by Inger Wolf
Small swirling snowflakes slapped them the second they stepped outside. A small blizzard blew in under Trokic's collar and melted against his skin. Griffin opened the door to the guesthouse and hit the light switch. "A bedroom, a kitchen with a little table, a bathroom," he said. "For guests. That's all."
"Are there any weapons in here?" Angie said.
"There are a few guns under the bench in the kitchen. But you've heard all about that from my good neighbor."
"You don't need to be a smartass about this, we're just doing our job. Stay in here while I look around."
Griffin's arms fell to his sides and he sized up Trokic, head to toe, as if he were prey. "What are you doing here? Your accent sounds a little bit like Asger's. Danish cop, or what?"
"Yes." Trokic didn't want to discuss why he was here with this giant. They stood in silence, scuffling their feet nervously. Angie was back in two minutes.
"Nothing of interest." She looked coolly at Trokic. "Nothing there except two guns and a bunch of junk on the dining room table and beds. Used clothes in sacks, several antlers. Looks more like a recycling station in there than anything."
Griffin's laughter sounded like a dog barking. Totally inappropriate. "What did you expect? A pile of bodies?"
She ignored him. "All that canned food stacked up on the kitchen counter, what's that for? You could feed someone a long time with it."
"Like I said, guests."
"What guests?"
"In-laws."
"You don't much like them, do you? Having to eat canned food and stay in this filthy mess."
"No, I don't."
"And what's with the bars on the windows?"
He looked over at a stand of trees and grimaced, an expression that was either the first sign of a smile or a nervous tic. Just as it wasn't clear whether the droplets on his forehead were melted snow or sweat. "It's…it's to stop people from breaking in. You can never be too careful these days."
"But there's nothing to steal in here," Angie pointed out with a raised eyebrow.
"There most certainly is, my guns."
Trokic stared at the big man with wet snowflakes in his gray hair. Suddenly, he shrugged and looked scared. His eyes clouded over and he swallowed nervously. Was he hiding Marie somewhere, planning on moving her here? To do what he wanted with her? Maybe he was waiting because he knew they would show up?
Angie seemed to be wondering, too. She sighed heavily and sent Trokic a long, cryptic look.
"Where were you Tuesday night?" she asked. "From midnight to four in the morning?"
"I was asleep in bed. I had to get up early and go to work at the airport. I was there at five thirty. You can call and ask."
"We will. Can anyone confirm you were here asleep?"
"My wife. Are we about finished here? I'm freezing my ass off."
Angie narrowed her eyes in suspicion and licked a few snowflakes off her lips. "Not the world's best alibi. Okay, listen. You're coming into the station on Elmore Road and you're going to repeat what you told us, and answer any questions we might have. The same goes for your wife."
"What for? I just told you everything, so why haul me in? I'm busy here, and I got to—"
"That may be, but we want to hear it one more time and record it. Along with whatever else we'd like to know."
He shook his head slowly. "Do you really think I killed Asger and his wife and son? Why the hell would I do that? He was my friend, I've known him a long time. I don't have a single reason to kill him. You ought to be out there finding whoever did, and fast."
"Maybe you wanted the daughter, and the family got in the way when you broke into the house," Angie said.
After a short pause, Griffin smiled a bit sadly. "Well, good luck proving that. You know what you ought to be doing? You ought to be talking to them at that international free church. Asger's wife hung out there a lot. The place is crawling with fanatics talking about the devil. Who knows, maybe there's some lunatic out there who felt the family ought to be exterminated."
"Where do they meet?" Angie said.
Griffin gave them an address. Trokic had no idea where that was.
"Why would they want to kill Asger and his family?" Trokic asked. "This is a very violent crime."
"That sort of people, they have their own agenda," Griffin said. "Asger said they thought he was trying to lure their young people to do evil. You know, a scientist who doesn't want to hear about angels and demons."
"Okay," Angie said. "But you're still coming into the station. Report at the desk, and we'll take it from there."
She checked her watch. "I'm expecting you to leave soon. And if you don't show up, we'll send a few officers out to help you find your way."
Back at the car, Trokic said, "He's hiding something. He was nervous, I think he's lying."
Angie agreed with him. The car was ice cold, and she turned on the heater and windshield wipers before flooring it and pulling out onto the street. He noticed a long, thick scar on her left hand, a pale color, old; had she been in a fight?
"Plus, he's an asshole," she said. "It's incredible that hunting can bring two very different people together. It sounds like Asger Vad was a really nice guy. Do you understand it?"
"No."
"Seriously. It's just so strange. Hunting can get complicated. You have to spend a lot of time with each other and you need something to talk about. I just don't see those two men together like that. But maybe he's right, maybe Asger needed a break from the scientific world once in a while."
She sighed. "Anyway, we have a car on the way to make sure Griffin comes in. We'll get his fingerprints and DNA, and if nothing else we'll keep him under surveillance. If he so much as makes one wrong move, we'll nail him."
"What do we do now?"
"Maybe we should take a look at that free church. What do you think?"
Chapter Thirteen
ANCHORAGE FLEW by outside the car window. They drove up East Sixth Avenue, which was lined with small wooden houses and cars parked close to the street. On one side was a trailer park with several beat-up campers and mobile homes. It was snowing heavily now, and people moved at a snail's pace, struggling down the narrow sidewalk in the foul weather. There was something dismal yet beautiful about this relatively new town surrounded by mountains.
The talkative Mexican taxi driver had given Trokic all the details on the way to the hotel. Alaska—purchased from Russia in the late 1800s, $7.2 million, one of the last states admitted to the union. And Anchorage, established around 1920 in a coincidental way, when the railroad being built ended at the harbor. The town's streets were named systematically, avenues in numbers and streets in letters, with a downtown that in no way was a center.
The result was a town with square blocks. Flat, with a modest skyline. Trokic thought about his own hometown, its old soul; this town's soul was new. The citizens of Anchorage were a mix of nationalities from all over the world, though many Native Americans lived there. Like the woman he was with. She seemed friendly enough, and he wondered where she came from. How she came to grow up in a place like this. Maybe her grandparents could remember an Alaska without the widespread influence of Americans. She might even be able to survive out in nature.
They passed by five churches of various Christian denominations before arriving at their destination, a big, white wooden church with a fence separating it from one of the noisy, heavily-trafficked broad streets. It seemed a bit out of place.
They got out of the car and eyed the church. "So," Angie said, "they're not Methodists. There are a lot of them here. This looks like some sort of free church."
Many Danes lived in Anchorage, Trokic had been told. Though their houses were spread out over town, they liked to hang out together. Apparently, nationalities tended to huddle up when they left their home country. Danish ex-pats suddenly became enthusiastic about pork sausage, the Danish flag, and Matador, the old Danish TV series. The ones in Alaska were no exception, despite the small population of t
he state.
When they stepped in, it became obvious that many Danes spent a lot of time there. A small table with a red tablecloth stood just inside the door. Lying on the table were several cookbooks that could be borrowed, brochures for Danish businessmen in the state, a small program for a Nordic organization in Anchorage, and a Danish Bible. Angie leafed through it, then she set it back down in disgust.
"I hate sects and all that bull about higher powers." She loosened her scarf. "I'd rather mop up the drool from a boxer's mouth all day than listen to this crap."
Trokic smiled. He didn't disagree. He turned his attention to the large, lofty room. The church looked fairly new to him, not more than a few years old. The walls were painted white, the ceiling was high, and a small wooden pulpit stood in the middle of the room. The narrow, tall windows allowed lots of sunlight.
Five people sat around a table at the other end of the room, speaking in hushed tones. They all looked up when the two officers approached. One of them, a short, bearded man in his thirties with round glasses and hair plastered to his skull, stood up and limped over to meet them. He held his hand out, and in a thick German accent, he introduced himself as Jan Mertz.
"Anchorage police," Angie said, shaking his hand a bit reluctantly. "We'd like to hear about the Vad family's connection to your church."
Mertz nodded. "We thought you would show up at some time. We are holding a board meeting, but of course we will answer your questions. I'm the pastor of the church."
He gestured at the other board members. "This is Michelle, Amy, Jack, and Thomas. We are planning winter activities. Winter is our busiest time."
"And what kind of church is this?" Trokic asked, looking directly at Thomas, a scrawny man nervously twiddling his thumbs. His bony shoulders were raised up, nearly touching his pale face.
Mertz smiled, then took his glasses off and stuck them in his shirt pocket. "A free church. We are Christians. And we are not very ceremonious. We don't frighten people away with organs and dark hymns. For that, you have to go down the street."
Trokic looked him over. They could call themselves a free church all they wanted, but he was instinctively suspicious of sectarian groups. And with good reason. Several times he had dealt with manipulative, power-hungry people with ulterior sexual motives who spent their time in places like this.
"So, how often did the family come here?" he asked.
"It was mostly Mette and the children," Michelle said. She was in her late forties, with a full head of blonde hair, full cheeks, somewhat prominent eyes, and a colorful green and red dress that was a bit too tight. "But Asger contributed very generously."
The others looked a bit uncomfortable. As if money shouldn't be mentioned when talking about the dead.
"We have many generous people here," the pastor said, to smooth things over. He gestured toward the many chairs and the row of Jesus and Mary icons on the walls.
"But Asger didn't attend?" Trokic said.
"Christmas and Easter. He was a busy man. But I saw no sign that he had anything against Mette coming here."
"So, the entire family was religious?"
"Not Asger. But Mette was a strong believer in Christian values. The children were a bit too young to become very involved. They didn't say a lot. What happened is horrible. Those poor people. And Marie."
Trokic caught Angie's eye. The corners of her mouth fell in disapproval, and her hand slowly stroked her braid. She raised an eyebrow. She had full lips, and he couldn't stop himself from looking at them a second too long.
"Did any of you visit them privately?" she asked.
The entire group shook their heads. "We met here," the pastor said. "We always do. Most of us come at least once during the week, and usually on Sundays. But the door is always open, and often people come to just be here and talk to me or the others."
"Have any of you noticed anything suspicious lately?" Trokic said. "Like, if Mette said something was bothering her, or if she said something that sounded strange?"
They shook their heads and mumbled no.
"And how many belong to the church?"
"About three hundred," Mertz said.
This time Trokic was the one who raised an eyebrow; that was a small congregation for a church building so obviously expensive. But if everyone had contributed, he supposed it was possible. He doubted that the American government paid for anything like this.
He looked the five of them over. They seemed friendly and harmless, but who could know what sort of sick thoughts could be hiding under the innocent expressions? "And how many are Danes?"
"I would say only about twenty," the pastor said. "They come from town and the surrounding area. We have thirty different nationalities. Many of them come for social reasons. We don't mind at all. It's all about doing good for other people, and if we can help someone in that way, we are happy to do so. And anyway…the people who are very religious usually end up with the Methodists down the street."
"Do you keep a list of members?" Angie said, unenthusiastically. It would be a lot of work to go through it and contact every one of them.
"We have a list of those who pay membership fees. Most do."
Angie handed him a card, which he reluctantly accepted. "Please find the list and send it to me, or to someone at the station. The address is on the card. This is important, we'd appreciate having it as soon as possible."
The pastor looked at the card. "I will do what I can."
THEY HAD JUST REACHED the street when an enormous moose trotted toward them. Angie laughed loudly when Trokic jumped aside in terror.
"For Satan," he mumbled. Damn. "Do they just run around here in town, too?"
She smiled. "It's probably on its way to the woods behind the church. They're hungry, they're looking for food, and they come farther inside town all the time. Relax, most of them are harmless."
He frowned at her. "Most of them? What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "Once in a while, one of them turns aggressive, especially if it's a mother with a calf. There are about a thousand of them in town, plus several bears and wolves. Just relax, you can run from the moose, and the rest, well, you have a gun, you can shoot them."
He dropped the subject and instead nodded at the church. "What do you think about the holy herd in there? I didn't see anyone who looked like a serious killer. But then, you can never be sure."
"I don't like the preacher," she said, her brow furrowed. "But maybe I'm just prejudiced. We'll have someone check the list they come up with, soon I hope."
"What about Asger's colleagues at the university? Have we checked them out?"
"No, we'll do that now. And we also need to go to the Volcano Observatory. Someone he worked with might have something against him. Who knows what goes on in the academic world of volcanoes."
Her phone rang. She fished it up out of her pocket and checked the display through clouds of her breath. "I'd better take this."
She clamped the phone between her shoulder and ear while writing something on her notepad. She seemed a bit antsy. "Thanks, we'll take care of it," she said. She stuck the phone back in her pocket.
"Interesting." She lifted an eyebrow at him. "One of the older officers at the station saw the photos of the dollhouse from the crime scene. He went out to the lab to have a look, and he says he's sure he's seen one just like it. Something about an aunt that had one. Let's talk to him first."
Chapter Fourteen
THEY DIDN'T SAY much on the short drive back to the station. Angie wanted to ask why he was the one who had been sent all the way over to Alaska. Did he have no family? No children? Was it his English? Or was it because he was best qualified? She hoped so. But the dark-haired policeman didn't seem to want to talk yet. He looked at her thoughtfully, as if he was assessing her mentally. He must be dead tired, with a mean case of jet lag, but he hadn't complained, not once. He listened carefully as she spoke in code with the police dispatcher. She was actually proud of herself for being so polite.
She hadn't suggested, for example, that they stop by Toys "R" Us when he talked about his nineteen-millimeter pistol. She almost did.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable, though. In a way, it was nice to have someone along with her. She wasn't used to it, but now it felt like she'd been lacking something. He had asked if police there normally drove alone, as if he didn't understand it. He thought it sounded unsafe to not have a partner backing you up in a dangerous situation, but the fact was that backup was never more than a few minutes away in this town. It was more effective to be on your own. Plus, she had more than a toy gun to defend herself with.
She opened the laboratory door, walked down the long hallway, and knocked on the door of Ian Brown's office. "Come in," he yelled, a bit louder than necessary.
She smiled to herself. Was he going deaf? Trokic was on her heels as she walked in. She introduced him. Her new partner held out his hand and smiled briefly. So, Daniel Trokic could smile after all.
"We need to talk to Allen about the dollhouse," she said. "We heard he's here."
"He's having a sandwich and coffee," Ian said. "I'm sure he knows what he's talking about with that dollhouse."
"How's it going otherwise?" Angie said. "Anything new?"
Ian nodded enthusiastically. He was one of their youngest techs. Twenty-nine years old, tall and rangy with blond, spiky hair, big light-blue eyes, and a smile that had snagged a lot of the females in the building, she'd heard. She almost fell into the trap one evening about six months ago, when they were celebrating a birthday at an Irish bar. She'd drank more her share of Guinness. Only the thought of her less-than-humble abode had saved her; under no circumstances was she going to take him home with her. He would only have asked questions she didn't want to answer.
Since then, he'd looked annoyed. Yet he was one of her favorites at the station, one of the few allowed to call her, "Honey." He looked good in his light green sweater and jeans.
