Murder bullied its way into her mind as Alexa left the clinic. Could someone have shot John Doe and thrown him to the sharks? The wind tugged her ponytail as she hustled to the one-room police station on View Street. A pair of women blocked her way.
“Our guide said they’re the most aggro sharks in the world,” one said, swinging her Stewart Island Gift Shop bag.
Alexa stepped around them.
“Serial killers is what I heard,” her companion replied.
They joined a throng of tourists heading to the ferry terminal. Down the hill, Alexa spotted Sequin of the Seas, dwarfing a motley fleet of fishing boats in Halfmoon Bay. Where was Sequin headed next? Get away from this island, she wanted to shout.
The little village, isolated and wild, reminded Alexa that she was alone. She had cut ties with her family and colleagues back home and didn’t have a single friend alive in New Zealand.
She broke into a run—eager to share urgent news—despite the heavy tote that contained her laptop, bumping her side. Maybe the new DI had arrived.
At the station, Sergeant Wallace and a young woman, her auburn hair subdued in a frizzy braid, sat at a table in the center of the square room. Constable Kopae’s desk was empty, as was the rest of the station.
“Miss Glock.” Wallace stood. “Did you get my message?”
Alexa remembered she had ignored a call during the autopsy. She shook her head, set her tote down, and tried to catch her breath. The gunshot surprise ricocheted through her brain. Take away drowning. Take away sharks. If treated quickly—transfusions, tubes, surgery—the victim may have survived.
Her urgent news would have to wait. Wallace looked miffed. “This is Lisa Squires. She and her partner, Andy Gray, run White Dive.”
“Hello,” Alexa said, trying to be patient. “What’s White Dive?”
“I told you earlier. We have two shark cage companies on the island. White Dive and Shark Encounter. Miss Squires says Andy is missing. He never came home.”
Alexa’s attention piqued. Twenty-six, twenty-eight, Miss Squires was dressed in a T-shirt and yoga pants. A tattooed fin poked from the scoop-necked tee at her right clavicle.
“Miss Glock has just come from the medical center,” Wallace added.
“Call me Lisa. Andy can’t be the bloke who was attacked because our dives were canceled yesterday.” Lisa squeezed her cell phone. “All the rain. The seas were rough. He sent the crew home. He was due back this morning.”
“Give me the names of the crew members,” Wallace said.
“You know John Lynch and Squizzy Koch,” Lisa said.
“When did you see him last?” Alexa asked.
“I took him a sammie yesterday, one-ish, ’bout the time it quit raining. I drove over—we share a car—and we ate on The Apex.”
“The apex?”
“His boat,” Wallace explained.
“She’s a beauty. A high-tech, custom-built catamaran.” Lisa’s face relaxed for a second and then reverted to worry. “Andy slept onboard, did equipment checks and paperwork. He had deposits to refund because of the cancellations. He promised he would walk home for Sunday tea. I had the jug on, waiting. He doesn’t answer his phone.” She caressed her abdomen, and Alexa could see a bulge. “We’re expecting a babe. He’s so excited. Please find him.”
A stab of sympathy or regret or something she was unwilling to identify jabbed Alexa’s gut. “Can you describe your partner?”
“He’s all about the sharks, yeah? Like he could look for fins all day—the whites spend two-thirds of their time on the surface, and Andy can spot a fin a kilometer away. When they dive he can spot them on the fishfinder. Our boat has all the latest gear. Yeah—he can lose track of time. Whites are his passion.”
Alexa interrupted. “I meant what does Andy look like?” The ravaged body flashed in her mind.
A sliver of a smile formed on Lisa’s lips. “He’s easy on the eye. Tall, fit, dark wavy hair.”
Wallace took over. “I’ve sent Constable Kopae to check the vessel. We have your permission, eh?”
“Yes,” Lisa said. “Anything to find him.”
Wallace looked at Alexa. “Andy is Caucasian, thirty-two years old. He and Lisa live on Kaka Ridge.”
“That’s here on the island?”
Wallace nodded.
Alexa pulled out a chair and sat. “What was he wearing when you saw him last?”
Lisa’s eyes widened. “It’s not him, right? It couldn’t be.”
Alexa stayed quiet.
“I think, um, his track bottoms and a pullover.”
“What color were the pants?”
“Black.”
“Would he have worn a raincoat?”
Lisa brightened. “I gave him a keen one for his birthday. A black Swazi anorak.”
Oh, crap, Alexa thought, that’s John Doe. “Did Andy have fingerprints on file?” She had fingerprinted the deceased, the left hand anyway, since the right was missing.
“What do you mean ‘did’?” Lisa’s hands went to her belly again.
Alexa gave Wallace a slight nod. He went to Lisa, placed a large hand on her shoulder. “Andy’s from Australia, right? His prints will be on his immigration records. Go home while we check things out. Call a friend to come round, sit with you. Or your mum. We’ll stop by as soon as we know anything.”
Lisa looked stunned as he ushered her out. “It can’t be him,” she said plaintively.
As soon as the door shut, Alexa said, “Get me those prints, so I can confirm.”
“God almighty, a babe on the way,” Wallace said. “Lisa’s a local girlie, grew up on-island, but Andy Gray is an Aussie. I met him once. He came in to file a complaint.”
“About what?”
“Lots of the islanders are against shark cage diving, right?”
Alexa nodded, remembering the protest in front of Island Inn.
“Someone threatened him. Chummed his porch and left a message.”
“What was the message?”
“‘Ban the cage, or else,’ written in blood.”