Molten Mud Murder Read online

  Walker continued as if the DI hadn’t spoken. “If you don’t get permission, you’ll be cursed. Or worse.”

  Horne paused as if doubting his ears, and Alexa wondered if he was finally going to lose his temper.

  “Walker, enough. Shut it.” His voice was firm and level. Then he spoke directly to Alexa. “Figure out what happened on the island. Search for evidence of the visit.”

  The supposed visit had been two months earlier. What evidence would be left?

  “I’ll set it up with Lee Ngawata, our Maori liaison, and get you a launch,” he continued. “Officer Cooper, go with Glock. Use your ties. Next?”

  Alexa stared at Cooper, who was staring at her boss, her face impassive. The Maori police officer refused to look her way. Good. It would give her a chance to ask Cooper why she visited Jenny in the hospital.

  * * *

  The lab was cold and empty. Alexa switched on all the lights and locked the door. There didn’t seem to be anyone to fill in for Jenny, so now all the work was hers alone. She hurried to the cabinet where the tape was stashed and opened it.

  Yes—still there—undisturbed.

  She removed the tray but not before knocking over three epoxy bottles. Calm down. After righting them, Alexa gathered supplies and took the sample to the far side of the lab. The storage room would have worked, but it was still caution-taped due to Jenny’s attack.

  With great care, Alexa applied the adhesive-side developer to the separated tape. The few minutes it needed to soak in were eternities. Alexa practiced tree pose but couldn’t keep her balance. She found a stable spot as focus point and tried again, holding the stretch, sucking in her stomach, thinking of the dark, starry sky last night and Bruce Horne sitting next to her. She lifted her leg higher and raised her arms.

  I am not interested in a new relationship.

  Her “branches” swayed. She gave up the yoga, rinsed the developer, and held the tape to the light, searching for prints.

  There. A print.

  But damn.

  She’d have to breach the caution tape to retrieve the optical comparator from the storage room. Most labs had a single optical comparator given the seven- to eight-thousand-dollar price tag. Carefully, Alexa stooped under the ribbon and entered. She scanned the floor where Jenny had been, the rivulet and small pool of blood now an oily reddish-brown. Who would clean it? Alexa tiptoed past, hefted the comparator in both arms, and ducked out.

  Placing the sample in tray one, Alexa plugged in and turned on the machine. In a few seconds, the image of a partial fingerprint was projected on the lighted screen. Manipulating the tape, she was able to locate a fuller print and centered it.

  Classic spiral whorl.

  Now for internet magic. Would the comparator make an identification from the National Fingerprint Database? The computer scanned her print and started humming. Alexa braced for disappointment.

  The murderer, though making a statement by disposing of the body in a symbolic manner, did not come across as a serial criminal. Most likely there would be no fingerprint on file, unless he or she was a police officer, public employee, immigrant, or…

  A red No Matches sign blinked. All that hard work and anticipation.

  But “no matches” did clear her new colleagues. That’s good, right? Nevertheless, Alexa decided the remaining duct tape would be safer at Trout Cottage—not in the lab—and dashed outside to the parking lot to put the evidence in the trunk of her car.

  The next two hours were spent comparing soil samples, examining the stained towel from the boot, running the prints lifted from the car, which matched Koppel’s, and cross-examining two hairs found on the body during autopsy that also matched Koppel’s.

  Upon request, the hospital had faxed colored photographs of Liang’s head wound. Studying them made Alexa shiver. This was Jenny’s head. And she was attacked five yards from here.

  With blunt force trauma, the greater the surface area of the strike, the less the injury. Jenny’s wound measured two and a half inches wide. Figuring out the type of instrument used would be critical to identifying the attacker. No abrasion patterns marred the wound, so the weapon was smooth. The X-ray technician had mentioned a cricket bat. Alexa wasn’t sure what a cricket bat looked like, so she Googled it and studied images of flat-sided paddles made of cane and willow. Some were painted bright colors; the old-timey ones were brown and often had tape wrapped around the handle. Widths varied from seven to ten centimeters.

  Too wide.

  Wait. What about a police baton? In New Zealand, police officers didn’t carry guns, but they did carry pepper spray and batons.

  She Googled “police baton measurements,” but the results were overwhelming and confusing: riot batons, polycarbonate batons, straight batons, night sticks, wooden sticks, Tasers, all with different measurements. She’d get quicker results the old-fashioned way.

  Alexa scurried up two flights of stairs and entered a briefing room where two duty cops stood around a coffeepot.

  “Hi,” Alexa said to one of them. He was fully uniformed, dressed in a light-blue short-sleeved button-down. Layered over the shirt was a vest with pockets and badges. His pants were darker blue. Around the young man’s compact waist was a black belt with pockets and clips and attachments. Hanging next to handcuffs was just what Alexa was looking for. “Can I borrow your baton, please?”

  The cop put a hand over the weapon and looked confused.

  “I work here. Down in the lab.” Alexa explained who she was and what she wanted with the baton. “It’s part of the investigation into yesterday’s attack. Here’s my ID.”

  After he studied her ID and looked to his colleague for reassurance, the young man detached his baton and handed it to Alexa. “Come down to the lab in half an hour, and I’ll be done. Ta.”

  Alexa bounced back downstairs, playing ninja with the baton, almost bumping into Horne on the first floor stairwell.

  “Coming through,” she said, her cheeks reddening. Had he seen her jabbing the air?

  “Speeding around corners again, are you? Where to?”

  “Back to the lab. Doing a comparison.” She pointed the baton at him.

  He lifted his hands. “I surrender.”

  * * *

  The baton did not match Jenny’s wound. Something slightly wider was used. Alexa stepped back over to the storage closet and stood in the threshold, scanning the crowded shelves, file cabinets, mops, evidence-drying cabinet, and covered microscopes but discovered no weapon. Of course, the storage room had been searched. If the attack was premeditated, the perp would have brought the weapon with him. And not left it behind.

  Overall, the morning’s forensic results did not produce solutions. Much of forensics boiled down to elimination. Soil found on the dirty boot towel did not match soil from the crime scene. Fingerprints taken from car items and steering wheel matched Koppel’s. DNA results were pending. Alexa wondered if Horne had remembered to call in a rush.

  At half past twelve, Alexa finished comparing hair follicles under a microscope. Time to resurface and tackle lunch, Officer Cooper, and the forbidden island.

  Over a flat white coffee and three-bean chili back at the Abracadabra Café, Alexa propped open her laptop and started researching Pirongia Island, careful not to drip the savory stew on the keyboard.

  Horne had left her a voicemail that she and Officer Cooper had a two thirty meeting with Lee Ngawata on the beach of the sacred island, three kilometers from the Lake Rotorua docks. “He initially refused, but I told him it wasn’t up for negotiation,” the DI said in his message. She should meet Officer Cooper at the docks at two p.m., when a police launch was scheduled to take them to the island.

  Through the windows of the café, she strained to glimpse the sky: nomadic gray clouds dragging strokes of blue. The weather refused to settle.

  Lake Rotorua, she
read, was formed by volcanic eruption twenty-five thousand years ago, resulting in a thirty-square-mile caldera now filled with fresh but often shallow water. In places, the water was heated by underground steam vents. Several islands dotted the lake, but only Pirongia, classified as a lava dome, had been used by Maori as a stronghold against warring tribes. A Chief Rangituata was supposedly entombed in a cave deep within the island; additional burial sites also reportedly contained human remains. There had been an archaeological dig there a few years earlier. Senior Officer Rangiora had mentioned it at one of the team meetings. Alexa clicked on the link and read the terse article dated September 2016:

  Important Archaeological Site Lures Hooligans. Pirongia Island, three kilometers from Rotorua docks, is the former stronghold of the northern island’s most significant warring tribe and sacred burial spot of its leader Chief Rangituata. The island is off-limits to anyone but local Ngāti Hiko who were cooperating closely with a joint team of archaeologists from Otago University and Victoria University School of Maori Studies.

  “Evidence of human settlement is everywhere,” anthropology professor Lis Jiles said. “Artifacts are oozing out of the ground. Shells, flax, bits of adze and moa bones. History abounds.”

  Professor Jiles and her team had been working with local iwi and Rotorua Museum officials to better understand the Maori culture on the North Island, with emphasis on hunting and warring practices when they discovered Saturday a sacred site had been disturbed and tonga missing.

  The local iwi immediately closed the dig and have forbidden further research.

  No wonder they don’t want anyone coming to the island.

  Alexa had an idea. Terrance, Mary’s brother, would have the inside scoop on the island and maybe even knew Ngawata. She pulled out her cell and called him. He answered promptly.

  “Horomia Plumbing.”

  “Terrance. It’s Alexa Glock.” She had never mastered small talk and got right to the matter. “Do you have time to answer a couple questions?”

  “Ae. How can I help you?”

  “It’s about Pirongia Island. I’m heading there this afternoon.” Alexa lowered her voice to make sure she wasn’t broadcasting police plans to the two women chatting at the next table.

  “Stay away from Pirongia. It belongs to the local Ngāti Hiko and is forbidden to Pākehā.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What does what mean?” His voice was flat.

  “Ngāti Hiko?”

  “Ngāti means descendant of and Hiko is the ancestor, the tribe of Hiko.”

  “Okay. So Pirongia is private land and closed…to the public. I understand. But as part of the mud pot investigation, I have an arranged meeting this afternoon there with Mr. Lee Ngawata, and I wondered what I might expect.”

  Silence.

  “Terrance. Are you there?” Her voice had risen. One of the nearby women glanced her way.

  “Meet with Ngawata in Rotorua,” Terrance replied. “The island is tapu and does not belong in your investigation. Even Maori never go there unless they receive special prayers to do so.”

  “Tapu?”

  “Sacred.”

  “Unfortunately, the island is part of the murder investigation.” Alexa lowered her voice. “But I will be visiting with a Maori, Officer Wynne Cooper.”

  “I know her peoples. She is a descendant of Rangituata and named for Dame Whina Cooper, a respected kuia.”

  “Kuia?”

  “Maori leader. Dame Cooper worked for the rights of her people, especially women. I hope her namesake is doing the same.”

  Alexa hoped so too. “Rangituata. He’s the guy buried on the island, right?”

  Silence.

  “Terrance?” Alexa feared she had offended him.

  “He is not some guy,” Terrance said. “He was once the most influential chief of the North Island, wise and fair, highly intelligent, and with superior military skills. The island is his resting place, his jumping-off point, and must not be disturbed. There will be consequences if it is, like last time.”

  This time, Alexa was silent. Like last time? Had the so-called hooligans been found and punished? She’d need to do some more research or ask at the station.

  “Another thing. There are many stories of how Pākehā have stolen onto the island and never returned.”

  Then the line went dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whina Cooper’s namesake perched like a wooden figurehead, stoic and silent, at the front of the skiff as they churned their way through Rotorua Harbor. Cooper had conveniently appeared, dressed in civilian clothes, just as the launch was ready to depart.

  Had she been hiding and watching?

  Lake chop was making Alexa anxious; she tightened her grip on the slippery console as she stood next to the captain, eyeing approaching whitecaps.

  “This isn’t a police launch, is it?”

  “No. I do occasional search and rescue for the police, but I’m contract,” the man replied. “Happened to be available this afternoon. Not many tourists yet.” He was wearing a yellow slicker and matching rain pants and increased speed.

  “Have you been to Pirongia before?” she yelled toward him. His eyes widened as he shook his head no. Another boat, scudding across their path, forced him to slow down and maneuver its rolling wake.

  “First and last time, I hope. Getting paid extra for this jaunt.” He pointed toward cliffs they were passing. Alexa followed his finger. A thirty-foot carved face of a warrior, fierce and Picasso- esque, returned her astonished gaze.

  “That’s Ngatoroirangi, a Maori navigator,” the man yelled. “Tourists love it.”

  Alexa twisted her head, keeping the carving in view for as long as possible, not comfortable being watched from behind by the huge pupil-less eyes and two mouths full of teeth. When she turned back, they were in open water and humpback swells. White gulls followed the boat, screeching, circling. She pulled her jacket flaps closer together, thankful it wasn’t raining, and fixed her eyes on a small green dot ahead, her apprehension growing at the same pace as the dot enlarged until it was impossible to fill her lungs, until the island loomed dead ahead.

  She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Hold on,” the driver said as he edged the skiff onto roiling pebbles. A wave lifted the boat up and propelled it farther onto a flotsam-strewn beach. “Right. Shake a leg. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Aren’t you going to wait?” Alexa yelled over the crash of breaking waves, trying to tamp the panic in her voice.

  “Hell no.” He could tell she was unnerved. “You’ll be right.”

  Officer Cooper leaped onto the sand and trudged toward a break of trees above the beach, not looking back. A gray-green bird with orange feet and a mohawk squawked at her from a tree and dive-bombed, careening at the last second. Cooper didn’t flinch. Alexa hopped into shallow water and sank. One of her freshly washed Keds got sucked off, and she just caught it before it drifted to freedom with a new wave. The tote she had flung over her shoulder dipped into the water, and she wondered if the plastic bags she had stowed the camera and tape recorder in would leak. The engine of the skiff roared in reverse, creating more foam and wake.

  “Dammit,” Alexa muttered. She step-hopped to shore and sat on the closest driftwood log. The beach was half a football field wide, banked by cliffs on one side and a jumble of fallen trees and boulders on the other. She poured water and gravel out of the Ked and slipped it back on, double knotting the bow. Gross. Checking inside the tote, she was happy to see the camera and recorder dry in their plastic evidence bags. Her notepad and pen looked dry too.

  Instead of hopping right up, Alexa took a minute to study her surroundings and calm her heart rate. Mr. Ngawata was supposed to meet them on the beach. Where was he? Was this the right beach? Where was Cooper? Closing her eyes, Alex
a felt a need to calm herself. Deep inhalation. Hold. Exhalation. Hold. In. Hold. Out.

  A shadow blocked the weak sun.

  She blinked and rose simultaneously, losing her balance, stumbling backward over the log. Disoriented, she righted herself and stood, suddenly eye to eye with a man, midsixties, his facial moko faded to a dusky gray. The man wore a black jacket zipped to the neck, khaki pants, and sandals. His dark hair was slicked into a ponytail and gray at the temples. The furrow between his eyes deepened. Officer Cooper stood next to him.

  “Kia ora,” he finally said. His black eyes, like a snake’s, did not blink.

  “Kia ora,” Alexa answered. “Are you Mr. Ngawata?”

  The man nodded and spoke rapidly in Maori. All she could decipher was tapu and Pākehā.

  “Thank you for allowing me and Officer Cooper to be here and ask you some questions,” Alexa said when he ceased. She understood that Ngawata was a respected leader in the Maori community and served as their liaison with police. “He helps navigate cultural issues and works on improving police relationships with Maori,” Horne had explained to her when she asked him yesterday.

  Ngawata nodded his head and pointed toward an opening in the trees ten yards away. He began walking side by side with Cooper. Alexa followed. It was Ngawata who had made the complaint to the police department about Koppel and an unknown companion trespassing on the island. Such brazen disrespect, thought Alexa, squelching behind the two Maoris.

  A cloak of silence descended as the trio entered thick woods. The birdsong and the sound of breaking waves clicked off. Velvety darkness and the scent of damp earth enveloped her. Stubbing her toe on a rock, Alexa paused to let her eyes adjust. Where were they headed? Were there buildings on the island? To her left, a fern tree towered, a giant emerald umbrella. Above it, another tree stretched to such height that Alexa wondered if it was related to a redwood. A sudden movement and harsh chatter made her whip around. Three birds burst from the fern tree and flew erratically back toward the opening as if making an escape. Alexa hustled to catch up with Cooper and Ngawata.