As Kopae tried her phone, Alexa thought about the whales’ loyalty to family and friends. In comparison—family strife and friendless—she was pathetic.
Kopae couldn’t get service and used the portable radio to inform Sergeant Wallace that Harata confirmed Stephen’s story about the personal locator beacon.
“Eh. That’s what he’s saying. And something else.”
“What?”
“Supervisor Lowell said Stephen wasn’t alone when he euthanized the whales. A temp helped him. But Stephen insists he was alone. Crikey—he’s messed in the head.”
This was big news. Alexa thought back. Stephen had never mentioned another ranger. Or a second shotgun. He probably felt alone, as if, Atlas-like, he carried the weight of whales on his young shoulders.
“Have you heard from the ballistics lab?” Kopae asked.
“No. But we just talked with Gray’s crew member Squizzy Koch. He helped Gray haul up that shark. September first, he remembers, because it was his birthday. Next day the shark was gone, all the blood cleaned up. Lowell said Gray never reported it.”
Kopae whistled. “Maybe he sold the shark and that’s where the $5,000 came from. Maybe this is a black-market case.”
“Eh. We’re thinking the same. The deposit was cash.”
“Hard to trace cash, Senior.” They disengaged. Kopae turned to Alexa. “You heard that?”
She nodded. “People usually use cash for small transactions, not big ones.”
“Yeah nah. I use my EFTPOS for everything,” Kopae said.
A debit card. Alexa was used to the Kiwi term now.
Kopae drove the bumpy drive at a crawl. “If Stephen found the PLB near the whales, and not on King’s body, that indicates King had been in the area.” Kopae turned the car onto Pitiki Road, and the jostling ceased.
“Stephen told me that hunters often walk the perimeter of their hunting block when they first arrive,” Alexa said. “I think the whales beached in part of Little Hellfire.”
“Man,” Kopae said, “we’re shaking something loose. Do you think Robert King cut out the whale jaws? Maybe Stephen saw him, got mad, and shot him. There’s our motive. Revenge for the whales. He had the means with his shotgun.”
“But King’s body was discovered a couple miles away,” Alexa said. “No one would drag a body that far.”
“Who butchered the whales then?” Kopae asked.
The wind pushing through Kopae’s window wrestled with Alexa’s hair, blowing stray locks into her face. She reset her ponytail, pulling it tight. “If King didn’t, and Stephen didn’t, then we’re talking about a third person.” A single house, blue, flashed by. “The area is remote, right? Whoever did it took the jaws. They had to have a way to move them. Maybe it was someone with a boat.”
Kopae smacked the dash with her palm and reached for the radio again. “Sarge,” she said when Wallace answered. “Did Robert King’s hunting pals mention seeing a boat in the area?”
“Hold on.” The radio clacked and went quiet. In a few seconds Wallace was back. “All three said no.”
“What about Stephen? Did he see any boats?”
“Don’t know. He’s gone now. Lowell is escorting him to Invercargill Prison. He’s going to get a mental health screening.”
Kopae accelerated, thrusting Alexa back into the seat. It felt like they were moving closer to answers.
“Lee Bay Road ends at the Rakiura National Park Visitor Centre,” Kopae said a few minutes later. “After that, the road ends. McAdam’s place is before the turnoff.”
Alexa was curious to see the Facebook bully.
They parked behind a car in the sandy driveway and got out. A house by the sea—albeit humble—was a popular dream, Alexa thought, looking at the backyard bay spread like a turquoise palette. No dark clouds or stiffening wind yet. Alexa’s heart sank when she noticed a fishing boat moored offshore. “Parked out front” as Kopae had said.
A man opened the door before Kopae knocked. A low growl came from behind him. “Hush, Jack,” he said over his shoulder.
“I’m Constable Kopae, Stewart Island Police, and this is Ms. Glock from Auckland. Are you Ed McAdam?”
“That’s me. What’s wrong? The missus?”
“Nothing wrong, sir,” Kopae said. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?” He had three days’ beard growth and an oily bowl haircut.
Kopae stepped closer. “May we come in?”
“I’ll come out.” He stepped onto the stoop, pulling the door shut and forcing Kopae to back step. Jack barked frantically. Alexa could see his furry head through a window.
Kopae swallowed. “Do you own a Van Kees Stealth Glider trawling net?”
He frowned. “What is this about?”
“May I have your permission to see the netting on your boat?”
“What for?” McAdam looked confused.
“It’s part of our investigation,” Kopae said.
“What are you investigating? The shark attack? Don’t think I don’t know.” Sun spots freckled his weathered face. “Gray was shot and fed to the sharks. That outside DI—the one who thinks he knows anything about island life—told Stormy Parker.”
Word had spread like an algae bloom, Alexa thought.
Kopae squared her shoulders. “If we could look at your nets, then we can be on our way.”
“You tell me why, I might consider.”
Jack’s bark segued to howling.
“Ms. Glock has evidence that you threatened Andy Gray.”
“Bugger. I’ve never even met him.”
Alexa slipped the Facebook list from her pocket. She cleared her throat. “You made online threats toward Andy Gray, and the shark caging industry.”
“That puts you under suspicion,” Kopae said.
“What the hell are you on about?” McAdam bellowed.
“This appeared on the ‘Ban the Cage’ Facebook page: ‘If the courts won’t shut them down, we will.’ That’s the first one,” Alexa said.
McAdam’s face flushed. “Courts don’t have the balls to shut ’em down. Meanwhile, we sit on our asses, twiddling our thumbs, pāua going to waste.”
“Last week you commented directly to Andy Gray,” Alexa said: “‘I’d like to see a white keep you in check.’”
His face was cherry-red now. “Are you trying to pin his murder on me?”
“Showing us your trawling nets could potentially clear you,” Alexa said.
“You’ll have to go on a little trip.” McAdam pointed to the boat attached to buoys in the bay. “The netting is onboard. I need to secure her for the storm anyways.”
Kopae and Alexa eyed each other.
McAdam didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ll get my things.” When he opened his front door, Jack stopped howling.
“I’ll go,” Kopae said to Alexa. “You wait here.”
“DI Horne said we should stick together.”
Kopae hurried to the sedan and opened the trunk, removed waterproof pants and gum boots. Alexa had a good pair of gum boots too, back in Auckland. She looked down at her Keds despairingly. At least the crime kit was in a water-resistant pack. She zipped up her jacket and headed to the beach, trying to gauge the distance to the fishing boat. It was close enough that she could read the name painted across the stern: Pandora. She looked left and right for sea lions before venturing onto the sand, stepping past a rowboat pulled safe from the sea’s grasp.
McAdam, his PFD sun-bleached and tight against his chest-high waders, threw Kopae and Alexa life jackets, hauled the rowboat into the water, and barked for them to climb in.
Okay, Alexa thought. She and Kopae scrambled in the water and onto a bench seat facing McAdam, who rowed with practiced strokes from the center bench. He wore a cap and sunglasses and avoided eye contact. With each stroke, the rowboat jerked Alexa’s chin into her orange life vest—the cheap kind summer camp kids wore. She cinched the waist belt tighter, reflecting that when water looked flat from a distance, that didn’t mean it was close up. The cusp of the Pacific Ocean jumped and jiggled as if prodded by an electric current. Occasionally, a wave plunked over the side, further wetting her Keds.
“She’s riding heavy,” McAdam said.
“Fish and chips for lunch,” Kopae laughed. “Look,” she nudged Alexa. “Pāua on the rock.”
They were directly over a reef. The water was so clear it was hard to tell how far down the reef was. Through the shadow of the tender, giant oysters were attached to rocks. Alexa figured those were pāua. She leaned over the side, rocking the boat, her nose close to the waves. Bubbles from the dip of the oar. The dart of small fish. A swirl of kelp straining for the surface. What if she spotted a shark? She sat up, scooched closer to Kopae. The thought of a white circling their toy boat gripped her windpipe, squeezed. She wanted to look for fins but couldn’t bear the thought of seeing one. A ram, and they would flip. She clutched the bench, eyes wide, searching McAdam’s face for signs of panic, understanding how the locals felt.
In five more minutes, they pulled along the fishing vessel, its broad navy flank in need of sanding and painting. McAdam told them to stay put as the rowboat nudged Pandora. He stood, gum boots planted wide, and threaded a rope attached to the rowboat through a metal ring on Pandora. When the rowboat was secured, he reached up to the side of the fishing boat and flipped down a folding ladder. It clacked against the side of the boat and settled. McAdam looked at Alexa. “You first. Lucky she’s not pitching. Up you go.”
As she stood, legs shaky, the rowboat shifted alarmingly, and the crime kit slid off her shoulder. She grabbed McAdam’s extended hand.
“I’ll take your pocketbook, toss it up to you.”
She let the kit slide off her arm.
“Hold here.” McAdam pointed to handholds on either side of the flimsy aluminum ladder lurching up and down with the small swells. She forced herself to release his beefy hand and grab the handles, pulling her body closer to the boat, thankful for years of push-ups and planks, and toed her wet Ked onto the first rung. She climbed fast, terrified of falling into the rowboat or water. The toughest part was hoisting herself over the rail and rolling onto the deck.
Kopae clapped.
Once they were all aboard, McAdam strode to the stern and pointed to a raised and rusted V-shaped contraption. “Called the gantry. Part of the net is attached on this side, the other here. Then I lower the beam with this winch and drag the net behind the boat.”
Gobbling up everything in the ocean. “Do you ever catch sharks? Like by accident?” Alexa asked.
“Baby ones, eh. Throw ’em back overboard.”
“Don’t they drown first?” Alexa asked.
McAdam stayed quiet and opened a wooden box below the gantry. Netting lay in folds, faded blue and knotted in diamonds.
“What brand is it?” Alexa asked.
“Don’t recall,” McAdam said.
“I’m going to need to spread it out,” Alexa said.
“Do what you want. I didn’t have anything to do with Andy Gray’s death.”
McAdam busied himself as Kopae helped Alexa spread out the netting, which spanned the width of Pandora. The trawling net was cone-shaped—wide at the open end and funneled to a rounded sack. Only small fish could escape its clutches. She took out her magnifying glass and got on her hands and knees.
The net appeared in good shape. No holes, no blood.
“What do you think?” Kopae asked. “Is it Van Kees?”
Alexa peered at a segment through the glass. She could see eight individual plies. It was thicker and heavier than the fiber from Gray’s fingernail. She set the glass down and grasped a section of netting in each hand and pulled in opposite directions. The net stretched. Van Kees had bragged that his netting was light and resistant to stretch.
“I don’t think so. I’ll snip a sample just to verify.”
They folded and restored the net. The sky remained void of clouds, though Alexa thought the temperature was dropping. Her stomach churned at the thought of sitting in the small rowboat again. Why the hell didn’t it have a motor? She stood on the deck, waiting for McAdam to finish storm prep, tapped her foot in the frustration of having wasted time, and checked the surface for fins.
McAdam was chatty on the way back, perhaps relieved that his net hadn’t netted him. A breeze stirred up some chop, but he powered through it rhythmically. He was the one who spotted it.