ever be called Assistant Detective, a title so out-of-date that only a few particularly stubborn officers bogged down in their careers still kept it in the post-police-reform era. Lisa had sounded out a few other officers before this interview, just to have a general idea of Simon, but the pickings were slim; he’d only recently been hired. He must be shaken up badly from finding his cousin dead, she thought. His head must be spinning, trying to piece together what had happened.

  Lisa shrugged off her annoyance with Trokic and settled her lanky body in one of the office chairs. She pulled out a notebook from her bag.

  “I’m sorry about your cousin,” Trokic began. “This won’t take long, and then you can take a few days off.”

  “I really don’t get it,” Simon said. His ashen face nearly blended in with the wall. “You think you’ve seen it all, and then something like this happens.”

  He stared out the open window at the city bus station, lost in thought for a moment. Lisa was sitting closest to him, and she reached out and patted his arm carefully. They sat for a while in silence, then the young officer took a deep breath and sighed heavily. He turned and stared down at the table.

  “There wasn’t a whole lot going on that night, nothing at all in fact, from the time we started our shift at eleven until…Peter and I had just grabbed a cup of coffee, the dispatcher got a call around five-thirty. A Radisson employee biking to work on Frederik’s Allé noticed her laying in the grass. Town Hall Park, believe it or not. Right in front of everybody.”

  Trokic nodded. He looked as if he couldn’t quite figure out how to say what he had to say. “Right now, what we know about her death is unclear and contradictory; let’s just forget she was found in the park. The pathologist thinks she fell from a significant height. It’s also very likely she cut herself, her arms. Was Maja right-handed or left-handed?”

  “Left-handed.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yeah, because I am too, and we’ve talked about it. Why?”

  “Because the cuts are primarily on her right arm. Which indicates they’re self-inflicted. At the moment, it looks like she might have killed herself and then someone moved her. What’s your reaction to that?”

  Simon threw up his arms and leaned back in his chair, upset now. “I can’t say it makes a lot of sense to me, but I suppose it is the most obvious explanation, under the circumstances.”

  “All right, good,” Trokic said. “No matter what did happen, the most important thing now is that we find where she died. I’ve been in her apartment, and I seriously doubt she fell from there. You have any idea where she could have fallen?”

  Simon seemed frustrated. “No, none at all.”

  Lisa held back a sigh. Maybe Simon didn’t actually know much about what his cousin did, where she hung out, yet some small detail could be important. And she hated the thought of missing it. Trokic hesitated a moment before continuing. Lisa imagined he couldn’t stand ransacking a colleague’s memory like this. Though, when she thought about it, very few things weighed heavily on her boss’s conscience. He was reserved; he never talked about his private life, and whatever went on inside his head was a complete mystery to her. He was forty-one and lived with his cat in a house in one of the city’s residential areas. That was it, the total extent of what she knew after working with him for three years.

  She felt nauseous as she discreetly waded through the photos they’d taken. The woman looked like she’d been dead longer than under a day, and her broken nose distorted her features horribly. At the bottom of the stack was a single photo of a living, unsmiling Maja Nielsen. Her hair was in a ponytail, her narrow face pale and blank. Lisa pushed all the photos back into the file where no one could see them.

  Trokic spoke slowly. “Her apartment didn’t look good, to put it mildly. There was blood all over one wall, and a table was covered with small scraps of paper with times and places written on them. There was a small key, too. And a big mess.”

  Now, Simon looked even paler. “A key? What did it look like?”

  “Small. It was taped to the table. Why?”

  He swallowed. “The key is for me. She must’ve known she was going to die. When she moved away from home, she told me she had a safe deposit box at a bank; there was some jewelry from our grandmother in it. She was afraid someone would steal it. At the time, I told her to take care of the key, and if anything happened, to make sure I knew where it was. So now…”

  He shivered and looked up at them. “Since she put the key in plain sight, maybe she planned to kill herself. We haven’t seen much of each other the past few years, but she knew she could rely on me.”

  Trokic nodded. “I get the impression your cousin was emotionally unstable. Is that true?”

  Simon stood up and paced around the small office. It was two-thirty, nine hours since Maja had been found, but in the office, time stood still.

  “Like I said, I didn’t see much of her,” he mumbled. “We were both busy. The last time was a couple months ago at a family get-together.”

  “So, you have no idea how she was doing?” Lisa asked. From the window, she caught a whiff of the dwindling rain. A short but pleasant moment.

  “No.”

  “Do you know if she was emotionally unstable in the past?” she said.

  Simon shrugged lightly. “She might have tended to be. Her moods changed a lot. She studied music; maybe she was having some problems in school.”

  “But she was around your house a lot when she was a child?”

  “Yeah, we lived just down the street. I moved back in the house when my parents died, matter of fact. I run into her parents once in a while. They’re weird, and they weren’t always there for her when she needed them. That’s probably why I’m the one she told about the key and the safe deposit box.”

  “But you don’t remember anything as bad as this?” Trokic asked.

  Simon shook his head and sat down with a sigh. “No.”

  “There was a cup of green mint tea on the table, too. Did she normally drink that stuff?”

  Pause. Simon stared blankly at them. “I don’t remember. Maybe. She liked tea anyway.”

  “You said she was studying music?”

  “Yeah, jazz. She was getting ready for auditions to get into the conservatory.”

  He stared down at his hands. “She had a great voice. Always did. And it was just the right kind for jazz.”

  Trokic nodded sympathetically, though Lisa knew he couldn’t begin to imagine why anyone would voluntarily immerse themselves in such “chaos,” his opinion of jazz.

  “She has a boyfriend, Martin Isaksen,” Lisa said. “A real estate agent. Her parents told us about him, and we’ve sent a few officers out to give him the bad news. What do you know about him?”

  “I only met him once, on New Year’s Eve. They rented a place down by the marina and threw a party. I wondered why she was with that type of guy.”

  She frowned. “What you mean, that type of guy?”

  Simon looked disgusted, as if an insect was swimming in his coffee. “He’s a real hustler. He talks way too much, and they rolled in to the party in this fancy car. A jerk. I guess you know he lives on Park Allé, right across from Town Hall Park. That, in itself, is fishy. Maybe she jumped at his place, and he moved her.”

  Trokic’s eyebrows fell. “We didn’t know he lived on Park Allé. Her parents gave us the name of his agency, and that’s where I sent the officers. How do you know this?”

  Her cousin suddenly looked a bit uneasy. Several moments later, he said, “I checked him out a few months ago. I wanted to know more because, yeah, he seemed like a jerk.”

  Trokic and Lisa nodded.

  “What about her free time, what did she do?” Trokic said.

  “Yeah, I think she was volunteering a few hours every day at Transit, on Jægergårdsgade. She did a lot of that sort of thing. It was
like…”

  “Like what?” Trokic asked.

  Simon shrugged. “Like it helped her, I think.”

  Lisa knew about Transit. One of the town’s wealthy men, the owner of a large investment firm, had established a shelter in a building that once had been a family-owned hotel. It was a private charity project. Occasionally, the police sent a homeless person there.

  “Surely, she must have played music around town?” Lisa said.

  “Yeah, I think several people get together and jam different places, but I don’t know who they are or where they play. She also sang in several bands, far as I know.”

  Trokic stood up and stretched his legs. He walked over to the window and leaned against the wall. “Is there anything at all that makes you think this might be a homicide?”

  “No. I think she killed herself, and somebody moved her.”

  “No matter what, it’s illegal to move a body. We need to find whoever did it as soon as possible.”

  “Sorry,” Lisa said, “but I have to go. I have to be in court.”

  She sent Trokic a dirty look, and he stared back at her. His dark blue eyes seemed to say it wasn’t his fault there was a judicial system. “Of course. I think we’re done here for now anyway.”

  He turned to Simon. “I know it’s not easy but go home and try to get some sleep. Take the next few days off, or however much time you need. We’ll figure it out. And don’t be tempted to snoop around on your own. This is our investigation, and we don’t need anybody personally involved getting mixed up in it.”

  Simon shrugged. “Of course not.”

  “Good, just so we understand each other.”

  Trokic grabbed the car keys on the table and tossed his coat over his shoulder. “I’ll take Jasper along; time to have a look at this real estate agent.”

  Chapter Six

  Trokic and Taurup parked in front of an old but well-preserved white building with a view of the ocean. Times were tough for real estate agents. Sales were down, foreclosure auctions were way up, and several agencies had given up the ghost.

  Taurup looked tired. And he’d forgotten to shave, Trokic noticed. The detective had become one of his closest colleagues. In addition to being a genius at numbers, he had an incredible memory. Plus, he was one of the most logical human beings Trokic had ever known. Allegations, speculations, hypotheses, metaphysics—Taurup would have none of it. He always contributed useful, rational ideas to an investigation. In other words, his processor powers were sky high.

  They were ushered into Martin Isaksen’s office. It was pleasant enough, though without personality. Large, boring abstract paintings, stripped wood floors. Isaksen turned and introduced himself when they stepped in. Maja Nielsen’s boyfriend wore a blue suit, and he was tall, with a square face, broad neck, small eyes, and wavy, stylishly cut hair. He was in his early thirties, but his bushy eyebrows made him look older. The smile he flashed at them revealed pointed teeth. Here was a man who projected a sense of order, structure, deliberation. Trokic recalled Maja’s apartment; she must have been terribly lonesome in her final days of fighting her demons because this man had almost certainly not been around to help. But Isaksen was also a man with an apartment at an extremely incriminating location. Trokic decided to hold back on that point, however. For now.

  The room stank of an aftershave he recognized: Eternity. A former girlfriend had given him a bottle of it once, but he’d thrown it away. It put him in a bad mood.

  “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” Trokic said. “My condolences with your girlfriend.”

  “A few of your people were here this morning.” Isaksen eyed them. “They didn’t say much. Have you found out what happened to her?”

  “They came by just to ask a few routine questions.” The boyfriend didn’t seem particularly upset, Trokic thought. “But we need to dig a little deeper, so to speak. As I’m sure you understand, we have to gather as much information as possible in a case like this, as quickly as we can. We don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s likely that Maja jumped from a significant height. And she was later moved by someone. We would very much like to find this someone.”

  Isaksen nodded silently. His face was pale, and puffy bags hung under his eyes. Trokic had seen this many, many times. Death slipping by those left behind, leaving them gray and lifeless. From sorrow, yes, but also from the sudden shock of death reminding them of its existence. Or was it something else in this case? The real estate man slung his arms out.

  “I was just heading for the door. I’d like to go home and be by myself; surely you can understand that?”

  “Of course. Let’s get started.” Trokic brought out his notepad. “How long have you known Maja?”

  “About eight months, give or take a few weeks. September of last year. I met her at a private party. We were talking about living together, in fact, but then she got sick about a month ago, and we set that aside temporarily.”

  Isaksen fiddled with a lighter on the table. Right-handed, Trokic noticed, and he thought back to the cup on Maja’s table. But that didn’t mean anything; ninety percent of the population was right-handed. Trokic bit his lip and looked out the window. A silver-gray Porsche Carrera was parked behind the office. A luxury car. The sun had risen between nearby buildings, its light reflected off the car’s broad wheel rims and side mirrors.

  Taurup scratched his acne-scarred face. “You say sick—what was wrong?”

  Isaksen showed his teeth again with a somewhat irrelevant smile. “She was very strange the past month. She kept saying over and over that she was sick, she didn’t want to see anyone, at all. Not even me. But I did stop by her place several times, and she seemed depressed and confused. It was really bad the last time I was there. She was having delusions; she thought there were evil animals in her building, coming to get her. One other time she said someone was listening through the walls. She was confusing fantasy with reality, talking a lot about some very bad dreams she’d had. Evil horses, closed-in rooms, death, people stalking her.”

  He sighed and caught his breath for a moment. “I asked her, I begged her to see her doctor, and she promised she would. It was odd, because she wasn’t so bizarre all the time. Sometimes she seemed like she was really there, just weak, without any will. She’d given up, and that wasn’t like her at all.”

  Now, he sighed even deeper. “Of course, I feel terrible; it’s tragic if it really was so bad that she wanted to end her life. But I can’t say it’s a complete surprise.”

  “But what do you think went wrong?” Taurup said.

  “I don’t know. I never managed to find out what was really going on inside her. She had secrets, I’m sure of that. I admit, it fascinated me.”

  “But you must’ve felt you made a good couple in some way,” Trokic said.

  “I was attracted to her. We both knew what we wanted. She lived and breathed for her singing, and she was so focused on getting into the conservatory that I started to worry about what would happen, if for some reason she wasn’t accepted. Everyone thought she was a natural; there were a lot of major expectations. Of course, she must have felt the pressure. I was glad she had her own projects, though. I’m a workaholic; it was a relief knowing she was so involved in something.”

  Trokic nodded. That wasn’t such a bad foundation for a relationship. Unfortunately, he had yet to find a woman who was okay with playing second fiddle, which was why women came and went in his life. And maybe that was for the best.

  “So, everything was great between you?” Taurup asked.

  “Not quite. I told her I wanted children at some point, but she was totally against it. She wouldn’t even discuss it.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “These problems of hers…did you talk about them?” Trokic said.

  Isaksen shook his head and scratched his neck. “I have to admit, talking about things like that isn’t easy for me. I’m nobody’s therapist. I was hoping it was something her girlfriends an
d her doctor could help her with. But it worried me, a lot.”

  “What about her parents?”

  The real estate man fidgeted, and his small eyes grew even smaller. “What’s that got to do with your investigation? I don’t know them.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Trokic said. “Shouldn’t you have been introduced to them?”

  “I suppose, but she didn’t see them very much. I don’t think they were around a lot when Maja was a kid. They were career people, they had a lot on their plates, that’s probably why she was an only child.”

  “So, you don’t know much about her past? Other than what she told you?”

  Isaksen shrugged. “Is that so strange?”

  Trokic thought for a moment. How much did his own girlfriends ever find out about him? It couldn’t be very much. On the other hand, he had little family left for anyone special to meet. His father and brother had been killed in the Balkan war, and his mother had died from cancer a few years after. He had a few cousins; that was it.

  He felt a familiar knot in his stomach; one of the cousins, his favorite in fact, Sinka, had disappeared during a trip to the Croatian archipelago many years ago. Last year, someone claimed to have seen her in Serbia, of all places, and now he was convinced she was alive. He had contacted the Serbian authorities and even flown down to Beograd, but to no avail. He’d managed to establish a good working relationship with a Serbian police chief who had taken an interest in Sinka’s story. And two days ago, the man had sent him an email with several new ideas. Trokic was waiting anxiously to hear how they turned out.

  “When was the last time you saw Maja?” he asked.

  “It feels like I’m repeating myself a lot,” Isaksen said.

  “Yes, but please, if you can tell us again,” Taurup said, taking pains to keep the mood friendly. He began drawing stick figures on his notepad.

  “I’m thinking it was two weeks ago.”

  Isaksen’s voice broke, and he had to swallow a few times before continuing. “We spent an evening at her place. It already seems like an eternity.”