Molten Mud Murder Page 10

  He stood awkwardly for a moment, weighing his options. “I have to get back to the station after I drop these at home. Meeting with Teal. But I could stop by around eight, if that’s not too late.”

  “It’s fine. I live—”

  “Trout Cottage. I know.”

  The ride to Trout Cottage was becoming familiar, a new kind of heading home, freeing Alexa’s mind to ponder Horne. The divorced Horne. Now that she knew he was…well…single, the dinner invite took on more weight.

  How did he know where she lived?

  She concluded she wasn’t ready to start a new relationship—her track record, her transience. Plus, a newly divorced man was surely gun-shy.

  Glock shy.

  Should be.

  The spontaneous invitation was not a date. And besides, Detective Inspector Bruce Horne had daughters.

  Her mind flickered to her stepmother. She had been a newly minted teen when her father had married Rita. After Mom had died, for the next six years, Alexa, Charlie, and Dad had been a team and then, just like that, the star player had been recruited by a rival. Team Rita. Alexa had been abandoned to the bench.

  I hated her, and she knew it.

  Alexa was glad, though, as she pulled up the long curving driveway that the days were growing longer instead of shorter like back home. Sunset would be around seven fifteen on this northern island in the Southern Hemisphere, giving her time to unpack groceries, take a run, and then shower.

  * * *

  DI Horne knocked at 8:05.

  Alexa gave herself a last look in the bathroom mirror. She had carefully chosen an outfit to look nice but not a trying-too-hard nice: matching bra and panties, which of course would remain unappreciated, as would the scars marring her back (ha, always a jolt when a man first saw those beauties) the silky gray hip-length blouse she’d worn to Mary’s memorial service over black jeans. Her thick, dark hair wasn’t behaving—too freshly washed after her run, blown dry and ornery—so she thrust it behind her ears and quickly added large silver hoops as detractors.

  Heart hammering, she scurried to the door as he knocked again.

  “We located Koppel’s car. Right in the Waiariki Thermal Land parking lot,” Horne said. White stubble integrated with his five o’clock shadow. He was still dressed as he had been at the station: rumpled khakis, sky-blue button-down, tan jacket.

  “Nice to see you too,” Alexa responded.

  “What? Ah, yes. Thanks for having me. Nice out here,” Horne said, looking around. A Countdown grocery bag dangled from his hand.

  She followed his eyes to the lawn, the lavender, and could hear the river humming. “I’ve been checking the yard for deer. I know there are no deer in New Zealand. We have so many at home, especially this time of evening, I can’t help looking.” Alexa was blathering. “Come on in.”

  Horne stood where he was. “We do have deer. Imported from the States. For hunting. For deer farming too. Mostly raised for export. The Europeans love their venison. There’s a cave near here. Did you know that?”

  “Near here?”

  “Yes, Tutea’s Cave. Just up the Kaituna.”

  Was it her imagination or was the river louder, more insistent?

  “There’s a side path as you approach the falls,” he continued. “The entrance is barricaded because a tourist fell a year ago. It was wet and steep. She died. Maori women and children used to hide in the cave during tribal raids. They’d make their way down into the cave by flax rope.” Now Horne was blathering.

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “I’ll show you sometime.”

  They stared at each other, suddenly silent and close, both aware spelunking wasn’t normal procedure. He handed her the plastic bag with his steak and stepped backward. “I also brought dessert.”

  Alexa peeked in the bag at a box of Tim Tam cookies. “I’ve been wanting to try these. Thanks. Come in, sit down. Would you like a glass of wine or a beer?” She had added a six-pack to her cart, along with a second sweet potato. “Then you can tell me about the car. Strange it wasn’t found sooner.”

  He followed her into the cottage, his scent filling the room: woodsy, musky, male. She could smell him all the way to her toes and didn’t like it.

  “Beer would be brilliant.”

  Alexa salted and peppered the second sirloin and slid it on the broiler pan next to her own and fetched two beers. It’s a work dinner.

  Horne sat on the couch, so she took the armchair. The frothy brew slid down easily; she was dehydrated and jazzed from her run. “Beer costs a fortune in your country.”

  The DI took a long sip and then sighed. “One of the disadvantages of being an island in the middle of nowhere. Most everything is imported.” He considered the beer bottle label. “But Speight’s is brewed here, and it’s still dear. I gave Officer Walker a thrashing.”

  Alexa remembered about the bootprint at the crime scene. It had been Walker’s. “Most contamination at crime sites comes from investigators.”

  “Been guilty myself. Lucky we caught it now and not later—or in court.” The boot cast had been a hopeful bit of evidence, and they had to give it the boot.

  Conversation started flowing like beer on tap. First, case- related: Koppel’s car had been found in the overflow lot at the thermal park. The loaners had gone to the scene and checked it. “No obvious signs of violence. Trimble and McNamara are collecting samples and getting it towed to the station. We’ll need you to analyze the trace first thing in the morning,” he said. “If someone else left the car in the lot, there could be fingerprints.”

  “Any security cameras?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “How far is it from the parking lot to the mud pot?”

  “About a kilometer. Hard to imagine he walked.”

  “What did Trimble find out about the mayor’s whereabouts when Koppel was killed?”

  “Sunday evening, she attended the Tulip Fest banquet at the Energy Events Center. Said she was home shortly after nine p.m. Her husband can vouch.”

  “Yuck. Never trust a spousal alibi.”

  “There is CCTV at the EEC. We’ll follow up tomorrow,” Horne said. “She could have stopped by Koppel’s between the event and arriving home. Needs follow-up, although I doubt the mayor of Rotorua is our murderer.”

  “You never know,” Alexa said and then filled him in on her meeting with the two councilwomen. “What’s the status on Koppel’s laptop?” she asked. “Is the report on it?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. Trimble is working it.”

  “One more thing. Jenny told me there was another sample of duct tape. I’ve prepared it so I can check first thing in the morning for prints.”

  He leaned toward her. “Who have you told?”

  “No one. Until now.”

  “Keep it to yourself, and report the results directly to me. Don’t even write it up.”

  He leaned back, and for a few minutes, the conversation drifted. Alexa waxed on about her job in Raleigh, and Horne perked up talking about his daughters.

  “Denise is fifteen. She rock climbs, bouldering, really. It’s a club sport. Samantha, my wife—I mean my ex-wife—and I call her Sammie. She’s thirteen and playing netball for the second year, really keen. My daughter, not my ex.” Horne’s face had gone red. “Anyway, she’s hard to live with these days.”

  The ex or daughter?

  “Thirteen is rough, all those hormones,” Alexa said. Horne’s nervousness made her more relaxed. “That’s how old I was when my father remarried.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Disastrously.” She had the scars to prove it.

  “Sammie used to fish with me on the weekends, but she doesn’t anymore.”

  “I think that’s normal. The quest-for-independence kind of thing.” She sipped her beer and though
t of her father and the weekend hikes they’d taken in the years after Mom died: Eno River, Hanging Rock, Falls of the Neuse, her little brother, Charlie, bringing up the rear, complaining his feet hurt. She and Dad referred to Charlie as Tough Guy. Because he wasn’t.

  After Dad met Rita, there had been no more hikes.

  “Do your father and stepmother live in Raleigh?” Horne asked, his left eyebrow rising.

  “They moved to Florida five years ago.” She should call Dad soon, update him. It was easier now that he had his own cell phone. He would be the one to answer. “My brother and his family—I have two little nephews—live on the other side of the state in the mountains. Asheville.”

  “I’ve heard of Asheville.”

  “Yep. Nice place. I’m starved,” Alexa said, her beer drained, the conversation too intimate. “Let’s get dinner.”

  Horne tended the steaks while Alexa took the kumara from the oven and tossed their salad with pear and goat cheese.

  “A little butter, salt, and pepper is all these babies need,” Horne said, sprinkling the steaks some more and looking around the counter. “And rosemary, if you have any.”

  She shook her head. “It’s a rental place. How about lavender?”

  Horne shook his head. “Where’s a pan?”

  “I was planning to broil them.” The broiler was preheating, creating heat in the cozy space.

  “Nah. Panfry. Eight minutes each side. And a glass of wine while they cook.”

  She never minded relinquishing control in a kitchen.

  The Shiraz and heat loosened her tongue. She gabbed about Mary and their plan to hike the famous Milford Track, one of New Zealand’s great walks, on the South Island in January. Mary had made reservations months ago.

  “Nothing stopping you, is there?”

  “I don’t know about hiking alone.” She was aware that she was enjoying herself.

  “You won’t be alone. The huts are full every night. People from all over the globe.”

  Horne’s preferred method of panfrying the steaks had produced medium rare perfection, and they ate ravenously at the tiny table, knee to knee.

  “This beats a Georgie Pie,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Fork halfway between her mouth and plate, she stared at him until one of his eyebrows (they were ambidextrous) questioned her.

  “Nothing.” She half smiled. “Just thinking.”

  “Penny.”

  “Not worth it.”

  After they tidied the kitchen, she cut the carrot cake in half, and they carried the plates to the porch, sitting side by side in the plastic chairs, Alexa wrapped in her NC State sweatshirt, their talking spent. Darkness settled, and stars that refused to help Alexa gain her bearings filled the sky. She chewed slowly, savoring the cake, and then broke the silence. “I miss my familiar night sky. The Dippers, Orion. The North Star.”

  “No Dippers in the Southern Hemisphere. But look.” Horne pointed. “There’s Pegasus. See the wings?”

  She tried but couldn’t. A high-pitched screech made her drop her fork.

  Horne laughed. “A ruru.”

  “A what what?” She groped for the fork, found it, wiped it on her pants.

  “Our only surviving native owl,” he said. “Also known as morepork. It’s good to hear one. The Maori knew when they could hear a ruru that no enemy was approaching. The owl is watching over you.”

  River music burbled, and out of nowhere, Alexa teared up. Maybe it was the Shiraz. Maybe it was Mary’s death. Maybe it was the tingling threat of a new relationship. Horne didn’t notice and scraped his plate.

  “Early day tomorrow.” He stood, placed the plate on the railing, and thanked her again for dinner.

  Alexa watched the car’s taillights disappear in the darkness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chirp-chirp-chirp. Cackle. Wheeze. Squawk.

  What the hell? About to muffle the cacophony by burrowing under her pillow, the sounds repeated.

  Chirp-chirp-chirp. Cackle. Wheeze. Squawk.

  Alexa sat up and looked at the clock: 6:20. This was no sparrow. She threw off the duvet and padded to the window, searching the copse of trees to the right. A large, black-headed bird was perched on a branch. Its folded wings were iridescent blue, and a cotton ball was pasted to its neck like a bow tie. The bird began repeating itself: a Swiss cuckoo clock gone awry.

  “Shoo!” she yelled through the crack, a smile on her face. Mary would know what kind…and then it hit her. No Mary. Her smile faded.

  When she checked again, the bird was gone. In the kitchen, she fixed a cup of coffee and brought it back to bed. The first sip, nutty, strong, comforting, re-elevated her mood, last night’s confusion thrown off like warm covers. She grabbed pen and notebook, pushed thoughts of Detective Inspector Blue Eyes out of her mind, and opened to a fresh page.

  Time to make a list:

  Why was Koppel killed?

  Revenge? Passion? Greed?

  Why throw his body in the mud pits?

  Symbolic—makes a Maori look guilty.

  Who attacked Jenny?

  Someone within the police force?

  What would the duct tape reveal?

  Who wanted that duct tape enough to attack Jenny?

  Was the mayor involved? Officer Cooper?

  Mayor and Koppel attended same international conference.

  Cooper visits Jenny in the hospital.

  How many of the questions would be answered by day’s end?

  * * *

  The conference room buzzed. By day five of a murder investigation—shock worn off—people were hungry to sink teeth into various hunches and hold on to something. Alexa scanned the room: no DI. Jimmy Trimble waved her over to a table where he, McNamara, and Officer Walker were standing around the bagged and spread contents of Koppel’s glove compartment.

  “Two unpaid parking tickets,” McNamara said, jabbing a thick finger at one bag.

  “District councilor, right on,” responded Trimble. “Morning, Alexa.”

  “Good morning. What else did you find?”

  “Owner’s manual. Comb. Registration. Stash of serviettes. Stale biscuits. Rubbish. Condoms,” Trimble recounted.

  “Condoms? For a married man?” Alexa said.

  Before anyone could respond, Horne walked in and scanned the room. “Who’s missing?” he asked, looking at his watch.

  “Rangiora got called away to an accident. Cooper is on her way. Teal said he would check in later.” All this from Trimble.

  “Someone else should handle the accident. We need all hands on deck.” Horne, fists balled, strode to the front of the room. He turned to face the team and seemed to be avoiding Alexa’s eye. “First an update on Liang. I spoke with her doctor ten minutes ago. She’s going to be released from the hospital this afternoon but needs a couple days to recuperate, doc’s orders. Glock interviewed her yesterday, and she could not identify her attacker. Who first?”

  McNamara accounted for the finds in the car. “It was unlocked. The boot had a blanket, first aid kit, kid trainers, rope, and a few empty shopping bags. Found dirt and a stained towel, which are bagged and in the lab.” He looked at Alexa. “We lifted prints from the steering wheel and boot latch, and they’re also in the lab. There were rubbers in the glove compartment.”

  “Was Koppel fooling around?” Horne asked.

  “We’ll work on that today,” McNamara answered. “We’re trying to figure why the car went unnoticed. There’s no attendant, just some bloke who rides around on a golf cart checking for parking passes. Said he didn’t notice it until yesterday.”

  “Did Koppel own or have access to a boat? Get his wife in today. Does she know anything about that visit to the island? Why did he go, and who did he take with him? I want names, addresses. Was the visit connected to Morocco? Or hi
s real estate doings? Interview his colleagues at Bowen Realty. We need a timeline of Koppel’s last day. Who was the last person to see him alive? Have we figured that out yet?”

  The DI’s barrage was met with silence from the foxholes.

  “What about his wallet and mobile?” Horne continued, his voice still steady but with a hint of anger. “Were they found in the car?”

  “No, Senior,” McNamara answered. “We suspect they were thrown in the mud pots. I’ll work on his last day. We’ll have his mobile records by noon. Maybe they’ll provide some answers.”

  “Glock,” Horne said, his eyes locking onto hers, “fill us in on your interview with the councilwomen.”

  Alexa recounted her interview as Officer Cooper arrived.

  Everyone listened closely, and Horne began scrawling across the whiteboard again: Morocco. Missing report.

  “Trimble, what have you found on Koppel’s computer?” he asked. “Is this report on it?”

  Trimble pulled out a list. “He’s got 137 files…including his Morocco itinerary, sidewalk café regulations, kid’s football schedule, cracked foundation report—his own house, by the way—property listings, mortgage figures…”

  “Hell. A simple yes or no,” said McNamara.

  “Nothing is labeled Spa and Wellness report, but I’ll keep looking.”

  “Get me that Morocco itinerary,” said Horne. “I want to concentrate on that visit he supposedly took to Pirongia Island. Glock—when you finish in the lab this morning, follow up on this. Get on out to that island. Find proof of this visit.”

  “To the island?” Alexa’s mouth dropped. “That forbidden island?”

  “Scared?” asked McNamara.

  Alexa didn’t look his way, and no one laughed.

  Walker shook his gingery head back and forth. “Bloody rash. It’s Maori-owned, and Pākehā aren’t allowed.”

  “This is a police investigation. Of a murder,” Horne said. “The person murdered is suspected of visiting this island. There may be evidence to help us solve the case. Police have jurisdiction over Maori land.”