Under a Black Sky (Part of the Daniel Trokics Series) Page 7

  "There were fingerprints all over the place, of course," Ian said. "Obviously. A family with kids, friends, people dropping by. Unfortunately, there weren't any in the blood in the bedroom or anywhere else. We found some smeary lines that indicate the killer was wearing gloves."

  "Shit," Angie mumbled.

  "Yeah, but the good news is, we got DNA."

  "Really? That's great."

  "Yeah, I figured you'd like that."

  He looked Trokic up and down, as if his male ego had been challenged. Angie held back a smile. "Let's hear more."

  "I talked to forensics earlier; the results are in the fingernail scrapings. They have something, possibly from the killer. Obviously, she could have scratched him while he raped her. So, keep an eye out for scratches when you get a suspect."

  "I can't wait to compare it to David Griffin's DNA," Angie said.

  "David Griffin?" Ian said. "Who's that?"

  "Asger Vad's hunting pal. Creepy. He's coming into the station. If there's any reason at all to hold him, we will. I seriously don't like the guy, he's a total scumbag. Have you checked the dolls?"

  Ian leaned back in his chair and rolled a pen between his fingers. "Yeah, but there's not much to say about them. They're old and sort of disgusting. They look a little old-fashioned, too; they're made out of plastic, yarn, and cloth. Probably older than the dollhouse, definitely inferior handiwork. And they smell weird."

  "Weird, how?" Trokic said.

  "Hmm, good question," Ian said. "Kind of musty, I'd say. Like they've been stored away and then brought out. We tested them for a bunch of things, took a look under the microscope. The only unusual thing was what looks like a cat hair."

  "Interesting," Trokic said. "Asger didn't have a cat, he had a dog, which means it's not so probable that the cat hair was in their house and stuck to the dolls."

  Ian smiled optimistically. "Even better, we can extract DNA from the hair, they said."

  "Really?" Angie said. She glanced at Ian's messy desk and several graphs on his computer screen. "I've never heard about that."

  "Yeah, and it's not just the cat's appearance we can determine; we can also tell which cat it came from. I know a case where the suspect was nailed because he had hair from the victim's cat on his clothes. He came up with all sorts of excuses, even that he and the victim had the same vet, but none of them worked."

  "But do you know what kind of cat it was?" Trokic asked.

  "Right now, my guess is a normal black house cat," Ian said. "It has the right length and color. But I'll call when I know more. Be on the lookout for black cats, though, when you're looking around. One of them could nail the guy who did this."

  "And there are the ashes in Asger's throat," Angie said. "Forensics sent you a sample."

  Ian looked more doubtful. "We've looked at it, and obviously, it's volcanic ash. But we don't actually know much about that. Maybe it's possible to say which volcano it came from, maybe even which eruption, so we sent a sample to the Volcano Observatory. But we just don't know here."

  "But if one of Asger's colleagues is involved, it's possible they could fake the results," Trokic said. "Isn't there an independent expert anywhere around?"

  "Theoretically they could, yes," Ian said. "But anyone from the volcano world could have a beef with Asger and they could be the killer. Several of them will be looking at it, and as I understand it, they have several samples of ash to compare it to."

  "Smith also talked about a bloodstain pattern analysis," Angie said.

  "Yeah, it confirms what we already know, nothing new there, unfortunately."

  "Okay," she said. "It's getting late, so we'll get to his co-workers tomorrow. Let's have a little chat with that officer, the one who might know where the dollhouse comes from."

  AN OLDER MAN sat drinking coffee with a sandwich in his hand, staring thoughtfully out into space. Angie introduced them and sat down across the table from him. He was in civilian clothes, a pair of old brown corduroys and a frayed white shirt. But his brown eyes were intelligent and alert.

  "We understand you've seen a similar dollhouse?" Angie said.

  Allen laid his sandwich down. "That's right. My aunt had one just like it in her living room. I'm almost sure it's the same. It's made out of oak, varnished the same way. First I took a good look at the photo, then I came out here and saw it with my own eyes. The same person made both dollhouses; I'd bet my retirement on it."

  Angie nodded. That would be quite a bet, and she was encouraged. "And what else? Do you know where it comes from?"

  "Matter of fact, I do. I called my aunt and asked where she bought it. Turns out that a lady who lives in Talkeetna made them."

  Angie groaned softly. "And you're sure about that? I'm not driving all the way up there to ask about a dollhouse a lot of other people could have made."

  "Well, have you ever seen one before? I haven't. And it's oak, too. Put those two facts together, and I think you got something unique. I think it's a good lead."

  Angie looked out the window and frowned. "It'll have to wait until tomorrow morning. Weather's too bad right now to drive that far."

  "Right. My aunt didn't have an exact address, but she knew the way. The woman had some sort of special garden on the outskirts of town, and she sold the dollhouses from her home. But you won't have trouble finding anyone in that town."

  "Where is it?" Trokic asked Angie.

  "About two and a half hour's drive north of here, close to Denali National Park. But that's in normal weather. Right now, I don't know how long it will take."

  "Send a local trooper out to talk to her," Allen suggested.

  Angie shook her head. "No, I want to hear it myself, how she works, how many she's made, all that. If we're lucky, she'll remember who she sold them to. When did your aunt buy the dollhouse?"

  Allen shrugged lightly and scratched his chin. Then he pushed his plate away with his finger. "I'm not sure, and she couldn't remember exactly; she gets up there quite a bit. But she thinks it was nine, ten years ago."

  "That's quite a while back. Was it expensive, do you know?"

  He shrugged again, as if he wasn't quite sure what a dollhouse should cost. "She said a hundred ten dollars."

  "And if you compare the two dollhouses, what kind of shape are they in?"

  "You mean, is one older than the other?"

  "Yes."

  "I think they're about the same age. Varnish is good on this one, no scratches, you can almost smell it still."

  Angie mulled that over. She and Trokic looked at each other, the space between them suddenly filled with their thoughts. He seemed to somehow be scanning her, and in a way, that was okay. Finally, Trokic looked back at the policeman.

  "What about the dolls inside? Does your aunt's dollhouse have any like them?"

  "No, she said there weren't any dolls in it when she bought it. And she didn't think the woman made dolls, but she wasn't sure. Like I said, it was several years ago."

  "So, it looks like the killer added the dolls," Trokic said. "Specifically for this killing."

  "And staged the murders," Angie added.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IT WAS ALMOST seven by the time they parked in front of the Ramada. The hotel wasn't very big, and its lights glowed modestly, attractively even, at the end of the large parking lot.

  "Would you like a drink?" Trokic said. He didn't know why he asked, he was totally exhausted. It felt like his soul was still stuck in some other dimension in another time zone.

  Neither of them spoke while she played with her braid. Her brown eyes surveyed him, trying to ferret out his intentions. "I really should get back to the station and write up some reports. But I've got time for one drink."

  The hotel had no bar. They were sent around the corner to The Slippery Salmon.

  "I come in here once in a while, actually," Angie said. "They have good nachos. Lots of different people."

  The diner was warm, the lighting warm and inviting. Baseball was o
n five flat screens just beneath the ceiling, and the place was half full of men in big hats drinking beer and yelling at the umps and players, even though the sound was turned off. A song by Stevie Ray Vaughn blasted out from speakers. Taxman. People were nodding in rhythm. A young, pretty girl with long black hair in a sky-high ponytail bustled around the tables, laughing loudly at something that had been said.

  They sat farthest from the bar, where there was less noise. The table was made from long planks of birch. Trokic nudged aside a small tray of ketchup, mayonnaise, HP sauce, and salt and pepper. Angie took off her cap and coat and draped the coat over a chair beside them. Several pairs of eyes were looking her up and down, and Trokic had the urge to wrap her back up again. She didn't seem to care. Simply wiped her eyes and blinked wearily.

  "I'll call Smith to hear if there's any news," she said. She fished her phone out of her bag.

  "Okay, I'll get a few beers. Or would you like something else?"

  "Beer would be great."

  "Still nothing new about Marie?" he asked when he returned.

  "No. It doesn't look good. They're going to expand the search tomorrow. Farther north, upstate. But to be honest, I don't think she's coming back alive."

  She sighed. "Poor girl. What's she been put through? This type of thing is really hard for me to handle. Kids."

  Trokic nodded. "What about any nutcases? Have they been checked out?"

  "No escapees. We have a list of recently released male patients with a history of violent behavior. Not a very long list, nothing that looks relevant at the moment. We've also talked to Canadian authorities to hear if they have anything for us, but we haven't heard back from them yet. Once in a while, one of their criminals ends up over here, and vice versa."

  "And no news about Griffin?"

  "Nope. We told the crazy neighbor to call if he sees something new, but there's nothing right now. Griffin is supposedly watching History Channel and wandering around the house. Like he's waiting for something. Something else seems strange to me. Griffin doesn't give a damn about hunting laws, but Asger seemed to be a straight shooter, pardon the expression."

  "Maybe he changed when he got out in nature."

  "Yeah, and apparently hunting brings people together. Or so it seems."

  "Griffin must know he's being watched now," Trokic said. "Maybe he's waiting to get to wherever he's hid her."

  "Something about him isn't right, anyway. But as long as he stays on his property and doesn't do anything, our hands are tied. Marie could be dying some place of his we don't know about. We have no proof at all."

  She took a sip of beer and nodded her head slightly in rhythm to the heavy blues streaming out of the speakers. "So, your boss knew Asger Vad?"

  "Yes. They were old schoolmates. That doesn't always mean you know each other really well, though. They saw each other once in a while. My boss is a dry old bastard."

  "Like, you'd rather dig ditches than listen to stories about their lives?"

  "Something like that," Trokic said, nodding at her.

  She laughed. That sounded nice. He felt the ice breaking. He liked her. Liked her no-bullshit attitude and sense of humor. "Doesn't sound good at all. A boring boss." She took a drink of beer.

  "It could be worse, I guess. But his opinions of Asger are of no use to me."

  "But my impression is that he was decent, our volcano researcher," Angie said. "Have you seen anything with him on TV? He seemed friendly and competent, not at all like Griffin. He was on TV a lot when Redoubt was erupting. Redoubt, that's one of the closest volcanos. They were interviewing him all the time."

  Trokic watched an overweight man squeeze through the door. "I haven't seen him on TV, but I skimmed through his books and read some interviews on the plane. I'm anxious to hear what his colleagues say. And what they say about the ashes. It would be great if they knew something about that."

  "But what if Griffin is the killer, where did he get the ashes?" Angie said.

  "Somewhere in Asger's house?"

  She shook her head. "The techs didn't find ashes anywhere else in the house." She stared blankly as they sat for a few moments, thinking things over.

  "So, are you married, have kids?" she asked in an offhand voice. She flashed a smile.

  "No," he said, avoiding her eyes. "But there's a cat in my life. At least for now. I had a girlfriend until not too long ago, but I guess it didn't work out. It's complicated. What about you?"

  She bit her nail and hesitated a moment. "No. I live by myself. It's not a nice place. I ran into some…problems a few years back, and I haven't had the energy to share all the negative shit with anybody. It'll have to wait until I feel on top of things again."

  He didn't force the issue. He didn't like being cross-examined and analyzed himself. "Are you from Anchorage?"

  She shook her head and took another drink of beer, then carefully wiped a wisp of foam from her lips. "As you might have noticed, I'm a half-breed. Half Tlingit, to be more precise."

  "That must be a good mix." He smiled.

  She laughed at his lame attempt to be charming. "Tlingit on my mother's side. I'm very close to her family, they all live south of here. We're part of the raven clan."

  "So that's where the raven comes from." He nodded at her necklace.

  "Right. The raven is very important in our mythology. It created the world. Then after it finished, it wanted to give humans fire. So, it flew up to the sun and…and so on and so on."

  "It's fascinating that they're part of a creation myth," Trokic said. "That things are connected. I like stories."

  She smiled. "But it's also a sly bird; it's always hungry and tries to trick everyone into giving it something to eat. We have tons of stories about it, about how greedy it is."

  Trokic smiled back. There was something uncomplicated about her. Something genuine that attracted him. And her dark eyes were warm. "Are you hungry? Since you're from the raven clan. Shall we order something? Like the nachos you talked about?"

  She smiled. "No, thanks. But you've got to be starving. All you've had the last day or so is some horrible airline food."

  "I'll grab something before I go to bed. Do you speak the other language too?"

  She shook her head. "No. Unfortunately, Tlingit is close to extinction, just like many of the other Native American languages. If I remember right, there are only a few hundred people left that speak it. In another generation, it's probably something you can only read about in history books."

  "That's too bad."

  For a few moments, she was lost in thought. "My grandparents speak it, in fact, but I understand almost none of it. The grammar is so complicated, and there are sounds you don't hear anywhere else in the world, almost. So, I gave up. That's the way it always goes. Your intentions are good, you always want to do the right thing, and there just isn't time."

  "But you know the myths."

  "Yes, but I can only tell the stories about the raven and all the other animals because my mother told them to me in English. I heard them over and over when I was a kid. And I think all the other tribal kids hear them, too. Stories don't die out so easily."

  "How did you end up here in town?"

  "My mother fell in love with my father, he was from Minnesota. He was an engineer, he worked for the railroad. So, we moved there, and I went to the police academy in Minneapolis. They're both dead now."

  "I'm sorry."

  She leaned back a few inches. "It was a long time ago. A car accident."

  Her expression turned solemn, and he had the feeling there was more to the story, but he wasn't going to press her.

  She shrugged. "I was back in Alaska by then. Minneapolis didn't feel like home. I missed all the ice here, the Alaska winter, the quiet, the open spaces. This is home to me, and I can visit my grandparents once in a while. Even though it's hard to find time."

  She killed her beer and sent an icy look to a man at the bar staring at her. "But I usually spend a week's vacation with them e
very summer. It's a getting back to my roots type of thing. We fish for salmon and smoke what we catch. None of us talk much; they don't understand my language and vice versa. But, in a way, it doesn't matter. We laugh at all sorts of stuff. It's good for me, and I learn a lot. What about you? Your name isn't Danish, is it?"

  He shrugged and leaned back against the paneled wall. Exhaustion was setting in. He didn't even know what time it was, here on the other side of the globe. It might be early morning. "Long story. I'll tell it some other time."

  Her phone rang. She checked the display and took it, said yes, okay a few times, then hung up. "Hmm," she mumbled.

  "What?"

  "This sounds suspicious. The man who worked closest with Asger Vad is in a cabin close to Wasilla. Adam Connolly's his name. That's what people he works with at the Volcano Observatory said."

  "Where's Wasilla?"

  "A little ways north of here. Medium-sized town by our standards. It's in Matsu Valley. Strange that he'd hole up there right now. Out in the wilderness. And it's more or less on the way to the woman who might have made the dollhouse. We'll talk to him tomorrow, then drive on up to her. Or vice versa. I'll drop by the station now and write up the reports for the boss."

  She stood up and sighed heavily. "I'll pick you up in the morning at eight, okay? Get a good night's sleep."

  Chapter Sixteen

  THOUGHTS about the case roiled in his head when he got back to his room. And he kept seeing Angie's face and the raven. He had expected to meet a bunch of hard-boiled American cops, and instead, he found himself with this exotic bird, tough on the outside, warm on the inside. He wondered where she'd gotten the long scar on her hand. A fight while on duty?

  His suitcase was still on the bed, unopened, staring at him. He hadn't had time to unpack, but now he needed a shower and shave, badly. He rubbed his hands together. The room was cold, or maybe it was warm by Alaskan standards. The room was kind of shabby, the heavy yellowish-brown curtains, brown patterned carpet, the burgundy and yellow wallpaper. A photo of some old buildings with a dogsled in front of them hung on one wall, and the radiator on the floor looked broken. Maybe that was why it was cold? But it was clean and tidy, and when he opened the curtains, Anchorage's modest, glowing skyline appeared.