Alexa watched from the shelter of the porch as the copter followed the curve of roads, searching for prey, more dexterous than she thought possible. Constable Briscoe stood at her side, and Bruce, despite the rain, stood in the street for a better view as the copter hovered, dipped, rose, then swooped like a hawk after a rabbit.
“That’s near Observation Rock,” Briscoe said.
“What’s that?” Alexa asked.
“There’s a fancy lodge and a trail to an overlook. Tourists love the view. Rangers maintain it, so Stephen would know about it.”
The radio in Bruce’s hand blared. “Horne here,” he answered. His feet were hips’ width apart. At some point during the day he had switched from a navy blazer to a black windbreaker. Alexa thought he looked FBI handsome.
“Wallace here. My ute is parked at the Rock.”
“We’re on our way.” Bruce stashed the radio into his jacket pocket. “Briscoe, come on. You wait here,” he told Alexa. “Understood?”
Before she could protest, they were screeching past in Kopae’s sedan, running the stop sign at the corner.
She paced the porch, furious at being left behind. Again.
I am not a police officer, she chastised. Bruce had made the right decision.
The adrenaline circulating in her bloodstream didn’t dissipate. It pinged around like Super Mario, taking corners, moistening her armpits, pulsating her gaff wound, shortening her breath.
What was happening to Stephen?
A gust chased her inside. She pulled the station door shut and leaned against it, breathing slowly, deeply. Too quiet now. She viewed the small room—the conference table, Wallace’s desk, Kopae’s cubicle, the coffee maker, file cabinets, the map, the minute hand on the wall clock reminding her she’d been on the go over twelve hours.
Then she remembered being alone in the Rotorua Police Station lab. A scary man had pressed his face against the glass, had tried the door.
Someone had attacked her last night. Someone had hoped big-ass sharks would rip her apart in a sheen of chum. This station might not be safe either. She searched the door for a lock.
The deadbolt made a reassuring click.
She caught sight of her reflection in the window glass: A pale, frizzy-haired woman stared back. Who was that? Her image of herself was more Viking—strong and tall. She tucked a hank of damp, tangled hair back into her ponytail and squared her shoulders. That was better.
Be of use, she thought.
On the conference table, the stack of Great White Shark Sighting forms, the ones that had been on The Apex, caught her attention. Obviously, Kopae or Wallace had thought they were important and brought them here. She borrowed paper and a cheap pen from Sergeant Wallace’s desk, missing her Pilot G-2 gel pen stashed in her tote, gone again like it had a life of its own. She began reading, intent on taking notes.
Halfway down the form was Description of Encounter With Shark. There were four choices: 1) Observation only (no interaction), 2) Swim-by (came and went, casual), 3) Interest (swim-by, return, circle, bump, mouth), and 4) Attitude/Aggression (fast swimming, biting, shaking, ramming).
Ramming? A mental image of a ramming great white made her throat go dry.
Compiling data calmed her. Ten forms marked Observation, nine had circled Swim-bys, four circled Interest, and one—filled out by an Alistair Foster—was marked Attitude/Aggression. “Shark took my bait, butted stern, followed with intent. Visible laceration on head.” Duration of encounter had been twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of terror, Alexa imagined.
There were twenty-four forms in all, with names and contact numbers. None were filled out by Andy Gray, or his competitor—Lucas Grogan. Were the cage operators not expected to fill out sighting forms? Why had these forms, already filled out, been on The Apex? Was Gray using them to find sharks?
Was this illegal?
She made a note to ask Supervisor Lowell. Then she saw ranger Scratch Gellman’s name. His “since we’ve already slept together” remark in the pub last night infuriated her all over again. She should have had a comeback: In your dreams. Lame.
Never sleep with a loaded Glock. Better.
Scratch had spotted a five-meter white on 3 November, 7:00 p.m. Weather had been calm, location off Muttonbird Beak. She remembered seeing Muttonbird Beak on the map—a jut of land between Golden Bay and Ringaringa Beach, where Gray’s body had washed ashore. Scratch had noted a fishing vessel in the vicinity but hadn’t been able to identify it. He’d classified the encounter as Interest and added, “circled my roundabout twice, came alongside, disappeared.” The duration was six minutes.
Beyond creepy.
The wall map helped her locate the areas white sharks were spotted. Besides Muttonbird Beak, two sharks had been sighted in Halfmoon Bay, a couple near a place called Seal Rock. Figures, she surmised. Sharks eat seals. One off Ringaringa Beach, and two between Golden Bay Wharf and Ulva Island, where the water taxi had been headed. The rest of the places she couldn’t find on the map.
She ignored her growling stomach and dove deeper into the data. Time factored in. Early morning or dusk accounted for three-fourths of the sightings. One-third of the sightings included another vessel in the area. She listed the vessels: Aotearoa, My Happy Place, Oh Bugger, Three Sheets (that’s the expression she’d wanted in the pub when she’d seen the drunks), Gloria. Darla Jo appeared three times. Alexa remembered Darla Jo was the fishing boat moored next to The Apex. What had the water taxi driver said about the owner? Lost his job on the clam farm, that was it. Tough luck.
Alexa shuffled through the stack to see if the owner of Darla Jo had filled out a sighting form. She’d recognize his name if she saw it.
No. This was odd. If the fishing boat had been in the vicinity of white sharks on three separate occasions, why had the captain not filled out a form?
She heard a rattle and lifted her head.
The wind. Just the notorious wind.
She would look for the list of Stewart Island gun owners, compare the names with those who filled out…
Creak. Footsteps on the porch.
Alexa, immobilized, watched the doorknob rattle, twist.