Bruce directed Lowell to lead the rangers back to where King’s remains were discovered to establish where he was shot. “It can’t be far from where the body was,” he said. “Cross-check all DOC records—which rangers had been near, what hunters and trampers were on-island.”
The desk phone rang, and Kopae jumped at it.
Bruce continued firing orders at Lowell. “Stop by the ferry office. Get passenger lists for the past week and have one of your rangers stationed at the terminal. I want to know who is going and coming.”
Alexa noted the ranger supervisor was taking notes.
Constable Kopae hung up the phone. “Reporters, Senior,” she said to Wallace. “I told them bathing beaches are still closed.”
“I called Kana Duffy in to assess,” Supervisor Lowell said. “I’ll have him make a statement to the press.”
Bruce turned to Kopae. “Constable, I’d like you to canvass the Golden Bay area. Who heard the sound of a gun Saturday afternoon? Who saw anyone around the wharf? Who owns the boats docked there?”
“Also—sir—I could follow up on islanders with gun permits.”
“Good thinking.” To Wallace, Bruce said, “Get Gray’s partner in here. I want to interview her.”
“Lisa Squires and her mother are meeting me at the airport at half past nine,” Wallace said. “Miss Squires wants to view the body at the morgue. King’s family will be there too.”
“Round her up now.” Bruce looked at his watch. “It’s only eight. Bring her in before Gray’s crew gets here. She needs to know her partner’s death wasn’t a simple—if there is such a thing—shark attack. I’m releasing Gray’s name to the press, but nothing about the bullet.”
Bruce was working the room. Alexa could understand why he had been promoted. He swung around to her.
“You’re booked on the same flight as Squires and Wallace,” Bruce said. “We’re getting you to a lab.”
“I need to get back to The Apex first,” she said. “With your permission.”
“Granted.”
She collected her belongings but lingered; she needed a ride.
Constable Briscoe was sent to interview Lucas Grogan, owner of Shark Encounter. “See if there was animosity between the rival companies. Was there enough business to go round? Check the books, the owner’s whereabouts.” Bruce threw orders like darts. “Then dig into Gray’s finances and phone records. How much does a vessel like The Apex cost? Where did he get the money? Get me a report by noon.”
Briscoe’s collar was messed up again—half up, half down. “Sweet az,” he said.
Alexa was picking up Kiwi slang and knew Kiwis used “sweet as” when they were pleased. She stepped over to Kopae. “Could I get a lift to Golden Bay?”
The constable looked startled, then agreed. “Short on cars, we are. Let me file this report first.”
Uncomfortable with Bruce’s proximity, Alexa waited on the station porch. She let the early morning breeze off the harbor cool her cheeks, calm her mind. No cruise ship blighted the postcard vista. Kopae told her the cruise ships showed up only once a week, weather permitting. No approaching or departing ferry either, only a figure rowing a dinghy toward a moored sailboat. The rower’s progress was jerky, making her think of the cases. Advancement in crime investigation was often jerky, hard to identify. She thought of her impending return to The Apex. The Alpha Predator. The wound on her shoulder throbbed.
Showing fear triggered attack—right?
She thought instead of Bruce’s theory that the cases might be the work of one person. She understood Occam’s razor theory—but considered an article she had read in Psychology Today that said people who believe two variables are related tend to see connections in the data when it doesn’t exist. People are fallible. She might have to become the voice of reason for Bruce.
Constable Kopae appeared, zipping her navy police vest. Her checkered police cap hid her stubby ponytail. “Let’s go.”
Kopae’s car was a slightly rusted gray sedan—a Holden Commodore. Alexa shook her head; the make sounded like the captain of a yacht. She stuffed the crime kit and her tote in the back and climbed in as Kopae lowered the windows. They stayed silent until the station was out of view.
“So…” Kopae said.
“I want…” Alexa said at the same instant.
They laughed. Alexa tried again. “Thank you for getting my tote.”
“Ah, yeah,” Kopae said. “Good to stick together. Me Too movement, and all?”
Alexa bit her tongue. #MeToo was about sexual harassment and didn’t apply.
“Did you see the stack of Shark Sighting forms in the galley,” Kopae asked, “when you were on The Apex?”
Alexa nodded. “They were from the Department of Conservation,” she said. “I wondered why Gray had them.”
“Me too. Wallace put in for a warrant so we can confiscate them.”
That was the kind of Me Too Alexa could support.
They glided through the village. A light was on in the Four Square grocery store, and a man, newspaper tucked under his arm, yanked his yellow lab along the sidewalk. In a blink the town was gone. Alexa recognized Wallace’s house and craned her neck to see if Nina was in the kitchen window.
Kopae slowed to let a large parrot hop across the road. “So you’ve worked for DI Horne before? What’s he like?”
The bird stopped, faced them. “Cheeky fella,” Kopae complained, honking. “Sometimes kakas perch on top of my car and slide down the windshield.” The parrot fluttered large green wings and stalked to the shoulder.
Alexa watched the bird show and thought of how Bruce had masterfully taken the reins at the briefing. “Bruce is dogged and smart. A bit single-minded…”
“Bruce?” Kopae interrupted. “I heard Yanks were casual. I’d be given bus fare to Te Anau—that’s where I grew up—if I used his given name.”
Oops. “Yeah. We are casual in the States. I meant Detective Inspector Horne. He’ll do a good job.”
Kopae turned off Golden Bay Road. A rosy palette of wharf spread below as the constable pulled next to a rusting Toyota Vitz. “That’s Ryan Kern’s car. He runs the water taxi. I’ll be back in sixty mins.”
Alexa yanked her stuff out and said goodbye. She turned her head, retracing last night’s steps: down the hill, through this lot, onto the beach, up the pier, onto The Apex, into the water, through the chum, swim to shore. She was thankful to be alive and remembered her vow to call her brother. Tonight.
Wait. Her phone was ruined.
She focused on the work ahead. In Raleigh she would process a crime scene with a team, but New Zealand was too sparsely populated, spread too wide for forensic teamwork. Usually she preferred working alone.
I’m not alone. The rusted Toyota dude was here somewhere, and a figure in a floppy hat walked the shoreline. Alexa readied the digital camera and began clicking. The world seen through a viewfinder was governable. Yellow caution tape still barricaded the pier and fluttered from The Apex. Alexa took several stills, including the beachcomber, a woman, and then hung the camera around her neck and trekked to the White Dive boathouse. She tried the door and window. Locked. She’d remind Bruce to have it searched.
“No dives today,” called a bushy-haired man from the water-taxi boathouse. He leaned out the ticket counter ledge.
She walked over. “Good morning. I’m Alexa Glock, working with the police.”
“Eh, I saw Elyse drop you off. What’s with that caution tape barricading the pier? I have customers arriving. Need to get to my boat.”
“I’ll remove it in a sec. Constable Kopae said your name is Ryan Kern. Is that right?” Alexa took out her notepad.
“That’s me. This have to do with the shark attack?” He was fifty, maybe, tall and lean.
“We’re taking precautions.”
“The attack will shut the cagers down, eh?” His chestnut eyes were sharp. “’Bout time. Tormenting sharks for profit. Makes me sick.”
The team would have to look into this guy. “Where are you headed this morning?”
“Ulva Island.” He pointed to a green mass in the bay. “Pristine predator-free bird sanctuary. No one lives there—just the birds.”
She followed his gaze. The morning sun peeked above the cloud, the air was cool, the waves docile. She wasn’t fooled, though. Ulva Island might be predator-free, but Stewart Island wasn’t.
“‘Birds and Bamboo Orchids.’ That’s the name of my tour. I’m the guide, too.” His eyes softened. “Do you know who the victim is?”
“Not yet,” she lied. “Were you around Saturday?”
A car crunched across the lot. They watched it park and a couple get out. Alexa recognized the birders from the breakfast bar.
“It was pissing guts Saturday. I stayed home.” He stepped out from the boathouse and doused his ankles and neck with bug spray.
“It cleared up later.” Alexa scratched her sandfly bites. “Where do you live?”
He pointed up the hill and slipped on sunglasses.
Alexa could make out three cottages partly hidden by woods. The birders were walking this way. She turned to the fishing boat docked past Kern’s water taxi. “Whose boat is that?” Rust stains wept from two small portholes, staining the gray painted hull. A winch and netting lined the stern.
“Darla Jo belongs to Sean Warren.”
“He around?”
“He comes and goes.” Kern grabbed a key from his pocket and locked the boathouse door. “His schedule is irregular since he lost his job. The oyster farm shut down, eh? He does odd jobs now. Can you take that ribbon down?” Kern turned toward the birders. “G’day,” he said jovially.
“Is ‘Birds and Orchids’ still on?” the man asked.
“Is it safe?” the woman asked, eyeing the yellow tape.
“It’s all good,” Kern replied. “Let’s fill out paperwork. Last week I saw a saddleback.”
Alexa didn’t know if a saddleback was a bird or an orchid. She walked to the pier, scanning the sand. High tide and rain had erased footprints. She removed the caution tape at the end of the pier—Kern had to make a living. The tape barricading The Apex waved, but she turned away for the moment and focused on the beachcomber who appeared to be taking notes on a clipboard.
She was young, early twenties, and wearing green-and-purple-striped pajama-like pants tucked into gum boots, and a black pullover pinched tight by backpack straps. Her floppy blue hat clashed. A thrift store bargain hunter, Alexa decided, approaching. “Hi,” she said.
The woman studied her clipboard. Alexa tried again. “Hello. I’m with the police. May I ask you some questions?”
Her pale green eyes darted everywhere but at Alexa. She finally spoke. “No policemen are with you, and you aren’t wearing a uniform.”
Alexa unzipped her all-purpose lightweight jacket. She could hear the girl’s American accent. “The police are at the station. I am helping them with an investigation. I’m from the States, too. What’s your name?”
The woman—maybe a college student—turned sideways and studied the shore. In a monotone, she said, “I’m Madalyn Smith from Annapolis, Maryland, United States of America. I am collecting data.” She pointed to a strand of seaweed stretching half the length of the beach. “This is number forty-four. Macrocystis pyrifera.”
“It’s kelp, isn’t it?”
“Giant kelp is the world’s largest seaweed. It can grow two feet per day.” Madalyn tapped her pencil against the clipboard. “Giant kelp can reach one hundred feet long. That is equivalent to thirty meters.”
“There’s a lot of it around here,” Alexa offered. She wondered if Madalyn was on the autism spectrum.
Madalyn marked her spreadsheet. “There are fifty-six varieties of brown kelp on Stewart Island available to aid me in my dissertation: Kelp Forest Ecosystems. I have collected data on forty-six.”
Alexa perked up. “Is it true that sharks stay out of kelp?”
“That is false.” Madalyn spoke loudly. “Researchers in South Africa attached cameras to the dorsal fins of eight Carcharodon carcharias. Seven swam into the kelp forests. That’s eighty-seven percent. The experiment is recorded on YouTube.”
The waves hissed, and the water was clear and green. Ten feet out the kelp undulated lazily. She hadn’t been safe from the sharks when she thrashed through it last night. Kern caught her attention—he was leading the birders to his small boat. Would a great white shark attack a small boat? Were the birders safe?
Madalyn removed a ruler from her backpack side pocket and walked away.
Startled, Alexa followed. “Do you come here every day?”
“No. I work six days a week. I begin at 9:00 a.m., which is 4:00 p.m. yesterday in Annapolis, Maryland. I stop to eat lunch at 12:30. I begin again at 1:00 p.m., which is 8:00 p.m. yesterday in Annapolis, Maryland.”
“Were you here this past Saturday?” Alexa asked. The sound of a motor caught her attention. Kern had started his boat and was zipping off, tailed by a frothy wake.
Madalyn’s brow, barely visible under her sun hat, scrunched. “Saturday morning the island received 2.5 inches of precipitation.” She did more tapping. “I stayed at Stewart Island Youth Hostel. At 2:00 p.m. I walked here.”
Was this young woman safe? Smart, yes. But safe? No. Not with a killer on the loose. Alexa worried for her. “Did you see people around?”
Madalyn’s pale green eyes ricocheted off Alexa’s.
Alexa clarified. “Did you see people on this beach, or on the pier Saturday?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone in the parking lot or in the boathouses on Saturday?”
Madalyn spoke so loudly that Alexa had to step back. “At 5:00 p.m., a black Chevy truck drove at a high rate of speed and parked in the lot.”
An ice pick jabbed Alexa’s heart. This was within Andy Gray’s time-of-death window. “Did you see the license plate?”
“Yes.”
Alexa waited for more, but nothing came. “Do you remember the license plate number?”
“No.”
Alexa wrote down Madalyn’s contact info and a description of the truck. “Could you describe the driver of the pickup truck?”
“He was a man with dark hair and light skin.”
Alexa searched the beach. They were completely alone. “Thank you for talking to me. Good luck with your kelp work. And be careful.”
“Be careful,” Madalyn repeated, looking confused.