Alexa studied the side-by-side X-rays at Joan’s desk as Ann watched from the adjacent waiting area. “You’re right, it’s a negative match,” she told Joan. “Hal has a gap here, between the front teeth. The decedent doesn’t. And the fillings don’t match.”
Joan yelled out the good news.
Ann covered her face with her hands and fell into the arms of her friend.
Alexa smiled, removed her gloves, and walked into the spare exam room—still no King—to let Wallace know. “The victim wasn’t wearing a dive suit. It’s a New Zealand–made raincoat and rain pants.”
“Who can it be?” His voice sounded stunned. “A surf fisherman? Someone who fell out of a boat?” His voice was strained. “I’ll check with DOC and missing persons in Invercargill.”
It took ten more minutes to finish the exam. “I’m done,” she told Duffy.
“Me too.”
Her stomach growled as she labeled evidence bags, tidied up, washed up, and left the room.
“I’m glad for Ann,” Joan said. “She still doesn’t know where Hal is, but he’s twenty years old. Why should she?”
“Can you distribute the X-rays to local dentists? See if you can get a match?”
“I’ll send them to all the dentists in Bluff and Invercargill. What if it’s a tourist? Someone on hollies?”
“One step at a time. I’ll be back at 1:00 to meet the pathologist.”
“For the body in the bush, right?”
A body in the bush is worth… No. A body in hand is worth… No. A bird… “I’ve got to eat.” She visualized the fish and chips at her hotel.
Duffy appeared, making Joan go bug-eyed. “Did someone say food?”
“Miss Glock did,” Joan said. Her lively eyes flicked from Alexa to Duffy. “You should eat before the restaurants are chocker with cruise ship passengers.”
“I’ll be grabbing a bite at my hotel,” Alexa said irritably.
“That’s cracking.” The sunny smile was back on his face. “Island Inn?”
She had been planning to review her notes as she ate. “Yes.”
“I’ll report my findings to DOC first—save me a seat. Is there a desk I can use?” he asked.
“Oh, use mine,” Joan gushed.
Alexa left the crime kit and mounting pile of evidence in the spare exam room. She would add more with the body of the hunter, and then she would write reports, draw conclusions, and release the findings and evidence to the Stewart Island Police Department.
She stuffed the orange SAR suit into Kopae’s backpack, swung it on her shoulder, and—eager to leave death behind—stepped into bright sunshine. Where was she? From the porch, no kaka, she spotted her hotel overlooking the bay, two blocks’ walk. A breeze-swept walk would clear her mind. The village sparkled; it was like seeing it for the first time. Fuchsia blossoms gleamed from a tree across the street, their vivid color yelling, “Welcome to the southern hemisphere. Summer in December!” A life-sized chess set stood on a grassy patch by the seaside. How had she missed it before? A toddler wrestled a pawn to a new square. A woman with spiky purple hair sat on a picnic table watching him.
Alexa nodded as she passed.
“G’day,” the woman said. “Are you from the ship?”
“No. I’m…I’m staying on the island.”
The woman’s eyes hardened. “Here to dive with the sharks?”
“No way.”
The toddler toddled over and grabbed his mom’s leg. He studied Alexa with seal cub eyes.
The woman scooped him up and kissed his head. “Stay out of the water, right?”
“Right.” Alexa waved and hurried on, eager for a shower and food. She passed a tiny grocery store, with wildlife cruise and fishing-trip flyers posted on the window, and a museum open 2:00 to 4:00 p.m. She was glad she didn’t have to walk through the inn lobby—she looked, and probably smelled, a mess. She panicked until she located her key, side pouch of backpack, and opened Room Three.
Cozy and plain. Someone had cracked the window again—New Zealanders loved fresh air—and this time Alexa didn’t mind. Whoever had done it—the maid or the proprietor, Constance—must have noticed she hadn’t spent the night. She opened the mini-fridge, and there stood a tiny bottle of milk. All alone. Like me.
The warm spray of the shower was heaven, the water pressure excellent. It eased the sandfly itching of her ankle and the tension camped in her neck. She washed and conditioned her hair and then soaped her body. The rough skin of her back was secret: scars no one could see. Unless that someone was a man she chose to be intimate with. Jeb had said he didn’t mind, hardly noticed. She thought of Bruce, of how it would feel to have his large hands explore her body, coming to a dead halt as they encountered the damage. What would her life have been like if the scars had marred her face or arms or legs? Wasn’t their placement a blessing? Nonetheless, they were her albatross. She thought of the striking Calder-like mobile in the lobby of the Rotorua Police Department. Six large albatrosses floating slowly in an undulating circle, their triple-jointed wings rippling on invisible currents. Every time she had walked under it, her scars had tightened.
Alexa turned off the water.
It would take forever to dry her hair, so she combed the dark tangles into a wet ponytail. She cast her eyes at the pile of dirty clothes, which included the muddy SAR suit and Officer Kopae’s fleece. She wrote a note asking for laundry service, added a few other items, and then checked her cell phone. Two bars—good, she would call Auckland and fill her boss in—and one message: “Bruce Horne here. I have another meeting in Auckland. Why don’t I stop by afterwards and take you scootering? Give me a ring.”
She laughed. Bruce would have to scoot without her. She was dangling off the most southern tip of New Zealand, away from any exploration of new territory.
She left a voicemail explaining she was working a case on Stewart Island. “How about a rain check?”
Private joke, rain check.
Satisfied, she called her boss, Dan Goddard, and let him know about the second body.
“Are you kidding? A shark attack?”
“It’s true. There’s an expert here who claims the victim was attacked by multiple sharks.”
“It will be all over the tellie, internet. They have the right man—I mean woman—for the job with your odontology background. Was it a surfer?”
“The victim wasn’t wearing a wetsuit. I’ll keep you apprised. The victim had some fiber under his fingernail. Where is the closest lab for analysis?”
“Closest forensic lab would be in Dunedin.”
Might as well be Timbuktu.