Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series)

by Kimberli A. Bindschatel

  She hesitated, her eyes back on me.

  “Please.” He held his hand out in an invitation to sit back down.

  She set the tray down, but remained standing. To me she said, “You said U.S. Fish and Wildlife. Why would you be here, in Norway?”

  “We’re after a notorious criminal, top of our most wanted list.”

  She stared, unsatisfied. This woman was not short on intelligence.

  I went on. “The Marine Mammal Protection Act of 1972 prohibits hunting, capturing, killing or even harassing any marine mammal in U.S. Waters or—” I paused for effect “—or by U.S. citizens anywhere in the world.”

  “You’re clever,” she said crossing her arms. “But not clever enough.”

  I smiled. Held up my hands. Of course she would know this would normally be handled by NOAA agents. “You mean, of course, because the MMPA is the purview of NOAA. We’re here as part of a joint effort with their enforcement agency. They’re concerned that the suspect would recognize most of their agents, so here we are. This is a high profile case, you know, with the news lately—” I smiled at her “—and politics. Orcas are very popular and a protected species so—”

  “Of course I know that.” She let her hands fall to the table and, with one finger, slowly spun her plate a quarter turn. “This is my life’s work.”

  I let out my breath. She was warming to us. “We need to find this guy before he finds the whales so we can catch him in the act. If we miss that tiny window of opportunity, he’ll get away with it. Please help us stop him.”

  Dalton added, “We don’t know who else to turn to for help.”

  She looked into Dalton’s eyes and held his gaze for what seemed a bit longer than necessary before she said, “You don’t have the eyes of a killer.” She sank into the chair and pushed the tray out of her way. “I’ve been afraid of this.”

  “How do you mean?” Dalton asked as he eased into the chair across from her.

  “You’ve been approached, haven’t you?” I said.

  She didn’t respond, but I could tell I was right. “Oceanaria. It’s a dirty word if you ask me. We should be destroying these—” she shuddered “—these prisons, not building more. Do you know what happens to them in captivity?” She didn’t wait for a response. “They’re crammed into chlorinated tanks with bare concrete walls, forced to perform circus tricks under neon lights with horrible music blasting over the loud speakers. No wonder they show signs of aggression. To claim that having killer whales in captivity is teaching us anything about them and their natural behavior is absurd. If anything, all we’re learning is what happens when you enslave a sentient being.”

  I smiled and nodded, hoping to convey my sincerity. Listening to her describe the horrors of captivity stirred my anger and made me feel more desperate to gain her trust.

  “We’d been hearing rumors of new demand for wild captures. I had hoped it was just that, rumors, until…” She looked down at her half-eaten sandwich and frowned. “The breeding loan program is a farce. That’s the problem. Breeding in captivity has been mostly unsuccessful. They breed them too young, and they’re matching whales that are too genetically-close, all causing an unnatural percentage of stillborn calves. With demand for more orcas in marine parks around the world—Russia, China, and Japan—they have to fill those tanks from somewhere.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And with Norway’s political—”

  “That’s if the whales actually survive being captured. It’s awful you know. Many die from the trauma. Not just physical, but emotional.” Her lip quivered, ever so slightly. I got the sense she was holding back tears. I felt for her. A scientist would be criticized for being too emotional about her subjects. “Orcas have strong family bonds. When one is captured, it’s agonizing for the entire pod. But imagine for the one captured, being lifted from the water, what that must feel like, while your family members are wailing in distress.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “It’s inhumane.”

  Dalton gave her his warmest smile. “We’re going to do everything we can.”

  She went on, her focus on Dalton. “If only they’d been called the pandas of the sea. The name, killer whale, comes from a time of ignorance and fear. They’re not mindless, brutal killers, you know. They’re highly intelligent beings. Clever and amazingly adaptive. What we’ve learned about them from their vocalizations alone is—”

  She went silent and pursed her lips. I don’t know how she didn’t burst into tears. I was on the verge of blubbering myself.

  Dalton and I exchanged a quick glance.

  She sighed and forced a smile. “You said you received a tip on a live capture attempt?”

  “Yes,” Dalton said. “But we’re not clear on how accurate it is or up-to-date. The informant said our man’s sailing near Tromsø.”

  “Tromsø?” She took hold of the lunch tray, a determination in her posture. “We should go to my lab.”

  Sunshine streamed through a two-story wall of glass, bathing the Cetacean Research lab in warmth. No back-corner basement rooms dimly lit with sickly-green fluorescents here. The architecture was all glass and sleek lines—distinctly Scandinavian.

  A long counter ran along the opposite wall, its surface cluttered with bones of assorted cetaceans, stacks of plastic trays, and boxes of tools. On one end of the room, several desks housed computers and on the wall, photos of whales, all grouped by pods, it seemed, were pinned to a giant map of Norway.

  Dr. Parker strode to the wall, her willowy frame carrying her like a model down a Paris runway. She swept her hand across the map. “There are about 3,000 killer whales in Norwegian waters. Half live in the Barents Sea and up around Svalbard. That covers a great area of open sea, very remote, so I doubt your—” she hesitated as though trying to find the right word “—criminal would target that area. Along the coast and out in the Norwegian Sea, however, offer him a lot of opportunity. Tromsø isn’t the best staging port. Too far from the migration paths. If he’s there now, he’s probably getting crew and supplies and planning to move on.”

  Move on to where, I wanted to ask, but she seemed on a roll, so I didn’t want to interrupt the flow of words.

  “All killer whale migration, across every ocean in the world, is tied to their prey, which varies from pod to pod. A pod is a complex and cohesive family group. Here in the North Atlantic, there are two distinct types of killer whale pods, transients and residents. Resident pods tend to have a defined home range, which would make them most vulnerable. Transients travel over considerable distances hunting marine mammals, making them a little harder to find.”

  Dalton, hanging on her every word, asked, “So you can easily locate the resident pods? They follow a certain pattern?”

  She paused as though seeing him for the first time. Her eyes traveled up and down his body. A flirty smile skipped across her lips. “Not exactly. The main prey of killer whales in Norwegian waters is spring-spawning herring. The herring don’t follow any certain pattern.”

  I thought so. “But are they—”

  “So find the herring, find the killer whales,” Dalton interrupted, his eyes glued to her.

  “Yes, you’re right, very good,” she said, smiling at Dalton like he was her star student, then turned her attention to the map once again. “The herring used to migrate every fall like clockwork into Vestfjord near Lofoten,”—she ran her hand along the map, her finger landing on, then tapping at the Lofoten islands—“but in recent years the herring stock changed its migration pattern and has been wintering in the open ocean, north and northwest of the Lofoten islands.” Her hand swirled, motioning out to sea. “It’s made our research more difficult, that’s for sure. The whales, when we do see them, are traveling fast and in an unpredictable fashion. In the last three years, we’ve only spotted them in Andfjord.”

  Dalton stepped closer to her. “So you’re saying their feeding habits have changed?”

  “No, just the locations. Their feeding technique, which is a spe
cialized technique seen only in these waters, is called carousel feeding. Their ingenuity is quite impressive, actually. In close cooperation with each other, the whales will chase the herring school into a tight ball formation close to the water’s surface. They then slap the herring ball with their tails, stunning them, making it easy to pick off the fish one by one.

  “A carousel feeding event can be exciting to watch and seems quite chaotic. The herring jump out of the water, huge numbers of birds descend on them, and the whales often make high, arched dives. Below water, though, it’s apparent, it’s a carefully choreographed maneuver. And the vocalizations during the event—” She paused, shaking her head in awe.

  Her fascination with these creatures was contagious. I wanted to see this feeding event, to witness the excitement, to hear them communicating.

  Her gaze became unfocused as though she’d fixed on some distant thought.

  “That’s amazing,” Dalton said, bringing her back.

  “Wait a minute,” she said to no one, her eyes scanning the board. She rushed to a computer, plunked at the keys, her eyes darting about the monitor. “Oh no.” She looked up from the screen. “I think I know which pod he’s going after.”

  Dalton and I glanced at each other. My heart rate picked up. “Which one? Why?”

  “The K-pod.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “Dammit! I should have realized.”

  “What?” Dalton asked. “You should have realized what?”

  “Last week. My assistant went on a date. It went badly. She said the guy wouldn’t shut up about the whales. It took her awhile to realize, that’s all the creep wanted. When she told me about it”—she flung her head back and stared up at the ceiling—“I figured he was an environmental reporter or something.”

  Dalton said, “We need to talk to this assistant.”

  Dr. Parker nodded. “That’s fine but, that’s what made me realize. Trust me, they’re going after the K-pod.” She launched from the chair, back to the board, pointing at a photo. “K-12 has a nursing calf. That slows the whole pod down, making them an easier target. Plus this pod has several adolescents, the primary target for wild-caught captives. They’re strong and healthy…exactly what…” She plopped back into the chair. Her shoulders sagged as though grief was already setting in. “He’ll be able to easily herd them.” She shook her head. “He’ll have his pick.”

  “Not if we get to him first,” Dalton said.

  “The K-pod is…” Her eyes locked with Dalton’s. “Very special.”

  “Why?” I asked, fighting to keep my own emotions in check.

  “All killer whales form matrilineal groups, that is, all are offspring of one female. Even the male killer whales stay in their birth family for their entire life. Except to go mate, of course.”

  Did she just raise an eyebrow at Dalton?

  “We know of no other creature where all children—daughters and sons—stay with their mother all her life.” She looked at me as if she’d noticed me for the first time since we entered her lab. “Can you imagine that kind of family bond?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine wanting to stay with my mom. My dad maybe, but my mom, no way.

  “Anyway,” she went on, her attention back on Dalton, her smile returning. “A large pod might be made up of a couple of these groups. In the K-pod, K-4, we call her Granny K, is eighty years old. She saw too many of her loved ones ripped from her family back in the 1970s and 80s when this particular pod was targeted for capture. Over half of the family was taken. They’ve been struggling to regain a sustainable number ever since. The new calf, well,—” a pink blush came to her cheeks and she gave Dalton a conspiratorial wink “—I call her Baby Kimmy, she’s the first we’ve seen in several years.” She drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes lit with fear. “If he takes Kimmy’s mom—”

  “All right,” Dalton said in a soothing voice. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  She shot up from the chair. “You can’t let this happen. You can’t.”

  “Okay, okay.” He was nodding.

  She eyed Dalton with the ferocious glare of a mother bear. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Well,” he said. “First we have to locate the suspect. Then we’ll take video of the capture. Once we have the evidence in hand, we’ll call the Norwegian authorities. They’ll make an arrest and we’ll have him extradited to the U.S. for prosecution.”

  “Why don’t you call the Norwegian authorities now?”

  “Well,” he gave her a placating smile. “We need to first confirm it is indeed Ray Goldman and that he is here with the intent to capture a killer whale. Whaling politics here in Norway have been—”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “But what he’s doing is illegal here. Why do you need video? That means you have to actually stand by and let him capture one, right? Can’t you just arrest him when it’s clear that’s what he’s going to do?”

  “We don’t have the authority to arrest him here. Since we’re not sure which way the Norwegian government would sway, we want our own evidence to convict him. The distinction is important.”

  “Not to the whale it’s not.”

  I had the same thought. “Exactly,” I said. I didn’t want to lose her now that we were finally getting somewhere. “The whales are our first priority. That’s why the timing is so important.”

  Her eyes flicked back and forth, from him to me.

  “We’ll get this guy,” Dalton said. He paused, waited, looking at her with those eyes. “That is, with your help.”

  We waited while she chewed on her lip, her eyes fixed on some distant space.

  “So,” I said, easing back into the discussion. “The whales are likely to be in Andfjord then? That’s where we should look?”

  “Huh?” She looked up at me, her eyes shifting into focus. “What?”

  “Andfjord? You said that’s where they’d likely be?”

  She shook her head and plopped back down in the chair. “Oh no. They’re not there.”

  What the hell? “I thought you just said—”

  Her fingers hammered at the keyboard. “If your whale hunter is in Tromsø, he’s got miles to go. My guess, if he knows what he’s doing, he’ll arrive in the Lofoten Islands within a few days. You should go to Reine. The K-pod has been south of there and they’re turning back north.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  She said, matter-of-fact, “Granny K is satellite-tagged.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We hopped on a train north, then a quick flight, then the ferry to the tiny, historic fishing village of Reine. Right out of a Scandinavian fairy tale, granite peaks jut straight up out of the blue-green sea. Bright red fishermen’s cabins with grass roofs dot the rocky shoreline, suspended in time on their wooden stilts, the sea splashing below the floorboards. In the middle of it all, Stetind peak dominates the skyline. Norwegians call it gudenes ambolt, the “anvil of the gods,” because its summit looks as though it had been lopped clean off, leaving a flat, level precipice.

  First thing, we walked the docks, but saw no sign of the Forseti. I asked Dalton. “So how do you want to play this?”

  “We rent a boat, a newly married couple on holiday”—he winked at me—“and make sure all the video equipment is charged and rigged. When we get a fix on him, we’ll keep him in our sights as much as possible and stay in direct communication with April.”

  “April? You mean, Dr. Parker.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

  “I thought your approach was real smooth by the way. You’re even prettier in person,” I said with a wink. “I don’t know what her problem was. You’d have had me at hello.”

  Dalton crossed his arms. “So you’re going to gloat?”

  “Just for a while,” I said with a victorious grin. We turned toward town. “Do you really think Goldman will be so bold as to try to take a whale with another boat close enough to witness it?”

  He shrugged. “If not, w
e’ve come a long way for nothing.”

  I frowned. There had to be a better way. Right now, I couldn’t think of one. Not one that stayed within the law anyway.

  I shot off a text to Dr. Parker to let her know we’d arrived and there was no sign of Ray Goldman yet, hoping she’d keep her word and send us regular updates on the K-pod’s movements.

  Without knowing exactly what to expect, we weren’t sure what would be the best vessel for our needs. Finally, we decided on a cruising sailboat, figuring worst-case-scenario, running out of gas wouldn’t be life-threatening.

  We managed to find a company that rented pleasure craft to tourists. Conveniently, nearly everyone in Norway speaks English, even in this tiny village, and we were able to get exactly what we wanted.

  The Sea Mist she was called. A forty-foot sloop with two cabins, one head, and a nice galley with a deep-freeze. The salon was paneled in teak and smelled of the sea, as a boat should. The seat cushions had been updated with an aquamarine and imperial blue striped fabric. Every door and drawer bore a white sticker listing the contents and an In Case of Emergency poster had been stapled on the wall above the main radio controls.

  The owner, a friendly local with an easy-going demeanor, gave us an hour-long orientation that included personal tales of his adventures on a sailboat. When his stories ran out, he wanted to see our ASA certification or some kind of documentation to be sure we were qualified to sail a vessel this size. Being a Navy SEAL, Dalton would be given the helm no problem, I’m sure, but this was a small community and we had to be careful what we revealed. To them, we were a married couple on holiday.

  “Gee, I didn’t think to bring anything,” Dalton said, stalling.

  “Perhaps you could quiz us, to satisfy your requirements?” I suggested.

  The man shrugged. “Um, okay. How much rode do you put out to anchor safely? I believe that is the English word, rode.”

  “Yes, you are correct,” I said. “Rope or chain?”

  “Rope.”