Molten Mud Murder Read online

Alexa swooped in for redirect. “It’s a terrible loss. What can you tell me about a missing report? Chairperson Haddonfield said you were both upset about a report Mr. Koppel couldn’t produce.” She opened up her notebook, pen poised.

  The women clammed up.

  Alexa leaned across the table. “You must tell me anything you know. It may help us figure out who murdered Mr. Koppel.”

  “That report can’t have anything to do with the murder,” said Karen.

  “Oh no,” chimed Glennis. “It was the spa report. Paul traveled to Morocco to represent Rotorua at the Global Spa and Wellness Summit this past winter. Early July it was. Here it is October and still no report. The council spent thousands sending him there.”

  “Yes, we are aware that Mr. Koppel went to Morocco in July.”

  “Marrakesh. Six days in Marrakesh,” Glennis continued. “A global summit. Forty-five nations represented. Health and wellness tourism is a growing trend that we hope to capitalize on in Rotorua.”

  “People from all over the world were there. California, even,” said Karen. “Mayor Claiborne and her husband went too.”

  “Were Mayor Claiborne and Paul Koppel acquaintances before the summit?” Alexa asked.

  “They knew each other from town council meetings.” Karen looked at Glennis for confirmation. Glennis nodded solemnly. “And he was supposed to compile a report and development plan to attract investors. He’s a real estate agent, you know. I mean was. It’s big bucks, the spa and wellness industry. I can find my notes and tell you exactly how much. But it’s billions in tourist dollars, and since we’re lucky enough to have hot springs in our area—”

  “We’re one of only four places in the entire world with such abundance of geothermal activity. Kamchatka, Iceland…”

  “Don’t interrupt, dear. You sound like a brochure,” Glennis said to Karen. “The point is, we have the potential to grow Rotorua.”

  “GROW Rotorua is the name of our subcommittee,” said Karen, ignoring Glennis. “There are people in the community who are against growth. The Maoris, for instance. A lot of Maoris live in Rotorua, you know, more than anywhere else in New Zealand, and they think we want to take their land. The report was supposed to include our survey results.”

  “We debated between a mail-in survey, which costs more, or electronic and decided mail-in would bring in more returns because, well, some people just aren’t with the times, my own mother for one, and we included postage, so we got a seventy-two percent return.”

  Alexa had stopped taking notes.

  “Well, like Glennis cut in, we went with the mail-in, and our results were to be included in Paul’s report, and we worked hard to have our part ready first of September and gave them to Paul to include but he didn’t,” Karen said. “No report.”

  “It’s not ethical to spring a report on people at the meeting. But Paul kept putting us off.” Glennis’s nose could not have been higher in the air.

  “Wouldn’t return our calls,” Karen said.

  “I’d like a copy of the survey results,” Alexa said. “Do you think Mr. Koppel’s report could be on his laptop?”

  “Could be,” Glennis said, “but I have the feeling he never took the time to write it. Once the excitement of the trip wore off, he didn’t want to do the hard part. Either that or he was trying to get away with something.”

  “Any ideas about what he might be trying to get away with?”

  The two women stared at each other again. This time, neither spoke. Dogs began to bark. Alexa jumped and then remembered her new ringtone. “Excuse me,” she said to the women. “Glock here.”

  “Jimmy Trimble. Can you swing by the hospital? Liang is conscious. We need a statement.”

  “Yes. I’m finishing up this interview. ” Alexa hung up and turned back to the women. “What might Koppel have wanted to hide?” They had had a few seconds to compose an answer.

  “You just never know,” Glennis said.

  “What happens in Marrakesh stays in Marrakesh is what I think. Paul was up to something,” Karen added.

  Chapter Nine

  The hospital door was ajar and no guard was outside. A young man was bending over Jenny.

  Alexa rushed in.

  The man stood quickly, startled. Jenny’s eyes were opened, and she wore a weak smile. The left side of her head was covered in white gauze, and she was hooked to a monitor. She struggled to sit upright.

  “Don’t sit up,” Alexa said. “I’m glad to see you’ve woken.”

  Jenny relaxed back into a pillow. “This is Evan.”

  “Who are you?” the young man asked. Tall and skinny, he had a head of wild brown curls.

  “She’s my boss at the lab,” Jenny said. “Did you lift prints from the tape?” Her voice conveyed a strength that her body belied. Her pupils, Alexa noted, were dilated.

  “How are you feeling?” Alexa replied, trying to calm her heart rate. “Why isn’t anyone outside your door?”

  Evan ignored her questions. “I can’t believe what happened. Who hurt Jenny? Is she in danger?”

  “Was there a police officer by the door when you got here?” Alexa asked, ignoring his questions in return.

  “Yes. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “We were ready to check the tape for prints,” Jenny broke in. “What did you find?”

  “The tape has disappeared,” Alexa explained.

  “What? I was so stoked to get to work this morning.”

  “Why was Jenny attacked?” Evan repeated.

  “First things first. Jenny, how are you feeling?”

  “I have a headache that won’t quit. The nurse is checking to see if I can have more meds. And I got eight stitches.” She gingerly touched the bandage. “The doctor said swelling in my brain has been relieved. Maybe I can meet you in the lab tomorrow.”

  “Let’s wait and see how you feel,” Alexa said. “Evan, would you mind leaving while I ask Jenny some questions?”

  His eyes searched Jenny’s, and she nodded her okay.

  “Tell me what happened,” Alexa said as soon as they were alone. She pulled the lone chair in the room close to the bed and sat.

  “I’m not sure. I got to the lab just past seven and put my things down. I went right over to where we stored the duct tape sample yesterday.”

  “Was it there?”

  Jenny nodded and then winced. “I took it into the storage closet to ready the optical comparator.”

  “Who saw you heading to the lab?”

  “I don’t think anyone. I came in through the south entrance, swiped my card, walked straight downstairs. No one was around. I heard people in the canteen, but I had brought my own tea, so I didn’t stop.”

  “And no one was in the lab?”

  “Nope.”

  “Was the door locked?”

  “Yes. I unlocked it and turned on the light. Then I found the tape and went to the storage closet. That’s the last thing I remember. I must have heard footsteps behind me and started to turn. That’s what the doctor says because of the location of the wound.” Her hand reached up again. A monitor beeped. “It hurts.” Her voice was weakening.

  “Did you see who attacked you?”

  “No. They snuck up behind me. Whoever it was wanted the tape, didn’t they?”

  “We believe so. Why do you say ‘they’? Do you think it was more than one person?”

  “Maybe.” Her voice was fading, and her eyes looked feverish. “I don’t know. Was it the mud pot murderer who attacked me?”

  “Whoever it was took the tape, got what they wanted, so you’re safe now. You need rest.” Alexa stood. “One more question. Is Officer Cooper a friend of yours?”

  “Who?”

  “Officer Cooper. Young, Maori. She stopped by to check on you this morning.”

  “I�
��ve seen her around the station. She has the facial tats, right? But I don’t really know her. I don’t know many people at the station. I’ve only worked there for two months.” Jenny closed her eyes. A single tear from the left one began to journey down her pale face. Then the eyes flew back open. “Do you think she attacked me?”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. You’re safe now.” Alexa looked around the room, wondering what had happened to the cop who was supposed to be guarding Jenny’s door.

  “Wait.” Jenny raised her head. “We have more tape!”

  “What? Where?”

  “We were only separating a portion of the tape. There’s more in storage. In a bin with the gravel samples and clothing.”

  “That’s great.”

  Jenny looked ready to climb out of bed and rush to the station.

  “I’ll process it and let you know the results, okay? But remember—all this work on the duct tape might be for nothing.”

  Jenny’s eyes closed again. Alexa waited a few moments and then quietly left the room, nodding to Evan, glad he could be Jenny’s guardian angel. She retrieved her phone and pushed redial.

  “Trimble here,” said a voice.

  “Hi, Detective Trimble. This is Alexa Glock calling back. Can you find out where the cop is who is supposed to be watching Jenny’s door?”

  “He’s not there?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Let me look into it, and I’ll call you back.”

  “Thanks.”

  Alexa found Jenny’s nurse, who tracked down the X-ray technician. He willingly made copies for her to take back to the police station.

  “What’s your opinion about what might have been used as a weapon?” Alexa asked the bespectacled man. She figured asking was worth a try.

  “Let me take a squizz.”

  Squizz?

  He removed the original copy with a flourish and put it up to the light as if someone asking his opinion was what he lived for. “She has a slight skull fracture, see here?” The tech pointed to a faint white line. “Blunt force trauma. Ouch.” He picked up a ruler and took measurements. “The weapon was flat and roughly five centimeters wide. A cricket bat or an oar. Those are my guesses.” He whisked the X-ray away from the light and studied Alexa. “Don’t quote me.”

  Her cell barked as she was exiting the hospital. Jimmy Trimble. “What did you find out?” she asked.

  “Horne called the guard off. He decided since the attacker got what he was after that Jenny wasn’t in danger.”

  “Tell him I don’t agree,” Alexa said, thinking of the hidden stash, thinking of the promise she had made Jenny. “Get a guard back here.”

  Chapter Ten

  Oxymoronic when a police station feels hazardous. Alexa scurried through the lobby to the stairwell; she didn’t want to announce her presence. No one knew about the extra duct tape but Jenny. Ms. Welles, who was talking to what looked like a reporter, didn’t glance over.

  Separating the duct tape single-handedly would be tricky.

  The lab was dark and empty, giving Alexa déjà vu. She made sure the door was locked and then turned on a single overhead light. The evidence bin bulged with sealed and labeled plastic bags of various sizes. Soil samples, the single cigarette butt, rocks, stained clothing, hair, fibers, a sliver of glass, and finally, more muddy brown duct tape, sides stuck together. Alexa froze when she heard muffled footsteps from the hallway, but the lab door remained shut and the footsteps faded. She let go a stream of air, unaware she had been holding her breath.

  The day was waning. Collecting the supplies she’d need to separate the tape, Alexa reflected on her duct tape knowledge. She had presented a “Fingerprints and Duct Tape” paper for a forensics seminar five years ago. One reason duct tape is a hotbed of fingerprints is that it is hard to manipulate while wearing disposable gloves. Criminals who wear gloves often whip them off when messing with duct tape. In one case, evidence that came into the lab included a latex glove stuck to tape. It had been easy to turn the glove inside out and get not only fingerprints but DNA. The accompanying photograph had made her audience laugh, but unfortunately, the fingerprints, when run through AFIS, had been unmatched, and the murder of an African American youth in a parking garage in Raleigh had not been solved.

  Simple fact: sometimes murderers go free and walk among us. They’re in the grocery store or picking up their children from school or sitting behind us at the movie theater. That man you smiled at on the treadmill next to yours? That fellow who works on your car? The guy at the other end of the bar?

  Stop it, Alexa.

  She walked over to the glove dispenser and slid a pair on. Carefully holding one corner of the soiled tape, mindful of her duct tape story, she removed it from the bag and placed it in a paper-covered specimen tray. Dried mud sprinkled the paper like allspice. Mud and any solution to wash it off would obscure the outer prints. That was why getting to the reverse side was important. Alexa propped the tape up, sprinkled droplets of chloroform tape-release agent into the crease, gently tugged it apart a centimeter at a time, and repeated the process.

  “Damn,” she said when the tape fell on its side.

  The silence was creepy and the progress slow and clumsy; she missed Jenny’s agile hands. Her ears were alert for more footsteps, and an involuntary shiver made droplets land on the outside of the tape, resulting in a tea-colored trail.

  Deep yoga breath.

  Pulling the two sides apart too quickly would tear the tape and damage any possible prints. A few more drops, a final tug.

  There.

  Now it would have to dry for twelve hours before she could administer the final steps and view the tape for prints. She was back where she had been twenty-four hours ago. Weird. Alexa surveyed the dim lab, considered taking the tape home with her, dismissed that idea, and found a cupboard. She hid the tray behind some bottles of epoxy, did a quick tidy up, and wondered if the DI was still at the station.

  Upstairs, Alexa gave Ms. Welles a big wave and grin. “Is DI Horne still here, do you know?” It was five thirty.

  Ms. Welles frowned. “I’m sure Detective Inspector Horne is very busy but I can call and see.”

  “Ta,” Alexa said, adopting the local slang for the hell of it.

  He was not in his office; Ms. Welles located him in the meeting room. He was conversing with Senior Officer Abel Rangiora, the hunk who had held the light for her at the mud pits. Alexa, approaching, could hear the topic, waste water treatment disposal, and remembered that issue listed on the whiteboard. She joined them.

  “Officer Rangiora met with a local iwi rep about moving the wastewater out of Whakarewarewa Forest,” Horne explained.

  “Whaka what?” Alexa said.

  The DI frowned. “Warren Womble, he’s head of the Lakes Water Quality Association, said the city has five years to find an alternate location, so the fact that Koppel hadn’t done so yet isn’t negligent. And certainly not a reason to kill him. How’s Liang? What did she see?”

  “She’s alert.” Alexa recounted everything Jenny told her, except about the extra duct tape, and protested again about removing her guard.

  “I put an officer back, but we’re shorthanded. It’s just for tonight,” Horne said.

  She decided to delay reporting on her conversation with Karen and Glennis. The missing Spa and Wellness report and the extra duct tape could wait until she could speak with him alone. Who was trustworthy?

  Alexa was about to ask about Trimble’s conversation with the mayor when Horne got a call. He looked at the screen. “Pardon me. I have to take this.”

  An uneasy feeling shadowed Alexa as she left the station.

  Chapter Eleven

  Groceries, her stomach insisted. Alexa made a unanimous decision that it was steak night. Followed by carrot cake. She’d run it off in the morning.

 
; Grabbing a cart from the “trundler return” at the Countdown, glad to occupy herself with something other than duct tape and boiled heads, she began gliding down narrow aisles. First eggs. Located in the dog food aisle. It was a big shock when she first moved to Auckland to see unrefrigerated eggs; she imagined the salmonella tap dancing on the shells. But biotech Mary had explained that New Zealand farmers vaccinate laying hens to prevent the bacteria clustering on room temperature shells, so she relaxed. Next, steak hunting. One thick sirloin, free-range grass-fed when alive, aged when dead, expensive when in trundler. A kumara, or sweet potato as they called them back home, some spicy arugula, a pear, and a bottle of Australian Shiraz. Alexa’s mouth was watering. She returned a loaf of sourdough to the shelf—a concession to the carrot cake slice in the car. Intent on yogurt and goat cheese, her cart smacked another.

  “My bad,” she said.

  DI Horne, who had been zooming around the corner too fast, looked at her in amazement. Alexa realized, speed aside, she’d been driving on the wrong side of the aisle, USA style. “Don’t give me a ticket.”

  “You’re a dangerous person,” he said, smiling that rare smile. Alexa surveyed his cart items: bread, canned beans, eggs, bacon, and an assortment of chips and cookies. Also a six-pack of Speight’s, New Zealand’s equivalent of Budweiser.

  “Between you and me, we have the alcohol taken care of.”

  “Looks like you eat a little better with your drink,” he replied, eyeing her items. “Most of this is for my daughters, who stay with me every other weekend. They come tomorrow.”

  “If you say so,” she said, remembering the photos on his desk. But wait. Every other weekend? “They don’t live with you all the time?”

  “Their mother and I are divorced.”

  “But…” Alexa was about to advise him to update his police bio but stopped herself in time. “What are you fixing for dinner?”

  “My specialty—eggs on toast.”

  A sudden thought.

  No.

  Oh hell—go for it.

  “Why don’t you add a steak to the pile and join me? We can talk about the case. I’ve got some information I wanted to share earlier.”