Three days earlier, she had driven to Auckland to lift prints from Fanny. Now she was riding shotgun, retracing the same route. Officer Walker, who was driving, had had two cups of coffee and the unmarked cruiser’s heater going when she had arrived at 5:50 a.m.
“Lots of sugar, no cream. Hope that’s good.”
Alexa’s heart sank, but she smiled. “Thank you.”
“Did you grow up here?” she asked as they reached the outskirts of Rotorua. The sweetened black coffee was more palatable than she imagined, and the sun, rising behind a hill, was blushing the sky pink. Her eyes were sandpapery; getting back to sleep after her nightmare had been impossible.
Dad, Charlie, the doctors, her therapist, all had claimed that Alexa had slid across the slick linoleum into her stepmother and it was an accident that a stream of boiling water poured across her back, melting her shirt into her skin, her piercing screams rending the air.
But maybe…
Never again would she sit in a hot spa pool.
Walker’s reply whipped her back.
“Yeah, eh.” He cast a shy glance at Alexa. “I left for a year to attend police academy in Auckland. Other than that—been here all my life.”
Alexa asked more to stay awake. The warmth from the heater, the lull of tires on pavement, the smeary morning sky were tugging at her eyelids. Walker, as she suspected, was not married and had no current girlfriend. He rented a flat with a mate, pulled for the All Blacks, but he didn’t ask any questions of his own, and after twenty minutes, Alexa quit fighting and let her lids drop. Walker turned on the radio, volume low, pale fingers tapping the steering wheel, and by Matamata, she was out.
The stop-and-go traffic of Auckland jolted her awake. She was startled to see it was almost nine. Rubbing her eyes, she wondered if this trip would pay off. Would she discover the identity of Tat Man? Would she recognize him with his clothes on?
“We’re meeting with Karsh Bailey,” Walker told her as they pulled into the Bailey & Barre parking lot. “He’s the owner.”
“Does he know we’re from the police?” Alexa asked, flipping down the visor and studying her reflection in the wee mirror: raccoon eyes stared back. She found the gloss in her tote and applied a layer to her lake-chapped lips. At least her hair was behaving.
“Yes,” Walker said, slipping into a space. “DI Horne set up the meeting. We’re looking into the buying and selling of Maori artifacts. But Senior didn’t mention Chief Rangituata’s tomb or the murders.”
Alexa popped a couple of painkillers, washed them down with cold sweet coffee, and followed Walker toward the warehouse-style building. Short bushes lined the white painted concrete exterior. Double glass doors with Bailey & Barre Auction House, circa 1918 in ornate letters welcomed visitors. Walker held the door for Alexa. A visitor’s desk to the right was staffed by a young woman in bright-red lipstick.
Alexa surveyed the lobby as Walker headed toward the receptionist. An art show jazzed up the interior. Paintings, hanging from exposed pipes or set on easels, were in rows. Alexa was drawn to a large oil of a Maori family collecting clams on a beach, the splashes of color in the ragged clothes worn by the two children and parents, their flaxen bags heavy with their bounty, the sea green and alive. She’d like to invest in art, something peaceful and colorful like this, someday and examined the card under the painting: “Lot 35, P. McIntyre, starting bid $35,000.”
So much for that idea.
“Ms. Glock?” Walker stood at the end of the row. “Miss Delaney is ready to show us to Mr. Bailey’s office.”
She left the painting and followed Walker and the receptionist down a hallway to an office.
“How can I help you?” A fit man in his seventies stood from behind a walnut desk and extended his hand to Walker. His black silk suit hung tailor-made. Walker shook his hand and introduced himself.
“And this is Ms. Glock from our Forensics Department.”
“Forensics?” Bailey asked. His withdrew his hand.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Alexa said, wishing for a more elegant appearance. In the predawn darkness, she had pulled on rumpled khakis, a black V-neck sweater, and damp Keds. She pulled out her notebook.
Walker took charge. “Mr. Bailey, can you give us a description of your auction house and how many people you employ?”
“Please sit.” Bailey pointed to a pair of leather guest chairs, and they did as suggested. “I was told by your inspector that you had questions about Maori artifacts?” He sat behind his desk.
“Yes. But first we need information about your company,” Walker said.
“My great-grandfather started the auction house in Wellington in 1918. We’re New Zealand’s largest auction house and run by third-generation family members. We opened our Auckland house fifteen years ago. I’m head here, and my sister runs Wellington.”
“How many people do you employ?” Walker asked.
Mr. Bailey considered the question. “We have auctioneers, valuers, buyers, a catalog division, insurance personnel, marketers, a warehouse, and shipping department.” He tapped his fingers on the polished desk. “And our receptionist.”
He’s stalling, Alexa decided. He should know how many people work for him.
“Perhaps twenty full-time and ten more part-time.”
“We’ll need names and numbers,” Walker replied.
“What on earth for?”
“The names and numbers are for verification,” Walker said.
Bailey looked perplexed. “To verify what?”
“Are your sales mostly from buyers in New Zealand or international?” Alexa asked.
“Both,” Bailey said, turning shrewd eyes toward her. “Our auctions attract many overseas buyers. They can look at a catalog and bid electronically.”
“Sight unseen?” Alexa couldn’t fathom buying expensive art from a catalog.
“Buyers trust us.”
“We’d like a copy of your current catalog,” Alexa said.
Bailey perked up. “We have several.” He whipped around in his swivel chair and opened a drawer of the credenza. “These are our latest.”
The catalogs were large and glossy: Fine Wine and Spirits, Estate Jewelry, Antiques and Decorative Arts, and New Zealand Art.
Alexa scooped up Antiques and Decorative Arts while Walker resumed the questioning. “Is it true that your auction house specializes in Maori artifacts?”
“We have evolved into the premier Maori and Pacific artifact purveyors,” Bailey said, puffing up. “There is worldwide appreciation of this unique art.”
“Do you have Maori artifacts in the warehouse now?” Walker asked.
“We almost always have a supply. Is there something specific you are interested in?”
“Could we take a look at what’s in house now?” Walker asked.
“I can arrange that.” Bailey did not hesitate. “Meanwhile, browse the catalog. Pages twenty through twenty-four, I believe.” Bailey punched a number on his desk phone. “Sheryl, can you locate Lot Seventeen and have it brought to the display room?”
Alexa turned to the pages Bailey mentioned. Pages twenty and twenty-one were headed Textiles. Headbands, flax-woven pouches, poi balls, and a feather cloak were artfully displayed. The next couple of pages included two war clubs—one of black stone and the other of whale bone. There was only one greenstone item: a tiki pendant.
“Is it unusual to have so few items made of greenstone?” she asked.
Bailey looked surprised. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Greenstone is becoming harder to procure since the Pounamu Vesting Act of 1997. The South Island tribe now owns all mining rights, and the iwi have chosen to rest the land, so to speak.”
“Does that affect the price of greenstone?”
Bailey nodded. “The price of greenstone has skyrocketed.”
“Where do you obtain your Maori artifacts?” Alexa asked.
“Mostly from private collectors and sometimes from estate sales.”
“Are you able to provide proper documentation for the items you sell?”
“Not every item has a discoverable provenance. For the ones that do, I am registered with the Ministry for Culture and Heritage to sell and trade. Certain artifacts, like the digging stick with the carved head on page twenty-three.”
Alexa looked.
“That item is registered. That’s what the asterisk and numbers indicate. It’s fifty years or older and has cultural significance, so it cannot leave the country unless written permission is given from the Culture and Heritage committee. A buyer also has to be registered.”
“What about this knife?” Alexa asked, pointing to another item on the same page. The wooden blade had serrated teeth embedded in it. “Are those shark’s teeth?”
“That’s a māripi. And yes, those are shark’s teeth.”
“Is it a weapon?” Alexa asked, a chill zip-lining down her spine.
“It was used for butchering whales, sharks, dogs”—he paused— “sometimes human bodies.”
The chill did another run.
“Is it registered?”
“No,” Bailey said, squirming enough to make his leather chair squelch. “Our valuers classified it a reproduction.”
“Are registered items harder to sell?”
“Yes and no. Certainly, they are harder to buy for our overseas investors. But often buyers seek the authenticity registration provides.”
“Does the committee do spot checks on everything you acquire?” Alexa was trying to grasp the concept of registered and nonregistered artifacts and how that might tie in with loot pillaged from Rangituata’s tomb.
“Occasionally. But I follow proper procedure, so spot checks are not a concern. Tell me what this investigation is about.”
“Who determines which artifacts must be registered?” Alexa ignored his request.
“Our valuers.” Mr. Bailey sprang up, buttoned his suit jacket, and moved to the door. “Let’s see if Lot Seventeen is ready.”
“One more question,” Alexa said. “What can you tell us about international smuggling rings? For Maori artifacts?”
“Every transaction Bailey & Barre makes is aboveboard. I don’t deal in black markets.” He opened the door and waited.
Walker and Alexa followed him into the corridor. “Where are your restrooms?” Alexa asked.
Bailey pointed the way down the corridor. “We’ll be in here,” he said, stopping at a door that was cracked.
After popping in and out of the ladies’ Alexa continued down the hallway, which turned to the right and dead-ended at a door marked Shipping Department. She tried the handle; it opened to a cavernous room packed with shelved boxes and furniture.
A woman was operating a forklift, deftly sliding a box into its nook. Alexa backed out. Bailey & Barre was big business.
She didn’t have much time and was about to try another door when she heard a voice.
“Miss?”
Damn-it-all.
Alexa turned. The receptionist, Sheryl, was approaching. “Thank goodness,” Alexa said. “I forgot which way to go.” She considered the young woman. “I was looking for Philip’s office.”
“Philip Milchner?” The receptionist scrunched up her forehead.
Alexa nodded.
“Mr. Milchner is in Napier.”
“When will he return?” Alexa asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said, puzzled. “Probably tomorrow. We have the lot you requested. Follow me.”
“I’ll need Philip’s phone number,” Alexa continued.
“It’s on the list I gave your boss.”
Boss? She followed Sheryl into the display room. Lot Seventeen was arranged on two tables. She gave the artifacts a cursory look and walked over to Walker, who was poking the shark tooth knife like a kid. Mr. Bailey was talking on his phone.
“I got the name,” Alexa whispered.
“How?” Walker mouthed back, but there was no time to explain. Bailey had joined them.
Alexa asked, “What can you tell me about Philip Milchner? Your employee who is in Napier today?”
Bailey looked surprised. “Mr. Milchner?”
Alexa nodded. “What’s his job title?”
“Philip Milchner is one of my valuers.”
“How long has he been with your house?” Alexa asked. “And what’s he doing in Napier?”
“Why? It’s none…”
“Answer Ms. Glock’s questions,” Walker said. The māripi was in his hands.
“Please put that down.”
Walker complied.
“Mr. Milchner started three months ago. He came to us with impeccable recommendations,” Bailey said. “Some art deco items have come up for sale at the Masonic Hotel in Napier. Philip is taking a look-see. He left for Napier from Rotorua, where he had business yesterday. Why are you interested?”
Bingo.
“What business in Rotorua?”Alexa and Walker asked simultaneously.
“An estate sale, I believe.” Bailey’s eyes darted between Walker’s and Alexa’s. “Why are you interested in my employee? Is there something I should know?”
“We can’t share information at this time, Mr. Bailey,” Alexa said. “Do you know where Mr. Milchner was on Saturday?”
“I don’t know what my employees do on the weekend, unless it’s work related.”
“Do you know William Dittmer? He has an antiques store in Rotorua.” Alexa asked.
Bailey blinked. “That name sounds familiar.”
“He was the former curator of the museum in Rotorua,” Alexa added.
“And let go, right? I remember now. Some improprieties, I believe. I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Do you have a photo of Mr. Milchner?” Walker interjected.
Mr. Bailey’s forehead wrinkled. “If Mr. Milchner is doing something illegal, I have a right to know. My company’s reputation is at stake.”
“This is routine questioning,” Alexa said. “You’ve been very cooperative.”
Bailey relaxed. “I believe there was a photo of him in the Aucklander last month.” He fished out his phone and spoke to Sheryl again.
A few minutes later, the receptionist appeared with a copied newspaper photo. The caption read: “Philip Milchner, valuer for auction dynasty Bailey & Barre, nets $40,000 for rare book collection.” A man in ball cap and sunglasses was looking away from the camera.
Alexa brought the paper closer, studied it. Maybe it was Spa Guy. Hard to tell with clothes on. “Is Mr. Milchner bald under that cap?”
“Why, yes,” Mr. Bailey said. “Bald as an egg. He earned a sizable bonus for that sale.”
After advising Sheryl and Mr. Bailey to not contact Milchner, Walker and Alexa thanked them and left.
Were Dittmer and Milchner partners? Had one or both of them killed Paul Koppel? Ray Herera?
Walker took a photo of the news clipping with his iPhone, sent it to headquarters, and then called DI Horne from the parking lot, filling him in and suggesting someone intercept Milchner. Alexa was listening. “I don’t agree,” she said loudly. Walker frowned and kept talking. She leaned closer and yelled toward the cell, “I don’t agree, sir.”
She could hear Horne speaking, and suddenly Walker thrust the phone in her face. “Here!”
“Bruce? I mean DI?”
“So you’re calling the shots now?”
“Of course not. It’s just a suggestion. We might learn more by tailing Milchner than by questioning him. So he doesn’t know we’re onto him.”
“Put Walker back on.”
* * *
They rode in silence for the first hour, Alexa’s mind on the teacup. She wanted to get back to that store and buy the teacup. How would she handle it if Dittmer were in the shop? Make up some story about needing a gift. Bridal shower thingy. Did they have bridal showers in New Zealand?
Goodness knows she had been to enough of them in the States, people eyeing her, asking, “When are you getting married, Alexa?” Men were never asked, but a single woman? Fair play. Open season. Who let the dogs out?
Same with baby showers. “Don’t you just want one of your own?” some colleague would gush, practically shoving her drooling infant into Alexa’s protesting arms.
In a few years, it would be too late to bear a child, which had never bothered her much when it was a choice.
I don’t even like kids, remember?
Walker broke her wild goose thread. “You were right. It’s better to follow Milchner rather than haul him in. I wish I’d get this police business straight for a change.”
“We’ll find out which plan DI Horne went for when we get back.” A swell of affection for the ginger-headed rookie took her by surprise. “If Bailey is in on the whole thing, he’s probably already called Milchner. You did a good job questioning him.”
Walker pushed pedal to metal, and the remaining two hours to Rotorua flew in a blur.
* * *
Bruce Horne was leaving the station as they entered. He looked at his watch and turned around. “I can spare five minutes. Let’s talk here.” He pointed to the reception bench where Alexa had first met him. Walker filled him in on the details of the visit.
“Good work, Walker.” The DI studied the young officer whose cheeks colored. “Go write your report.”
He turned to Alexa as Walker hurried away. “I need you to check in with that anthropologist doctor. She’s at the morgue. We need cause of death and age of the skeleton. Hurry her up. She thinks she’s writing a dissertation or something. Couldn’t get her to comment.”
“So you want me to leave the lab again? I thought I was under house arrest.” She should have kept her mouth shut.
The DI flushed but was mature enough not to bite. “I’m on my way to Pirongia to meet with the Ministry of Culture representative. He’s discovered something of interest.”
“I’ll head straight to the morgue. What did you do about Milchner?”
“That’s my business.” He shook his head and left.