Songbird (Daniel Trokics Series Book 3)

by Inger Wolf

  The question was what this volcanologist's death had to do with him. And where exactly was Anchorage? He stared suspiciously across the large black desk. "A dollhouse, you say? In the middle of the table? What's that all about?"

  Andersen shook his head. "I have no idea, but it looks like one of their sicko serial killers. You know, there are always several of them on the loose."

  Trokic was about to mention that they'd just finished a case with their own serial killer, whose insane use of leeches was still the talk of Århus. They weren't all that far behind the Americans. But Andersen was all worked up. "I got the news from the Copenhagen Chief of Police, who got it from the American Embassy, who got it from the consulate in Anchorage. The killings took place last night, local time, so we're talking about a matter of just a few hours since the victims were found. The consul was pretty upset. Especially about poor Marie, they haven't found her yet."

  "But I don't understand why we're –"

  "It's like this," Andersen said, trying to be patient with Trokic. "I know Asger Vad. Really well. We went to school together here in Århus a few centuries ago. Catholic school. If I remember right, he would've been fifty in a few months."

  He stared off into space. "He was a good friend, and we've stayed in contact since he moved to Alaska fifteen years ago. When he came back to Denmark, he always stopped by for dinner and a game of backgammon. And he was damn good at what he did. He studied geology here in Århus, and he's worked in Iceland and then Alaska. Dammit anyway."

  He swallowed the lump in his throat, plucked some lint from his blue cashmere sweater, and looked away. Trokic fidgeted in his chair; he wasn't used to his boss being so emotional.

  "Sounds like a tragic case, but why are you telling me all this?" Trokic gazed at an October-red tree just outside the captain's window.

  "I'd think it's obvious." Andersen sighed and stared straight at Trokic. "I want somebody over there to follow the developments."

  "Okay. And?"

  "And now that law and order has once again been established in our fair city, I was thinking this might be something for you. A little trip over the Atlantic to join our American colleagues. The last time we spoke, you were wanting to take a step down the ladder. You were sick of paperwork, remember? So, here's your shot at some of that action you obviously want. Plus, you speak English fluently; you're the perfect candidate. The Danish police often send officers out into the big wide world, and now it's your turn."

  "But why don't –"

  Andersen waved him off. "I can't possibly go myself. I'm too busy here, and besides, I'm too involved personally. I'd shoot the bastard on sight if I ever found him. In fact, I'd like to shoot somebody right now."

  Trokic stared at him. Alaska? It was cold as the North Pole and full of bears of all sizes and crazy trigger-happy Americans. Not long ago, he'd seen a documentary series from National Geographic; the state seemed to love guns and illegal substances. And maybe it really was incredibly beautiful there, but if he was going to barge into an investigation, he wouldn't have time to see much. At first glance, it didn't seem all that appealing. On the other hand, he really was tired of all the paperwork, and Andersen had yet to find a replacement for him.

  "I'm really sorry about your friend," Trokic said. "But why do you think they'd want a Danish cop in on the investigation? Can you imagine having a Russian running around here?"

  Andersen wiped his forehead and clenched his teeth. "I'll take care of that. After all, we're talking about four Danish citizens, at least I think so. I'm not sure about the kids. They don't have any more family over there, so if Marie shows up alive…and honestly, I doubt she will, but we'd need somebody to bring her back to her family. And besides," he plucked a nail file out of a drawer, "they can only be happy to have another skilled investigator on the case, and you are one of the best we have. And I won't mention anything about your issues with authority, or any other problems you've caused. You'll have to try to fit in."

  Trokic scratched his black hair and shifted in his chair. Tried to look skeptical. Something like this could drag out. On the other hand, there wasn't much holding him back. He hadn't seen Christiane for a month, since telling her he didn't want children, that he preferred living alone. Maybe it would do him good to have something else to think about, and his neighbor could take care of the cat, now that he had trimmed her hedge for the second time this year.

  "Why am I sitting here discussing this like you had a choice," Andersen mumbled, "when it's actually an order?"

  They glared at each other. Despite having worked together for several years, they weren't friends. That Andersen, in fact, did have a friend was possibly the most personal thing Trokic had heard about him in all that time.

  "What exactly did he do over there?" he asked. He was trying to understand why a Dane would move to a colder climate.

  "He taught and did research the first several years. But then he had an accident up in the mountains, or the wilderness, or whatever the hell they have over there, on a hunting trip with a friend. He hurt his leg and he couldn't stand up for very long at a time. That made it hard for him to teach. So, the last two years he's worked as an advisor at the university, and he had something to do with a volcano observatory. And he wrote, too."

  Andersen sounded proud. "In fact, he's written three books about volcanoes. As I understand it, he did well for himself. Not rich, but he wasn't hurting. They had no plans to come back to Denmark. Anyway, not the last time I talked to him."

  "And what about the family?"

  "As far as I know, his wife worked as a secretary for an engineering firm owned by a Dane in Anchorage. The kids went to a private international school."

  "And the daughter, Marie?" Trokic asked. "She didn't just disappear into thin air?"

  "There's no sign of her whatsoever. They're afraid the killer took her with him, is what I've heard. Either he's holding her prisoner or else he's killed her. It's horrible. Asger brought her along to dinner one evening when she was a lot younger. She was such a pretty little girl, pigtails, carrying a teddy bear. She sat at the coffee table and drew, just jabbered away. My own daughter is only a few years older, and they had fun playing together."

  He slumped as his eyes lost focus. "It's almost unbearable to think she's in the hands of such a gruesome person. Or was."

  "What about the police in Alaska, what do they know?"

  "More or less nothing, just what they found at the crime scene. The only thing I could get out of them was that the three members of the family were shot, that Asger's throat had been stuffed with ashes, and that it was a damn slaughterhouse. And then there's the dollhouse, of course."

  A sense of horror rose up inside Trokic. His throat stuffed with ashes? "Sounds like a very disturbed person, someone who had something to say. Like that case with the Waspman, who cut off lips. It must mean something."

  Andersen laid down his nail file, then he grabbed a cigar from the box on the table and sniffed it. He laid it back down reluctantly. "I agree. And I want to know what. Anyway, they're ten hours behind us over there, and the trip takes about twenty hours. So, if you leave early tomorrow, you'll be over there in the afternoon, local time. Maybe earlier if we can find a good connection."

  Trokic let out a breath. It looked like it was time to bring out his winter clothes, whether he wanted to or not. "I'll do what I can." He stood up.

  "Thanks. And don't piss them off over there. That lone wolf attitude of yours isn't going to work. And watch out for the bears. I've heard they're man-eaters."

  Chapter Four

  The student dorms were on the outskirts of the university campus, across from the town's hospital, Providence. Angie parked her black Ford in a half-filled parking lot, got out, and stuck her long, black ponytail under the collar of her black coat. She pulled up her gray leg warmers. The heat from inside the car vanished immediately as crisp, cold air surrounded her.

  Several officers had called around to every conceivable pla
ce Marie could have been, but there was still no sign of her. And Angie's thoughts kept running in circles. Had she escaped in the middle of the killings and hid? If so, where? In somebody's shed? The search of the area had turned up nothing so far.

  Once more, Angie looked at the unframed photo taken from the Vad family's living room. It was newer than the one in the bedroom. Marie had grown into a pretty young girl with long blonde hair, delicate features, and shy blue eyes. Something about the girl moved Angie deeply. Marie could be her own daughter. She stuck the photo back in her inside pocket and looked around. If you wanted to hide out in Anchorage, there were plenty of places to do so, but had she really done that?

  The university, the state's largest, was in the middle of town, surrounded by small green sections of thick underbrush with small pines, thin birches, and an extensive system of paths. It consisted of a long row of buildings of various architectural styles, some more attractive than others, and if you didn't know where you were going, it could take a long time to find your way. About a thousand students were on campus, strolling and walking and bustling along with their faces underneath thick stocking caps. It wasn't far from the police station and the Scientific Crime Detection Laboratory.

  Snow had fallen that morning, and most cars in the parking lot had at least some snow on their roofs and front windshields. A young guy in a sweatshirt, his hair wet from the flakes, stared first at her then at her car, as if she were a foreigner among all the young people. Then he hurried over to the university.

  She walked down a narrow path and soon reached the dorm building where Marie's babysitter, Joanne, lived. That morning the police had called all the teachers and students at Marie's school, and several of them had mentioned Joanne, who often picked Marie up after school. Angie's stomach felt leaden when she pushed the dorm door open. She found Joanne's room and knocked.

  The pale girl who opened the door had red, swollen eyes from crying. Her long, dull black hair was unbrushed, her matchstick arms stuck out of an oversized light orange sweater. She looked tiny, fragile, like an anorexic. The faint odor of marijuana hung in the air, but she didn't look stoned. Angie decided to let that go for the moment.

  "Come in," the girl said, opening the door wide. The room had two unmade beds, a desk, and a small flat screen TV hanging from the ceiling. A report from the local television station was blaring, and Joanne grabbed the remote and shut it off. "I can't stand to hear the news anyway."

  She pointed to the office chair. "Sit down if you want."

  "That's okay, I'll stand." Angie fished her notepad out of her shirt pocket. "You're aware that we're investigating Asger Vad's death and the disappearance of his daughter. You babysat her and her brother often, isn't that right?"

  "That's right. Mostly Marie, though. I've known the family a few years. I don't understand; did the killer take her after murdering the rest of the family?"

  "We don't know," Angie said. An honest answer.

  "Marie is so sweet. I can't stand thinking about it."

  Angie grimaced and silently cursed the media, which all morning had been obsessed with theories about the deaths of the volcanologist and his family, as well as the disappearance of the daughter. "We don't know yet," she repeated. "We're trying to establish where she was yesterday, and I was hoping you might know something. As we understand it, you picked her up after school, is that right?"

  Joanne nodded. "Right, but I really don't know very much. I picked her up at three; I do that three times a week. We hung out here and read Harry Potter, and I helped her with her math. She had to go home at five."

  "How did she get home?"

  "Her mom stopped by around that time. She was almost always the one who picked her up. Her dad did it once in a while."

  Angie thought about the two cars parked in the Vad's driveway. Nothing had seemed unusual. They hadn't yet established whose winter clothes were hanging in the hall, which was why they didn't know if Marie had left the house dead or alive, wearing her coat. "Do you know which coat she had on when she left here?"

  "Yeah, she had on her thick down coat. Light purple. I don't remember the brand. She loved it; it was fairly new and she wore it all the time."

  "What about the rest of her clothes?"

  "A light-colored pair of jeans and a sweater. I think maybe it was a purple fleece. Purple was her favorite color. I can hardly stand thinking about it. I mean, God, what if she's being tortured?" She sniffed and dried more tears off her cheek.

  Angie swallowed the lump in her throat. "What's she like?"

  Joanne thought that over for a moment. "She's wonderful, I just love that kid. Some people might think she's a bit introverted and odd, but that's only until you get to know her. Really, she's great. Fun to be with. Even though we've had a few ups and downs."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Sometimes she tells so many stories that I don't know if she's lying or not. Nothing serious, but it's enough that I've had to straighten her out when she's tried to lead me on. It can be a bad habit."

  Angie frowned. "What about other people? Does she talk about her school, her girlfriends, her teachers?"

  "Some. She really likes the school. Sometimes there's some girlfriend stuff that goes on, catty stuff, but that's normal for her age. She gets along with her teachers, too. Even though she thinks her English teacher is a little bit too rough on her."

  Angie looked over at several Take That stickers on the desk. Wasn't Joanne a little bit too young to be a fan? Maybe it was someone else's desk? "Has she mentioned anything lately about any new people in her life? Someone bothering her or trying to make friends with her?"

  "You're thinking about a pedophile or something like that?"

  "I'm just trying to cover every possibility."

  Joanne shook her head. "Nothing like that. I think maybe she would've told me, she's always talking to me when I pick her up. It's like she has to tell me everything that happens to her that day. So, no, I don't think she met anybody on the street that tried something with her."

  "What about here?"

  "Here?"

  "Yes, have any of the other students talked to her or shown any interest in her?"

  "No, not at all."

  "Okay. I'd like for you to make a list of everyone she's talked about, in any way, bad or good, so I can get a picture of who she's been around. We're going to have to talk with all of them."

  Joanne raised an eyebrow. "It won't be a very long list. It's mostly her classmates, like that."

  "Just write them all down. Anyone you can think of. Is there anything else you can tell me about her?"

  Joanne began crying again, and Angie paused for a moment before finding a Kleenex in her bag and handing it to her. She repeated her question.

  "She likes animals. She has Zenna, you know, their dog, and she talks a lot about it. And she says she wants more dogs and a cat as soon as she moves away from home."

  She smiled shortly. "As if she's about to do that. We've also walked a lot of trails around here, she's always wanting to spot squirrels. Even though she's lived here all her life, it's like her fascination with nature is new somehow. It's all animals, animals, animals."

  Joanne frowned and looked down at her hands. Her nails were short and badly manicured.

  "Those stories she tells," Angie said. "Could you count on her telling the truth about things that happened to her during the day? Were there times when she'd say something, just to make her life sound interesting?"

  Joanne ran a hand through her dark hair and picked at a small scratch on her cheek. She looked uncomfortable. Finally, she said, "I admit I've had my doubts once in a while. I don't mean that in a bad way. I don't mean she was all the time lying to get out of something. It's more like…like her imagination runs away with her."

  "You mean, she's not a compulsive liar?"

  "No. That's an ugly label, and it doesn't fit her at all."

  "Did you know her parents well, Asger and Mette?"

  Jo
anne hugged herself tightly. "Yeah, because sometimes I babysat both of the kids at their place, and they let me borrow their computer equipment for my schoolwork. They have a color printer and a scanner. And if I was around at dinner time, I ate with them. They were really nice that way."

  "What did you think of them?"

  "I never really thought that much about them. They were friendly. The dad was a little formal. But he was polite. I liked the mom. Mette. She was pretty cool."

  "Cool, what do you mean?"

  "Like she was helpful, intelligent. She taught the kids a lot about Alaska and nature. How the native tribes lived, how people survived under tough conditions. I know because Marie talked a lot about it. Mette was really interested in the country around here. I liked that."

  "What about her relationship to her children?"

  Joanne shrugged. "I never saw anything to criticize her for. They were always well-dressed and had warm clothes. She didn't just buy clothes that looked good, she bought stuff that could stand the cold. Like Marie's light purple coat. Asger was more like he was living in his own world. But it seemed to me he treated the kids good."

  "What about their relationship. Did they seem to get along?"

  "The parents?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know. Sometimes it was like there was something in the air. You know, you're sitting there at the dinner table and they only speak really shortly to each other. Like, one syllable words. One time Marie said they'd argued about money her mom had spent, and she was scared they were going to split up. But it was just that one time."