Wallace screeched to the narrow shoulder of a winding side street and cut the engine. “His house is around that bend—12 Fern Gully.”
Alexa unbuckled and fumbled for the door handle.
“Wait with the car,” Bruce barked.
“But…”
His eyes tangled with hers, reddened her cheeks, held her prisoner. His “one more transgression” warning from this morning made her release the handle.
Wallace left the key in the ignition. “Turn the engine on if you get cold.”
Through the rain-drizzled rear window she watched tall Bruce and solid Wallace recede around the bend. When they were gone, she scooted out, closed the door softly. “Wait with the car” didn’t mean wait in the car. As long as the car was within sight, she was compliant. She pulled up her hood and scurried to the side of the road, glad there were no other houses where an occupant might question her actions, and ducked under a leafy tree.
But she couldn’t see anything. She dashed forward to the cusp of the bend. She could still see the SUV, and now she could see Bruce, Wallace, Briscoe, and Kopae in rain ponchos, huddled twenty yards ahead. Alexa pressed against the trunk of another tree, its limbs catching and pulling her hood off, and watched Bruce’s mouth move. He was hatless and appeared impervious to the rain. She wanted to hear his words. Injustice jabbed. Hadn’t he said this morning they were a team?
Like a mini-choreograph, Bruce and Wallace walked up a flagstone path, while Kopae and Briscoe split, ponchos billowing, to either side of the single-storied bungalow.
A bird squawked.
Jesus. Alexa searched and spotted a kaka eyeing her curiously from a branch above. It was large—eighteen inches tall, maybe—and its sharp, scaly claws could grab her hair. “Go away,” she hissed.
The parrot considered her request, ruffled its wings, and hopped to a higher branch, causing raindrops to splatter Alexa.
She wiped her eyes, pulled her hood back up, and faced Stephen’s cottage. Overgrown shrubbery and cabbage trees blocked the front windows. She wondered what a ranger earned—and how expensive houses were on the island. Was Stephen in debt?
A similar house stood catty-corner across the road, with a car in the driveway. No other houses were visible. No sign of Kopae’s vehicle. She watched Bruce knock on the front door. Wallace stood a few feet behind, to his left, police baton clutched in his hand.
Bruce banged, harder, as if the door were a drum.
Alexa sensed movement. The parrot? But no, it was scratching its beak with its reptilian claw. Through leaves she saw the front door of the other house, the house across the street, open. Stephen Neville stepped onto the stoop. He looked across the street and quickly backstepped, closing the door softly.
Had they gotten the wrong house? Alexa burst from the tree like a flushed pheasant and ran down the middle of the road, waving her arms. She didn’t want to scream; that might warn Stephen that he’d been spotted.
Her crazy flailing jog worked. Bruce pivoted, recoiled. Wallace looked flummoxed.
Alexa barreled onto slippery grass. “I saw him,” she whispered. “Over there.” She pointed crossways.
Bruce’s eyes blazed. “What the hell?”
“What’s going on, Senior?” Kopae said from the side yard.
Alexa pointed a wet finger. “I saw Stephen in that house.”
Bruce hissed, “You were supposed…”
A revving engine and squealing tires silenced them. Briscoe sprinted to join them as Wallace tore across the yard, into the street, and jogged around the curve. “My ute,” they heard him scream. “The bastard stole my ute.”
Briscoe’s and Kopae’s mouths dropped.
“It’s a goddamn snafu,” Bruce shouted.
Wallace reemerged, huffing, his arms held up in surrender. “My car is gone. Neville’s done a runner.”
Crap. Her tote and crime kit were in the car. She groped her pocket, relieved to feel the outline of her new phone, and then fixed her hood, stuffing in wet hanks of hair. “He came on the porch, then darted back inside,” she said. “He must have run out a back door.”
“What? We had the wrong address?” Constable Kopae asked.
Briscoe blanched. “The rental form I checked said number twelve, I’m sure.”
Bruce honed in on Alexa. “If you had stayed in the car this wouldn’t have happened.”
“That’s insane,” she shot back.
Wallace leaned over, hands on knees. Rain ran off the back of his slicker in rivulets. “I don’t know, Senior. Neville could have jumped in the ute, taken her hostage. This is my fault for leaving keys in the ignition. We have to get him.”
Bruce scowled and gestured to the shelter of a cabbage tree. “Let’s think this through over there.”
They gathered round and Bruce continued. “Where can he drive? There are barely any roads on this island, right?”
Kopae bounced on her toes. “Twenty kilometers. That’s all.”
Alexa converted—that was only twelve miles.
“Most circle the village or dead-end,” Wallace said. “Everyone will recognize my ute.”
“Neville should be considered armed and dangerous,” Bruce said.
“He wasn’t holding a gun when I saw him,” Alexa said. Movement caught her eye. She pointed across the street.
The front door had opened, and a young man hovered under the eaves on the stoop where Stephen had stood moments before. He looked up and down the road and then did a double take as he spotted them under the tree. “What’s happening?” he called. He stuck a hand out to test the rain.
“Who are you?” Bruce shouted.
The man flinched, backed into shadow.
Bruce pulled out his badge and squelched across the soggy grass.
Kopae caught up with him. “I recognize him, sir. He’s a seasonal ranger.”
“Your name, please,” Bruce demanded.
The man popped back out. Wallace gripped his baton and joined Bruce.
“I’m Henry Fokisi.”
“Does Stephen Neville live at the address?” Bruce asked.
Alexa and Briscoe crossed the street and watched from the edge of the yard.
“Eh, yeah.” He swiped at his eyes as if the sheer number of cops and strangers—five was an illusion. “I was playing Super Mario when Stephen looked out the door, came running through, took off.” The ranger’s shorts ended at knobby knees, and he had the kind of beard that refused to thicken. “Where did he go?”
Bruce ignored the question and beckoned to Constable Kopae. “Stay here. Get Mr. Fokisi’s information. I’ll take your keys. Meet us back at the station.” He turned and locked eyes with Alexa. “Glock, stay with Kopae.”
As the three men stalked off to commandeer Kopae’s car, Alexa thought, Too many cowboys, not enough horses. A raindrop hit her nose. She heard Wallace calling someone on his radio. Who? As far as she knew, the station was empty.
Inside, cola and beer cans, dirty plates, muddy boots, chip packages, and gaming controllers cluttered the room. Super Mario was scaling a castle wall on the TV while irritating synthesizer music beeped.
Constable Kopae whipped her poncho off, hung it from the doorknob, and slipped out of her boots. “Don’t want to muss your floor,” she said while Alexa stood dripping on it. Kopae crossed to the TV and turned it off. “So we can hear each other?” She brushed some crumbs from the couch, sat on the edge, and pulled a pen and notebook from her vest pocket.
Henry Fokisi looked dumbfounded.
“You don’t mind if I call you Henry?” Kopae patted the spot next to her. “Have a seat. I’ve seen you on weed patrol at the waterfront. Where are you from?”
Kopae was self-assured and disarming, Alexa noted.
Henry sat at the far end of the couch and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Christchurch. What’s going on?” His jandal—that’s what Kiwis called flip-flops, Alexa had learned—dangled from his big toe.
“You’re a temporary ranger, eh?” Kopae’s pen was poised over the pad.
“I’m here December through March. Busy season.”
Alexa walked to the back window and nudged aside a brown curtain. She spotted Stephen’s garden plot and a clothesline with a long-sleeved shirt soaking up the rain.
“How many people live here?” Kopae asked.
“Stephen and me, that’s all. It’s his crib. I’m letting a room.”
Kopae looked around, her brown eyes alight. “Why did Stephen run off?”
Henry rubbed his wispy beard. “I don’t know.”
Kopae kept silent.
Alexa sat in a wooden chair across from the sofa and studied the fidgeting Henry. His jandal fell off. He didn’t seem to notice. She reminded herself that jitters were as common in truth-tellers as in liars. Maybe he was just gathering his thoughts.
Henry’s foot stilled. “Stephen is odd. Stays up all night, reads his books.” He pointed to one on the floor, spine up. Field Guide to New Zealand Cetaceans. A breaching whale photograph was on the cover.
Alexa picked it up and turned it over to see what Stephen had been reading. “Stop the Snoring” was a sidebar story. She skimmed it. In 1840 there were so many right whales in Wellington Harbor, she read, that the Wellys complained the whales’ spouting, which sounded like snoring, kept them up at night. Stephen had been reading about snoring whales. Had it been right whales that Stephen euthanized?
No—Stephen had said pilot whales.
“Sometimes he sobs in the loo,” Henry said.
Alexa looked up.
“Sobs?” Kopae said. “About what?”
Henry shrugged.
“Didn’t you ask?”
“Not my biz. I only pay my rent. But his mum called me.”
Kopae clicked her pen. “Why?”
“She got my mobile number from the DOC office. She hadn’t heard from Stevie. Was checking up on him. I don’t want to talk with someone’s mum. I’m not a nursemaid.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That Stephen was fine. What else would I say? I’m sure she’s calm as, now. Stephen went home—his sis is doing the big OE.”
Odontology exam? Alexa perked up at the thought of Stephen’s sister joining the field of dentistry.
“Did my OE across the ditch,” Kopae said.
“London, myself,” Henry said. “Worked in a chip shop.”
Alexa had to ask. “What’s an OE?”
“Overseas experience,” Henry said, shaking his head, probably at Alexa’s ignorance.
Kopae took down Henry’s contact info while Alexa looked up pilot whales in the index of the guide and turned to the correct page. Highly gregarious, dark gray to black, live in groups, eat squid, 18–19 feet long—hardly bigger than white sharks, she thought. The sobbing in the loo comment made her think of Stephen telling her the dying whales had been crying. She searched “eyes” in the index and thumbed to the page. Whales have eyelid glands that secrete oily tear-like substances to remove debris from their large eyes. She read further down: Whales are sometimes seen or heard crying or moaning when they lose a loved one or feel alone.
Stephen’s whales were crying, she thought, setting the book back on the floor.
“Does Stephen have a gun?” Kopae asked Henry.
His eyes darted to the kitchen. “A shotgun. In the pantry. It belongs to DOC.”
Alexa went to investigate. The kitchen door was open—Stephen’s escape route. She visualized him dashing past the garden and up the road, being surprised by Wallace’s SUV, keys in the ignition. The ranger had acted on impulse. Like the person who attacked me last night. A gust of wind blew rain into the kitchen. Alexa shivered and shut the door. The pantry was a large cupboard, door ajar, next to the oven. A white plastic compost bucket on the floor reassured her. Murderers don’t compost. She lifted the lid and saw a slurry of carrots, eggshells, coffee grounds, slime. Bacteria and fungi at work. Stephen was doing his bit to save the planet. She replaced the lid and glanced around. Three cans of Wattie’s beans and an unopened bag of Value Choc Chip cookies sat on the shelf. A broom leaned in the corner.
Alexa returned to the den. “The pantry is clear. No shotgun.” She noted a small hallway. “Which room is Stephen’s?”
“His is on the left.” Henry slipped his jandal back on and pressed his feet to the floor.
The bedroom door was open. Alexa knew she couldn’t search the room or touch anything without Stephen’s consent. But taking a peek didn’t infringe on his rights. If she saw something incriminating—like Robert King’s personal locator beacon out in the open—that was different.
She stepped inside, a foot or two, and smelled sweat and damp. Maybe mold. The bedroom was small and dark. One shaded window, a lamp on the nightstand. She wished she could turn it on but didn’t want to leave her own DNA behind. The fitted sheet of the single bed was half-off, exposing the mattress. A blanket heaped at the foot.
No PLB in sight.
Half the sliding door of the tiny closet was open. A DOC pullover hung from the rack, and sneakers were strewn on the floor. That reminded her to check the muddy hiking boots in the den. Maybe they would match the Merrell boot cast she had studied in the lab. Size ten it was. Funny, though—it had been Stephen, following her directive, who had taken the impression at the crime scene. The cast was in good condition. It didn’t appear as if it were evidence he wanted to hide, or he could have tampered with it.
Constable Kopae was flipping her notepad closed.
“Did Stephen ever mention Robert King?” Alexa asked Henry. She stood by the boots, one up, and one lying on its side, mud caked to the tread. They weren’t Merrells.
“Nah yeah. We all know about the missing hunter. Most of us thought he carked it in the sea. Those trampers tripping on the skeleton? A surprise, for real.”
Alexa had heard a lot of “yeah nahs,” an irritating Kiwi habit, but never a “nah yeah.” She hated it. “So did Stephen mention Robert King or not?”
“Eh?”
God almighty. “What about Andy Gray? Did Stephen ever mention him?”
The temporary ranger stared at Alexa as if she were batty. “Who?”
“The man who washed up on the beach yesterday. He ran White Dive caging company.”
“The shark attack—damn bad luck. I never heard Stephen mention Andy Gray.”
A straight answer, finally.
“Do you know where Stephen might have gone?” Kopae asked.
“He in trouble, then?”
“Yeah nah,” Kopae said.
“Stephen loves the bush. That’s where I’d look,” Henry said.
The rain pattered with less gusto as they started toward town, carless. What had that fishermen said when she first arrived? Ten-toeing it was the best way to get around. It had been raining then, too. Kopae, encased in her yellow police poncho, looked around suspiciously as if Stephen, armed, might jump out from behind a bush. The cinched hood of her poncho gave her a pie face. Alexa tightened her own hood and felt untethered without her tote and crime kit, now joyriding with Stephen.
“You’re a good interviewer,” she told Kopae. They passed the spot where Wallace’s car had been parked. Alexa scanned the trees, spooked by Kopae’s leeriness.
Kopae ignored the compliment. “I asked Henry about the PLB while you were in the bedroom. You didn’t touch anything, did you?”
“No. Of course not.” Her cheeks flushed despite the cool air. She wanted to be the kind of person who inspired trust, not doubt.
“Henry saw Stephen in the garden with some kind of radio device. Thinks it could have been the PLB.” Kopae’s voice was anxious. “I think Stephen might hurt himself. Or someone else. He’s burned some bridges what with stealing Sergeant’s ute, and that’s dangerous.”
Kopae will make a good DI someday, Alexa thought. She explained Stephen’s crying whales and the mass euthanasia.
“Yeah nah, it was sad,” Kopae said. “But don’t let sympathy for a suspect cloud up your judgment.”
“If you ever want to work in Auckland,” Alexa blurted, “I might have a few connections. Did you get someone to watch over that girl on the beach? Madalyn?”
“Aye. Supervisor Lowell positioned a temp ranger in the parking lot.”
They picked up their pace and after a ten-minute half-jog arrived at the station, both surprised to spot Kopae’s car parked in front.
“Maybe they caught him,” Alexa said.
Bruce, Sergeant Wallace, and Constable Briscoe were inside. Bruce was barking orders into the phone. Briscoe was scribbling a report, and Wallace—arms akimbo—stood at the map.
Kopae rushed to his side. “I thought you’d be combing the island? What’s happening?”
“The DI is ordering a helicopter. My ute will be easier to spot from the air,” Wallace said. “What did you find out from the temp?”
“The DOC shotgun is usually in Neville’s pantry, but it’s missing,” Kopae said. “Henry saw Stephen messing with a radio in the garden. Probably King’s beacon locator.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed when he spotted Alexa dripping in the threshold. Surely, he couldn’t still be mad she left the car? Would he rather Stephen had taken her hostage? He hung up and said, “Copter will be here shortly. Sergeant, you and Constable Kopae get back out, take the sedan, cruise around. There’s an hour of daylight, and you know the island.”
Kopae straightened. “That would leave you with no vehicle, sir,” she told Bruce.
“Use the constable’s. We’ll take the wife’s car,” Wallace said, setting keys on the table.
When the door closed, Bruce glanced from Briscoe to Alexa, his expression now neutral. “We’ve got a few minutes, Ms. Glock.” He gestured to the table but remained standing. “Are there any significant lab results?” His square jaw was shadowed with stubble.
“Yes, sir.” She hung her jacket on the chair back, aware she looked a sodden mess. Briscoe shoved his report aside and drummed his fingers.
“Take notes, Constable Briscoe,” Bruce said.
“Yes, Senior.” He grabbed a notepad and looked expectant.
Alexa was glad Briscoe would record this impromptu meeting. Even with a small team, there were still a lot of moving parts. Keeping everyone up to date was the oil that kept the investigation running smoothly. “I’ll start with Robert King.”
“No,” Bruce said. “Andrew Gray is more immediate. He was shot three days ago, and you were attacked last night. Start with Gray.”
“The photos I took on board The Apex were backed up in the cloud. They showed a bullet buried in the railing.” And prove I was telling the truth. “I emailed them to you.”
“All good,” Bruce said. “I forwarded them to Auckland.”
She explained for Briscoe’s benefit about the fiber that had been embedded in Andy Gray’s fingernail. “It’s from a trawling net and made in Dunedin. Van Kees Nautical Netting. Specifically, a Polyurethane Stealth Glider trawling net.”
“Does it match netting on The Apex?” Bruce asked.
“I didn’t see any netting,” Alexa said.
“Trawling nets are used on fishing boats,” Constable Briscoe said. “I spent a couple summers on my dad’s boat out of Bluff. We used Van Kees. Best in the biz, hardly any drag. I don’t think a cage diving boat would have a trawling net.”
“Maybe they stuff it with bait to attract sharks,” Bruce suggested.
“It’s too big,” the constable said.
“The fiber could have been transferred to Gray during a struggle,” Alexa said. “Van Kees refused to give me his customer information.”
“I’ve filed for a warrant,” Bruce said. “Identifying the fiber is still useful evidence. You can tell whether a particular net matches, right?”
“Yes.” She was explaining about the diatom test when her new phone rang. “Pardon.” She dug it out and checked the screen. “It’s the shark guy, Kana Duffy.”
Bruce nodded. “Answer. I need to talk with him.”
“Hello?” Alexa said.
“We have a date for 7:30 a.m.,” Duffy said. “We’re meeting Captain Luke Grogan at Halfmoon dock.”
“A date?” Alexa’s eyes flickered to Bruce.
“Lucas Grogan will take us cage diving if we get permission from your sergeant fella,” Duffy said. “I need to figure out what’s going on with the sharks and whether to continue the ban on water activities. Put me on to him.”
Alexa thought fast. A couple hours in a ship—boat—with Andy Gray’s single competitor, also a suspect, might yield answers, but no way she was diving with the sharks. She held her hand over the phone and explained.
Constable Briscoe jumped in. “Grogan was cagey when I interviewed him, Senior. He wouldn’t show me anything, wants a warrant for his client list and financial doings. Said he barely knew Gray, that they operated in different shark grounds.”
“Shark grounds?” Bruce said. “Sounds like a coffee drink.”
“I’ll go,” Briscoe offered.
Bruce snorted. “This isn’t a circus. I’m not having my team get in a cage with sharks.” He held out his hand. “Let me talk to him.”
While the DI talked, Briscoe opened the station door. Cool air whooshed in. “Can’t hear the copter,” he reported.
Alexa was trying to decipher Bruce’s conversation with Shark Man and ignored Briscoe.
“Invite the press,” Bruce said. “Make your pronouncement.” He handed the phone back to Alexa, looking satisfied. “All set then. Briscoe, you’ll go with Grogan and Duffy in the morning.”
“Sa-weet az,” Briscoe said.
Off the hook. Alexa felt relief, then cringed. The thought of hooks made her gaff wound throb, pulsate.
Bruce scowled at Briscoe. “Make sure the cager is following DOC’s code of practice. Keep an eye on Grogan, get him talking about Gray, the biz, whatnot.”
“Yes, Senior.”
Bruce looked out the sole window. Darkness was falling. “Where is that bird?”
Briscoe opened the door again as Bruce turned to Alexa. “We got good news from Supervisor Lowell. The rangers located the scene of King’s death.”
“How did they do it?” Alexa asked.
“They used string to measure the shortest route from the clearing where the body was, to the North West Circuit track where the hikers were. The bloke stepped off the path to take a—er—bathroom break, remember?”
She nodded.
“They found a spent cartridge. From a shotgun.”
“Nailed him,” Briscoe said.
“Excellent,” Alexa said. “Did anyone take soil samples? There might be blood…”
“The ammo is good for now. Lowell said the cartridge was similar to the type used by DOC shotguns.”
“Double nail,” Briscoe said, “in Neville’s coffin.”
She hated the thought; she wanted Stephen to be innocent.
“Supervisor Lowell knows which of his rangers, temps, and volunteers were in the area around the time King went missing,” Bruce said. “Neville is one of them.” He paused, maybe listening for the copter. Then he said quietly, “Keep in mind that once you’ve killed one person, it’s easier to do it again.”
The sound of chopper blades made Alexa jump.