Alexa craved open space in the morning—she had dreamed of being trapped in the bunker and woke up clutching the black sheep to her chest—but first she called the tramping dentist again. When he didn’t answer, she left another message: “It’s an urgent police matter. Call back.”
Running helped her think, and she had a lot to think about. She put her phone on vibrate and slipped it in the back pocket of her running tights. There was no sign of Lynn as she tiptoed through the cottage and out the door.
The police car was gone; her Toyota Vitz was all alone.
Murky morning gray merged with the dark bay as she rounded the cottage for the cliffside path she had spotted yesterday. Tremolos of arrr, arrr, arrr drowned out the murmur of waves. The gannets were waking, probably stretching their wings. Alexa steered clear of the edge and stretched. Tightness in her calves reminded her that she’d turn thirty-eight next month. She would miss being a prime number. Indivisible. There was always forty-one to look forward to.
The windows of the big house stared blankly. She pushed thoughts of the hidden camera away. The path hugged the cliffs, curving, dipping, veering inland and back outward, past DANGER, STAY BACK signs. In one spot the path had caved in, forcing her onto stubbly tussock. She imagined the sea below, gouging and biting.
It was so open, she could see for miles.
A gannet skimmed by at eye level. Its beauty lifted Alexa’s spirits. The low-fifties temp was perfect for running. She flew over a ravine on a pedestrian bridge. On the other side, a fairway edged out the path, empty, glistening, contoured. She remembered The Retreat had a golf course. Its plush grass cushioned her stride. She imagined a lot of golf balls ended up in the bay. A woman crested a dune. At least Alexa guessed it was a woman; she wore a hoodie, so it was hard to tell. Alexa waved, but the woman didn’t respond.
In the distance, distinctive rock formations in the scalloped bay caught her eye. They cut the water like shark fins. In front of them, a plateau shimmered with an amalgam of golden white movement. Alexa decided it was the Cape Kidnappers gannet colony. Her roommate had said it was the largest gannet colony in the world.
She turned into the wind, eager for the day ahead. Her greenstone pendant thumped with every stride, like a second heartbeat. She might see Bruce and his girls this afternoon. Take that tractor tour. But only if she could identify the dead man.
Near the big house, a woman’s voice mixed with the kruk-krukking of gannets. Alexa slowed her stride. Something about “setting traps.” She jogged in place and looked around. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Had it been the wind? The gannets?
Then she heard another voice, male.
“…nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Alexa moved to the cliff edge.
“Up to no good,” the woman answered. “Something something (indistinguishable)…deserves to die.”
She inched closer and peered down, stretching farther than she had yesterday. She could see ledges salted with snowy gannets and peppered with brown-speckled chicks shimmying back and forth. Below them—to Alexa’s amazement—a climber’s head. A bead of sweat gathered at the tip of her nose as she stared. The climber turned profile. What the hell? It was that birder woman from yesterday. The one who complained about Lynn’s helicopter. Alexa searched for the owner of the male voice. The tiers of rock blocked her view.
What was the woman’s name? Cosby, maybe. Alexa almost called out but didn’t want the woman to fall.
She backed up. Who deserved to die? Surely she had misunderstood. The whole overheard conversation was too Miss Marple. She was glad to leave. As she rounded the cottage, she heard thumping country music. A patrol car crawled to a stop next to her Vitz. Alexa spotted Sergeant Atkins through the open driver’s window and jogged over to meet her.
The sergeant sang, “If I had more money, I’d still be broke” as she got out. Today’s nose ring looked like a fishing hook. “Senior tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.”
Alexa groped for the phone pocket at the small of her back. “I didn’t feel it buzz.”
“There’s a press conference at ten a.m. Senior wants you there.”
Alexa checked her watch; it was seven thirty. “Any word on who John Doe is?”
The sergeant shook her head dolefully.
Alexa caught her breath and repeated what she’d just overheard. “It’s a woman DI Steele and I met yesterday. I think her husband is with her. They’re birders.”
“Lots of those about,” Sergeant Atkins said.
“She complained about Lynn Lockhart’s helicopter disturbing the gannets. She’s like Spider-Woman, halfway up the cliff.”
“She said someone deserved to die?”
“I think so.”
Sergeant Atkins looked skeptical. “Might take a look-see. How’s Ms. Lockhart this morning?”
“I haven’t seen her. Last night she insisted Mr. Quinn is arriving today.”
“Senior sent me here to hang out in case he shows up.”
“I’ll see you later, then,” Alexa said.
There was still no sign of Lynn when she entered the cottage. In the guest room she fished out her phone and saw she had two messages. The first was from DI Steele. She texted back that she would attend the press conference. The next was from the pathologist: “Cardiac pathology was negative, no heart attack. Cause of death remains undetermined. Lab tests are pending.”
Okay, Alexa thought. Bunker man hadn’t died of a heart attack. She still had the pink molar. Tests for CO₂ would take at least a week. Alexa sank onto her unmade bed and called the tramping dentist one more time.
“Arjun here.”
Arjun? She fumbled the phone. “Is this Dr. Vidyarthi?”
“Yes?”
“Good morning. My name is Alexa Glock, and I’m working with the Hastings Police Department.”
“Ah, yes, I see you’ve called a few times. You have an unidentified body, eh?”
Alexa pressed the phone harder to her ear. “That’s right. There’s a possibility it’s Harlan Quinn. He owns the property where the body was found. No one has been able to reach him, and his property manager says he is a patient at Bay Best Smiles.”
“I don’t recognize the name. I won’t be back in Hastings until Monday.”
Alexa opened her mouth to tell Dr. V to get back here sooner.
“Eh, Campbell, my receptionist, can get you what you need. I’ll call her now. Meet her at, what time, nine o’clock suit you?”
Alexa eagerly agreed. The pink tooth popped into her head. “Have you ever heard of pink tooth phenomenon? I discovered the deceased has a pink molar.”
Dr. V was quiet. Alexa thought maybe they’d been disconnected.
“It can happen in multiple or single teeth,” he finally said. “Never seen it, but pink teeth have occurred in victims of fire, drowning, suffocation, eh?”
“I’d never seen one either. Thank you for your cooperation.”
The day was looking up. Alexa took a quick shower, made the bed—this wasn’t a hotel, she reminded herself—and packed up. She arranged the stuffed sheep so they were nose-to-nose. She took a look around the sumptuous bedroom for stray socks and then headed to the living area. The cottage was quiet. She said a silent goodbye to opulence. Driving away, she felt more like herself, unfettered by excess and consumerism.
A Hastings café owner fixed her a flat white and sticky bun, which she scarfed down and still arrived at Bay Best Smiles—a little brick building next to a Unichem Pharmacy—early, prepared to wait. A woman in a white puffy jacket was unlocking the clinic door. Alexa hopped out of the Vitz. “Campbell?”
“Never been here on a Saturday before.” The fur encircling the hood hid her face. “Streets are empty. You’re the police?”
Most Kiwis acted oblivious to cool temperatures, so Alexa was amused by her attire. “I’m working with the police. I’m an odontologist.”
Inside, Campbell swept her hood back, revealing a messy honey-colored updo. Alexa imagined she had rolled out of bed at Dr. V’s request, but she seemed cheery. She disappeared around a partition and reappeared at the reception window. “I’d die for a coffee,” she said, booting her computer.
Colorful dental posters hung on either side of the window: We Want To Make You Smile and Five Tips For Healthy Teeth. Alexa considered tip #5: limiting sugary foods. She shifted uncomfortably; caramelized sugar gummed her molars.
Campbell asked, “What’s the bloke’s name?”
“Harlan Quinn.”
“Ah, yeah, sure, here he is.” Campbell studied the screen. “He came in once, for a cleaning. Six months ago. I just sent him a reminder. Shall I pull up his X-rays?” She tapped on the keyboard and then turned her computer screen.
Alexa squinted. The shadowy tendrils of a repaired root in the left lower second molar gave her an adrenaline rush. It matched the X-rays she’d taken of the corpse. Slow down, she told herself. Harlan Quinn wasn’t the only person in the world to have a root canal on that particular tooth.
“Can you email the radiographs to me?”
“Nah, yeah.”
Alexa ran to her car, retrieved her laptop, returned to the office, and sat in the waiting area. Within minutes she had positioned the postmortem and antemortem panoramic radiographs side-by-side. Campbell turned on music, but the sound faded as Alexa compared tooth positions, cavities, the root canal treatment, and a benign bone growth. She was sure of the results, but entered the data into the automatic dental code-matching system to let it determine one of four outcomes—Positive, Possible, Insufficient, or Exclusion.