Molten Mud Murder Page 8

  “I’m from the police department,” Alexa countered, pulling out her ID. “Forensics. What can you tell me?”

  The doc waved away her ID. “She was struck on the left temple by a blunt instrument. Brain is swelling. We’re taking her for a CAT scan to see if we need to relieve the pressure. She’s lucky she was only hit once. Otherwise…” He motioned to the orderly. “Get her going.” He turned back to Alexa. “…she’d be dead.”

  “Can you tell what she was hit with?”

  “Something flat, with a smooth edge.”

  * * *

  Happy Smiles Dental Clinic on Milton Road, two roundabouts from the hospital, had sardine-packed parking around back. The receptionist had received the proper warrants and had Paul Koppel’s dental records and X-rays ready. A quick glance at the three-year old X-ray revealed one gold tooth, five fillings, and the merest white spot where a cavity was forming.

  Only it didn’t matter now.

  Abracadabra Café was a block from Happy Smiles and had a parking space out front. No more McDonald’s. Alexa wished she had her sweater—it was sullied by Jenny’s blood and would have to be washed—and studied the patchwork of white and blue sky; the dark clouds she’d noticed on the drive to work had been blown like bubbles out to the sea that was never far away in this island country.

  Inside the café, Alexa contemplated eating carrot cake for lunch, drooling over the glass case. The cake had thick cream cheese frosting embellished with sunflower seeds, coconut, grated carrots, and nuts. Alexa swallowed. No, but she could buy a piece for dessert tonight.

  “Falafel salad and a flat white coffee, please,” Alexa said to the woman behind the glass case. “And a takeaway carrot cake slice.”

  “Hotel California” was playing. (Was there no escaping the Eagles? Even in the Southern Hemisphere?) She wolfed her lunch. Her final check on the dental records would confirm the victim’s identification but wouldn’t explain why he’d been murdered.

  What secrets did Paul Koppel harbor?

  Chapter Eight

  The case meeting was delayed. No DI Horne. District Commander Teal and the mud pot murder team paced about in the central meeting room, crunching water bottles, snapping gum, comparing notes. Tension was palpable. Alexa, after calling to find out the CAT scan results, counted heads. Senior Officer Abel Rangiora. Trimble and McNamara, the latter giving her the stink eye. Officer Cooper. Why had she gone to the hospital? The ginger-headed cop, Miles Walker, was shaking it back and forth. Alexa stepped closer to hear what he was saying to Rangiora.

  “Bugger all. There goes my job.”

  “You’ll be right,” Rangiora said.

  Walker shook his head. “I’m munted.”

  He looked like an overgrown Opie Taylor caught fibbing to Pa. Alexa wondered what he was worried about. Horne hurried into the room.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” The detective inspector looked harried and had files in his hands. “Just finished meeting with Mark Haddonfield, deputy mayor of the district council. He gave me a list of projects Koppel was working on. I’ll get to them in a minute. Who has an update on Liang’s attack?”

  Rangiora spoke. “Twenty-seven people came in the station between seven and eight a.m. Twenty-four have been interviewed or are one of us. We have three that we haven’t identified.”

  The room went quiet; its occupants eyed one another.

  “Find out who the unidentified are. Ms. Glock,” Horne said, looking at her, “what’s Liang’s status?”

  “She suffered a blunt force trauma. Her CAT scan showed ICP, so the doctor is performing a ventriculostomy.”

  “Speak English,” McNamara barked.

  “Her brain is swelling. The doctor is inserting a tube to drain it,” Alexa said. “Her boyfriend and family are on their way. She didn’t respond to my voice when I saw her earlier.”

  “What was she attacked with?” Horne asked.

  “Something with a flat edge. I’ll be able to tell more with photos of the wound and X-rays.”

  “Like a board?” Trimble asked.

  Alexa shrugged.

  “What else?” Horne scanned the team.

  Rangiora and Cooper looked at Officer Walker, who stared at the floor.

  “Get it over with, bro,” Rangoria told him.

  “Eh, bad news, Senior,” Walker mumbled, shifting back and forth.

  Horne lifted an eyebrow.

  “The footprint cast taken at the mud pots was mine.”

  Alexa looked down at Walker’s feet. Yep. Size ten Lastrite work boots. Most crime scene contamination came from the people who worked it.

  “Blimin’ idiot,” McNamara yelled. “Are you bugger all kidding me? We’ve been going store to store.”

  “See me in my office later,” Horne said and then turned to McNamara. “Have the tour bus statements all been verified?”

  “Time of death of the victim was between nine and midnight the night before the body was discovered, so whether the three tourists saw a car leaving the mud pots the next morning is not worth pursuing.”

  “According to whom?” the DI asked.

  McNamara shut up.

  “Arsonists return all the time to the scene. Gives ‘em a sexual jounce,” Walker said.

  “Jounce?” Alexa blurted.

  Walker’s cheeks colored.

  “Some perps return to make sure it’s a clean crime,” Trimble added. “Could be someone who works at Waiariki Land.”

  “And sometimes—” Walker began.

  “This is not Criminology 101,” Horne interrupted. “Verify them.”

  “Probably back in frigging Chengchung by now,” McNamara muttered.

  “What did the deputy major say?” Rangiora asked before the DI lost his temper.

  Horne started scrawling on the whiteboard—speed limit reduction , wastewater spraying—and stopped. “The local iwi say the spraying in Whakarewarewa Forest is contaminating the ground water and stunting the flax crop. Koppel is head of the committee to find an alternative location.” He resumed—reconfiguring boundary lines, health and wellness conference. He underlined the last one twice. “The district council spent mega bucks sending Koppel to Morocco to attend an international conference on hot springs tourism. He was chosen to go because of his real estate background.”

  “Morocco? When?” Rangiora asked.

  “The conference was…” Horne looked through his files. “Marrakesh. Three months ago. July fifth through tenth. Haddonfield mentioned the mayor and her husband also attended the conference.” He hesitated. “The mayor is due here momentarily.”

  “Does Mayor Claiborne know the vic is Koppel?” Rangiora asked. From outside the room, a dog barked.

  “Someone get those dogs the hell out of here,” Horne said and waited until Officer Cooper scurried away. “The mayor does not know. We plan to announce the victim’s name at the press conference at two.”

  No one knew how to process this information. Was the mayor of Rotorua involved? What had happened in Morocco?

  “One of us will need to speak to Mayor Claiborne about her whereabouts Saturday,” he added.

  “I’ll do it,” Trimble said.

  “Catch her following the press conference.” Horne checked his notes. He wrote trespassing—Pirongia Island on the board. “There’s more. In August, Koppel and another person supposedly visited Pirongia Island and didn’t get iwi permission.”

  “That’s munted. Everyone knows Pākehā are forbidden on the island,” Walker said, his coloring back to normal. “Boaties aren’t even allowed close to shore.”

  “I’m a JAFA,” Trimble said. “Why is this place forbidden?”

  Alexa had learned JAFA stood for Just Another Fucking Aucklander, per their more rural countrymen. “They’re jealous,” Mary had explained. “People from the wop wops thin
k Aucklanders are self-satisfied attention seekers ordering spicy soy lattes.”

  “It’s an island a couple kilometers out into Lake Rotorua. It belongs to the Maori and is sacred. Some dude is buried in one of the caves,” Walker said. “A bloke my brother knows…”

  “Let’s get back to my list here, Walker,” interrupted Horne.

  Walker colored again.

  Alexa admired how Walker bounced back quickly. Like a whack-a-mole.

  “Lee Ngawata has filed a complaint about the trespassing. He serves as our local Maori liaison officer.” Horne checked his notes again. “Haddonfield said Ngawata believes the district council sent Koppel there to scope out development specs.” He searched his notes for something else. “Age-old story of Pākehā cheating the Maori out of their land. But Haddonfield insists the district council had no knowledge or intention of developing the island.” He shook his head. “Koppel might have gone rogue.”

  Alexa agreed.

  “There was a dig there couple years ago. Someone vandalized the site, and the dig was canceled,” Rangiora said.

  “I remember that,” Horne said. “It angered the Maori community.”

  “Do we have a date for Koppel’s visit to the island?” Rangiora asked.

  “Mid-August. After the wellness conference. Ngawata wasn’t more specific than that.” Horne drew a line connecting health and wellness conference and trespassing—Pirongia Island. “There might be a connection. Look into it. Finally, Koppel brassed off a couple fellow council members—a Glennis Kalman and Karen Fisk. About a report he lost or misfiled.” Horne added missing report to the list.

  The room was quiet; the list was heavy to digest. Wheels were turning. Theories tasted. Alexa immediately thought of what Terrance had said at Mary’s funeral, that the boiling of a head was the greatest insult a Maori could make. The murder had to be symbolic. Alexa stole a look at Officer Wynne Cooper, who had slipped back into the room, standing alone. The only Maori present—unless Senior Officer Rangiora was; Alexa wasn’t sure—and for some reason, she had shown up at Jenny’s hospital room. Cooper was texting, her thumbs dancing. Had she tried to protect someone by stealing the duct tape? Alexa’s speculations were interrupted by the mayor striding into the room.

  “Welcome, Mayor Claiborne,” Teal said, springing from the desk he had perched against.

  “Gentlemen,” the mayor said, scanning the room. “And ladies. I need an update. Why was the station on lockdown this morning?” She glanced at her watch. “In a quarter of an hour, we have a press conference.”

  “Unfortunately, we…” Horne started to say.

  “We’re on top…” said Teal at the same time.

  “One at a time. Detective Inspector Horne?”

  “To bring you up to date, we had an attack this morning in the lab that we believe is related to the mud pot murder.”

  Alexa liked the way Horne assumed control.

  “In the lab? Here at the station?”

  “Yes,” Horne answered. “Our technician, Jenny Liang, was struck with a blunt instrument and is in serious condition at the hospital.”

  “Is she in danger of dying?” demanded Mayor Claiborne. Her turquoise suit reflected light like the pāua shells in Kiwi gift stores.

  “It’s uncertain at this time.”

  “Is this why there are dogs everywhere?” she asked. “I rode in the elevator…”

  “No,” Teal broke in. “The dogs are leaving. They were here for K-9 training.”

  “Why do you believe there is a connection with the murder?” The mayor directed her question to the DI.

  “Ms. Liang and Ms. Glock—this is Ms. Glock, our forensics expert”—Horne nodded toward Alexa, and the mayor glanced at her—“were expecting to process results on evidence from the crime. The evidence is now missing,” Horne said. “That’s classified, ma’am.”

  “Is a police officer involved?” The mayor’s darkly penciled brows bunched.

  “We’re looking into all possibilities,” Horne answered. “An outsider could have entered the station. We’re cross-checking security camera film as we speak.”

  “Anyone can walk into the station, right? I just did.”

  “Only at the main entrance, and we have security cameras there. All other access is locked and opened by scanning ID badges.”

  The mayor scanned the room. “Has the murder victim been identified?”

  “Yes,” Horne said. “The deceased is district councilor Paul Koppel, a local real estate agent.”

  The mayor went still. “Councilman Koppel?” Color drained from her cheeks.

  “Yes. His wife identified him yesterday.”

  “I know him. I can’t have my name associated with the murder victim. The opposition will capitalize on it.”

  “Opposition, ma’am?” Horne asked. No one in the room exhaled.

  “Elections are coming up.” Mayor Claiborne paused. “Mr. Koppel attended the Wellness Summit in Marrakesh that I attended. This past July.” She shook her head. “The press will have a jolly go at this. Rip me apart.”

  “I’ll let you decide what to tell the press, but my priority is solving Koppel’s murder and an attack.” Horne stood firm.

  “This is appalling. You have got to find this murderer and find him quickly.”

  “Or her,” Alexa said.

  * * *

  The press went rabid—pacing, pawing, panting—when they heard about Jenny Liang. To the mayor’s advantage, their attention was focused on the attack in the station rather than the name of the murder victim.

  “Who found her?” The Press.

  “What’s her condition?” TV 28.

  “Did a cop do it?” Rotorua Daily Post.

  “Was she intimate with the murder victim?” The Aucklander.

  “Are citizens in danger?” TV 8.

  Cameras rolled and lights flashed. DI Horne, sweating, looked pale but composed. Alexa, standing with the other team members behind him, battled against a sympathy surge and reminded herself that earlier, this man had considered her a suspect. The barrage of questions continued; Horne shielded himself and colleagues well, revealing little but bare necessities, speaking with dignity and, after eleven long minutes, answering a final question.

  “No. No major suspects at this time. We’ll keep you appraised. That’s all. Mayor Claiborne, I’ll turn it over to you.”

  “Thank you, Detective Inspector Horne.” The mayor had regained her composure and nearly knocked Horne aside as she took the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have complete faith in the esteemed Rotorua Police Department.” Her Honor the mayor straightened her shoulders and spoke louder than necessary into the mike. “The inspector has assured me he will quickly arrest the person or persons responsible for these crimes.”

  No connection between the mayor and Paul Koppel emerged. The mayor spoke as if up for reelection.

  “Crime in Rotorua is down for the third year in a row. Last year, there were only three murders in the area; two of them were solved within twenty-four hours. Tatau, tatau. ‘We together’ is our motto. We will keep you updated, but meanwhile, the citizens of Rotorua are safe at home and on the street. That’s all. No questions.” The mayor left the platform and snaked through the audience.

  But were they safe? Alexa wondered, watching Trimble weave after the mayor.

  DI Horne located Alexa in the stairwell. “Your landlady vouched for you.”

  She looked up at him, gauging his height at six feet two inches to her five feet seven. “She might evict me for being investigated by the police, and we haven’t even met.”

  He laughed. “She said something about not putting all your eggs into one basket.” Again, the laugh subtracted years from his face. “I’m short-staffed and need you to interview those two district councilwomen who wer
e angry with Paul Koppel. They’ve agreed to meet you in a half hour.”

  It was rare that a forensics investigator specializing in odontology conducted interviews, but Alexa jumped at it, glad to be needed, glad to be working the field after three years dedicated to teeth.

  Maybe she’d forgive the DI after all.

  * * *

  The drive to the district council offices was short, so Alexa barely had time to formulate questions. The two women were the fellow city council members holding a grudge against the murder victim for failing to produce a report. She’d start her questioning with the missing report.

  Settled in a plain vanilla meeting room at council offices, Alexa killed ten minutes pushing the image of Horne’s blue eyes from her mind and choosing a new ringtone (barking dogs because of the K-9 circus at the station) and wallpaper (waterfall) and checking messages (none) until Karen Fisk and Glennis Kalman entered in a blur of color.

  “We drove over together, and traffic was chocablock. Hello, dear. I’m Glennis Kalman,” the shorter and plumper of the two said, offering her hand. Large multicolored glasses dwarfed her round face, which was bordered by a brunette bob. She wore a Baltic-blue pants suit, military style, with big gold buttons.

  Alexa wanted to salute.

  “Gidday. I’m Karen,” the other woman said, thrusting her hand forward. She was older, had short yellow hair fading to silver. Her bright-red coat and black-and-white striped blouse hurt Alexa’s eyes. “What can we help you with? We know it’s about our dear colleague Paul.”

  “’orrible. Just ’orrible. He’s the first person I’ve ever known who was murdered,” said Glennis. “By crikey. Boiled alive. The Maori call the mud pots ‘brain pots,’ you know. They used to cook the heads of their enemies.” She sat down with a plunk across from Alexa.

  “And leaving those wee boys. It breaks my heart,” chimed Karen, who sat next to Glennis. “Remember the little red-headed one at the council holiday party?”

  “Yes. A dear poppet. And what about the dress Mindy was wearing?” Glennis said.