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

by Inger Wolf

  She shrugged. It didn't matter what he thought. But she still felt he was toying with her in some way. She needed coffee. Strong coffee, to clear her head up.

  "Since you're asking indirectly, I can tell you it wouldn't be a problem for me. The same goes for most of the population of Alaska. Any idiot could do it."

  "But it would be especially easy for you," Angie said.

  "True. But that doesn't mean I did it."

  In her earpiece, Angie heard Smith's voice. She signaled Adam to keep still. "Sorry, Angie, but we talked to this Slawomir Den, and it's true, he says he was there the same time as Connolly. He said that Connolly looked absorbed in his work, and he didn't want to disturb him. He saw him arrive at midnight and leave at two."

  Angie held back a curse and stared Connolly down. "And he's sure about that? It's not like he has a bad memory too?"

  "He sounded convincing."

  Angie stood up. "Your alibi looks good. You can go now. I apologize for wasting your time, but we're only doing our job, covering every angle of this case."

  Connolly was completely sympathetic again. "Of course. It's understandable. No one likes to be a suspect, but it's encouraging that you're thorough. I hope you find your man soon."

  Angie frowned. Something about this stunk, but she couldn't arrest a man for applying for the same job as the deceased. At least she still had one suspect waiting.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  TED HARRISON LOOKED WORRIED, and with good reason, Trokic thought. He could see the interview room on a monitor; there was space for only two people in there. He could imagine how claustrophobic it was to be grilled in such a small room. One table and two chairs, that was it. The walls were lined with an acoustic material that, according to Angie, wasn't as effective as they'd hoped. At any rate, they had observed several suspects alone in the room with their ear against the wall, following interrogations in the adjacent interview room.

  He sipped his coffee and waited. Angie had earlier adjusted the camera so it pointed directly at Harrison, and Trokic had ample opportunity to study him. He was in his early forties, with a short full beard, a strong, symmetric face, and finely-cropped blond hair. A handsome man, as Thereza Mendell had said. He had on the blue overalls and black down coat that he most likely had been wearing when they picked him up at his shop on the outskirts of town.

  When Angie stepped into the room, he made the effort to glance up and down at her and smile faintly. Trokic muffled a snort.

  "We're investigating the murder of Asger Vad," Angie began. "In that connection, we have some questions for you."

  He smiled. "Of course, of course. I'll do whatever I can to help."

  "Thank you, we appreciate your cooperation in such a serious case. First and foremost, I would like to know if you knew Asger Vad?"

  The carpenter nodded eagerly, as if to confirm he'd known a pop star. "Yeah, sure. I did some repairs on his house several months ago. There were some rotten boards on their big back porch, also the handrail. It didn't take long."

  Angie leaned forward in her chair. "But did you, in fact, speak with Vad?"

  "Yeah, he's the one who called me up and asked me to come over. He was home when I got there, and we stood around and talked a while."

  "About what?"

  Harrison spread his arms. "You know, the usual stuff. What he needed done, what it would cost. Later on, he said he had to go somewhere, do an errand. He didn't say what. And he left. I did the job and I left, then I sent him a bill. He paid it right off. That was it. A good man to work for, and he was happy with what I did."

  "Did you go inside the house at any time?"

  A short pause. "Not really. I knocked on the door when I got there, he opened up and said he was talking to somebody and asked me to wait. It was a hot day, close to eighty maybe, so he kept the door open. I could see into the kitchen; he was in there talking. Looked like a nice home. I remember thinking that."

  "Could you hear what he was talking about?" Angie said.

  Harrison shook his head. "I really didn't listen. I was thinking about something else. But that was it. I never saw him again. Pretty horrible, what happened. And that missing girl…I sure hope you find her quickly."

  "We're working on it."

  "But you didn't haul me in here just because I did some carpenter work for him? Maybe I know something I don't even know I know?"

  Angie flashed a smile. "We're interested in everyone who has been around the house and knows how to get in."

  He smiled back, as if they were old friends. "But all I did was replace a few floorboards. I didn't look at the doors and windows, anything like that."

  "What were you doing Tuesday night?"

  Harrison tilted his head. "So, I'm a suspect anyway?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "I was home watching TV until late. A series."

  "Which one?"

  "Can't remember."

  "Can anyone confirm this?"

  His face fell in worry. "Afraid not."

  "What were you doing yesterday afternoon?"

  "Now you're thinking about the Griffins?"

  "Yes."

  "I was out working on the attic of a family in Hillside. They can confirm that. You only need an alibi for one of the killings, right? You think it's the same man, don't you?"

  "Maybe. Can I get the name and address?"

  He reeled them off. "Anything else?" he said, as if he was selling something to her in a store.

  "Yes. Can you confirm that you bought a dollhouse from a woman in Talkeetna about ten years ago?"

  He stared at her in surprise. No one spoke for several seconds. "That's right. How did you know?"

  "Because she told us."

  "Jesus, she really remembered my name?"

  "Almost."

  "But what's that got to do with this Asger Vad case…oh, yeah, now I remember. There was something in the news about that. A dollhouse."

  His face turned pale. "So, what you're saying is, that dollhouse you found at the crime scene, it was like, mine?"

  Angie shrugged, as if it were only a detail. "I would just like to hear where the dollhouse is, that's all."

  Another pause. "I don't have it anymore."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I threw it away."

  Angie stared at him in disbelief. "You just threw it away? That was an expensive dollhouse."

  He smiled sarcastically. "You're right. I saw it in that woman's window when I was walking around her garden. Which I'd just decided to do after I did some work down the street. That was one beautiful piece of work, that dollhouse. California oak. That's the kind of thing I appreciate, so I bought it."

  "You bought a dollhouse, just for yourself?"

  "It ain't against the law, now, is it?"

  "No, I can't say it is. But it's unfortunate you can't account for your dollhouse in this situation since there were very few of them made. How did you get rid of it?"

  Harrison snorted. "I smashed it up and got rid of it with some wood scraps. It's spread around here and there."

  Angie leaned back and spread her arms. "But why? It was beautiful work, you said so yourself."

  "I was cleaning out my house and I didn't think it fit anywhere. I don't have any kids and I don't know any kids, so I didn't know what to do with it."

  "You didn't consider giving it away?"

  "To who?"

  "An institution or home for children, or whatever it is we have here in town."

  He shook his head. "I didn't think about that."

  "I still don't understand how a carpenter can bring himself to destroy such a beautiful piece of work. It's like me stealing something. It's all wrong."

  He shrugged. "That's how it was. I'm sorry you're taking it so bad. If I'd known that, I'd have kept the damn thing."

  Angie shook her head very slightly. "And how long ago was it?"

  "Hell, I don't know. Last spring sometime."

  Angie sighed. "That's not so good
. We spoke with the dollhouse woman, and there's no doubt she made the dollhouse that was at the crime scene. She only made four of them. One was sold to a woman in England, another to the aunt of an officer here at the station, the third to a woman from Anchorage with her daughter, and the fourth to you."

  "So why don't you ask that Anchorage woman? Seems like the thing to do to me."

  Angie hesitated. "She didn't remember so much about the woman."

  "I can understand that. But I do. Her name's Debbie, the daughter's name is Beth."

  Angie stared at him in amazement. "How do you know?"

  "Well, after I bought mine and threw it in the back of the car, I was talking on the phone, and she came out with hers. Beautiful woman. So, I checked out her hands and saw she wasn't married. And I thought I wouldn't mind having a word with her. I said something about the beautiful dollhouse, told the daughter she was lucky. She was really excited, the daughter."

  "Okay. Then what did you talk about?"

  "A little about what we do in these parts. They were out driving around; they were going to spend the night at that roadhouse up there. I gave her my card before she left. That's when she said her name was Debbie, and they were from Anchorage. They'd just moved up here. I don't remember where from. Oklahoma, maybe. Or Oregon." He looked disappointed. "But she never called."

  "She didn't say anything else that might help identify her?"

  "No, like I said, we didn't talk a long time. She had a big poodle with her. You know, one of them show dogs."

  "Yeah, that's probably not something that's going to help much. Did you see what she was driving?"

  He shook his head. "No, she walked down the street, and I took off."

  SHE WENT through the recording later with Trokic.

  "What do you think?" she said.

  "Are we one hundred percent sure there aren't any more dollhouses?"

  "As sure as we can be. There might be a copycat out there, a really good one, but I doubt it. I can't really be sure if he's telling the truth. If he is, then this Debbie must've sold the dollhouse to someone else, because I can't imagine a single mother behind all this. And with the little information we do have, we can't start calling every household in Oklahoma and Oregon and asking for Debbie and Beth. I've checked Anchorage, but I didn't find anything."

  "Damn. Let's check his alibi for yesterday afternoon at the time the Griffins were killed. He said he was working on an attic in Hillside, but theoretically, he could have driven over to the Griffins’ house and back again."

  She sat down at her desk and brought out her notepad. "I'll check it right now."

  She called the number and waved Trokic over. She put the phone on speaker. The woman who answered sounded young, and Angie introduced herself. "You had a carpenter over to do some work for you the last few days, isn't that right?"

  "Yes," the woman said, a bit hesitantly.

  "What's his name?"

  "Ted Harrison." After a few moments, she continued, "Oh, God, you're from the police. Did he kill somebody? Did he kill Asger Vad?"

  "Easy now," Angie said. "We don't know. We're just interested in knowing what he did for you."

  After a short pause, she said, "Well. He was supposed to put in a few new ceilings in the kids' bedrooms upstairs. But it's taking a while."

  Angie swept some hair from her forehead. "How do you mean?"

  "He started on it a week ago. I mean, how long does something like that take? Not that I know about these things, but I hadn't counted on it taking so long."

  "So, he's been there several times?"

  The woman snorted. "He's always making excuses, says he needs this and he needs that, then he doesn't show up until the next day."

  "Is he alone while he's there?"

  "We don't have time to stand there and watch him put the ceilings up. We both work, and it's noisy when he's sawing. But like I said, it's like he does a little bit every day. We even thought about firing him."

  "Could you write down when you know for sure he was there? Like, a time sheet for every day. And then send it to me?"

  Another pause. The woman spoke in a near whisper. "So, it's because he might be the killer? I knew it. This is about his alibi, isn't it?"

  Angie rolled her eyes at Trokic. "I'm not at liberty to comment on that, but I would really like to have that information from you, if you would please write it down. Give me a call when you're finished."

  Angie gave the woman her number.

  "I'll try. And he's not getting in this house again, I promise you that."

  Angie laid the phone down on the table and looked skeptically at Trokic. "His alibi for Griffin isn't exactly convincing, and as far as Vad goes, he has no alibi at all. He's giving us a DNA sample. Whether he wants to or not."

  Smith appeared at the door. "We just got a call from that church the Vad family attended. Or at least the mother and kids. A woman said she wants to talk to us. That there was something she didn't tell us."

  Chapter Forty-Three

  THEY PARKED in an underground garage close to downtown and walked to the woman's apartment. The sun had appeared briefly, and it had warmed up some. Around freezing, Angie thought. Not warm enough to melt the snow. It seldom did melt this time of year, once it had fallen. Everything that hadn't been cleared was covered with a white blanket.

  The previous year, they'd had the worst winter in memory. The county had piled up so much snow on a large lot at the edge of town that, despite a relatively warm summer, it hadn't melted until a month before the next snow came. Angie hoped the coming winter would be milder, but the forecast wasn't promising.

  INGRID LARSSON OPENED the door and invited them in. Her henna-dyed hair was cut in a short page. She had a bit too much makeup on, and some of her mascara was smudged on the wrinkles around her eyes. Her apartment was light, with orchids in the window sills and a large potted birch in the corner. A series of what looked to be 18th-century paintings hung on one wall. Large ships, a lighthouse, and a naked woman on a bed in a colorful room. The living room afforded a good view of the town; Angie wished she could live in a place like this, close to restaurants and Cook Inlet. A place she didn't need to be ashamed of. Though without the ugly, heavy brown furniture.

  "You're Swedish?" Trokic said.

  She smiled. "You noticed the name. My parents were Swedes. I feel like I'm a bit of both. I lived with my grandparents in Sweden for two years; otherwise, I've lived here my entire life. Coffee?"

  They spoke simultaneously. "Yes, thanks."

  They sat down on one of the two large sofas in the room. Close to each other, Angie noted. Very close. She felt Trokic's body heat through her pants.

  They heard rattling in the kitchen, then the woman came out with three delicate porcelain cups, set them on the table, and poured from a round green thermos. Her hands shook a bit, and her lips were pressed together. A few drops of coffee spilled onto the saucer, and she dried it with a napkin. Then she sat down across from them.

  "You called us," Angie said, to get the ball rolling. "I'm assuming you have some information for us. That you knew the family. From the church, is that right?"

  Ingrid nodded. "I knew all four of them. I've been lying awake at night, thinking about that poor family, worrying about little Marie. I saw them regularly. Asger not as much, but Mette came in with the children occasionally. She wasn't particularly religious, but the church was her network. As it is for many. They come from all over the world and need to get to know other people who can help them."

  "What did you think of the family?" Trokic said.

  Ingrid thought a second. Her hands turned in her lap. "Asger seemed like a friendly man, but as I said, I only saw him a few times. I was very fond of Mette. She had a big heart, and she was good at welcoming new people into the church. She was energetic, engaged, ready to help anyone in need. I remember one time, a single mother came to us, she felt horrible because she wanted to throw a birthday party for her daughter. But she didn't ha
ve a place to hold it, and besides that, she couldn't afford it. Mette told her she could have the party at their home. I heard later that she decorated the place, baked bread and two cakes for the kids. And that wasn't the only time she helped someone."

  "It sounds like she was a good person," Trokic said. "But there's more you want to tell us, isn't that right?"

  Ingrid picked at a hem with her fingernail. Her eyes went blank, and she looked down at the table. "I don't like saying this. But I've been thinking, and I can't know if this has anything to do with the case. But I know a few things about that family. I think Asger and Mette were going to divorce."

  Angie stopped writing in her notepad and peered at the woman in surprise. "Why do you think that?"

  "Well, you see, Mette and I were very…good friends. Not the closest of friends, not that we confided everything in each other. I'm quite a bit older than she was. But she did tell me not long before they were killed that they were getting a divorce."

  "But a divorce?" Angie said. "That's not at all the impression we had of the family. It sounded like they were close."

  The woman shrugged. "I understand if that doesn't sound right, but I had to tell you. She came to me the other day and pulled me aside, and she said she needed to talk. We went for a walk, and that's when she told me. In fact, though, I'd known for a while that something wasn't right between them."

  "How?" Angie said.

  "She'd seemed so preoccupied when I spoke with her. But that day, she wanted to know if I could help her find an apartment for her and the kids, here downtown. She worked nearby. I've lived in the area for several years, and I know a lot of people, and she knew I've helped others find a place to live."

  Angie sipped at her coffee and then set the cup down. "But she didn't give you any reason?"

  "No, it was like…I didn't really understand. Asger was such a handsome, friendly man. I thought he must be having an affair, but I'm not one to pry into others' business. She did seem very sure of what she was doing, and I believed her."

  "Why did you think they were having serious problems?" Trokic said. "Couldn't it just have been an argument, and maybe she was upset?"