Bruce barreled past the team, pulled Alexa up, swung her behind his body. A human shield.
“I’m okay,” she stammered, stepping back.
The DI turned, his eyes blazing a blue heat. “What happened? How did you find him? Did you leave the station?”
Kopae, holding Alexa’s tote and crime kit, stared curiously.
“He found me.” The spot on her upper arm where Bruce had grabbed her throbbed. She didn’t like being manhandled and didn’t need Big Strong Man to protect her. She’d been doing a good job as therapist-interrogator. “Stephen turned himself in.”
“But my ute is at Observation Point,” Sergeant Wallace said from the doorway.
Stephen pushed back from the table and stared at his feet.
“Stay where you are,” Bruce commanded.
Wallace walked over. Stephen looked up, his eyes like a cow’s in a slaughterhouse. “You’re under arrest for stealing a police vehicle. Additional charges are pending upon investigation.” Wallace searched his pocket for his wallet, extracted a card, and squinted at it. “My glasses. Wait.” He strode to his desk and searched in a drawer. He came back with reading glasses perched on his nose.
The Miranda rights sounded about the same as they did back home, Alexa thought.
“You have the right to speak with a lawyer without delay and in private before deciding whether to answer any questions. We have a list of lawyers you may speak to for free,” Wallace finished.
Alexa doubted any lawyers lived on the island.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Bruce said. “Cuff him.”
Stephen stood obediently as Wallace cuffed his wrists behind his back.
“The shotgun is in the bathroom,” Alexa said. “It might be loaded.”
“Why didn’t you unload it?” Bruce snapped.
“I didn’t know how,” Alexa shot back.
Kopae sprang toward the bathroom, Briscoe on her heels.
“Sit down,” Bruce told Stephen. “Would you like a lawyer present while I ask you questions?”
Say yes.
Stephen hesitated and then shook his shaggy head. “It won’t make a difference.”
Bruce turned on his phone’s recording app and started with date and those present. It didn’t take much prying for Stephen to spill his guts—euthanizing whales, finding the PLB, night sweats, the whole waterworks. “I didn’t shoot Robert King. I never saw him until we hiked to his body.”
“Why do you still have the shotgun?”
Stephen didn’t answer Bruce’s question. Alexa wondered if he might have considered taking his own life.
Kopae returned from securing the shotgun. “Why did you set the PLB off? Didn’t you know it would show your location?”
“I didn’t think about that. I…I wanted to see if it worked,” Stephen stammered. “I thought the battery would be dead.”
“Where is it?” Bruce asked.
“At my mum’s.” Stephen hung his head.
An overgrown kid with an electronic. Alexa wasn’t surprised to see him dissolve into tears again. I’d blubber too if I screwed up my career. She half-listened to the interrogation and began to write down everything she had learned from her time alone with the distraught ranger. She underlined the name of the Māori elder, Zeke Harata, who had led the whale flensing. The team would need to see if he had witnessed Stephen finding the PLB on the beach path as Stephen claimed. Otherwise, people would assume Stephen had shot Robert King and taken the PLB off his body.
Alexa didn’t want this horror to be true. She thought back to when she first arrived on the island three days ago. It felt like a month. Stephen had charged between her and the bellowing sea lion, so that she could escape. Risked his life in front of one thousand pounds of pissed-off blubber.
Her ears perked when Bruce asked Stephen when he last saw Andy Gray. Not if he knew him. Stephen’s face stayed blank as if he hadn’t heard who the shark attack victim was. Bruce needed to let go of his Occam’s razor theory.
There was no jail on the island. Wallace radioed Supervisor Lowell, who agreed to take custody of Stephen. The shotgun, disarmed by Kopae, would be flown to the ballistics lab in Auckland.
Bruce ended his recording with time and date. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”
Alexa went over to Bruce and whispered in his ear.
He turned the tape back on and said, “One final question, Mr. Neville. What brand of boots are you wearing?”
He looked surprised, then lifted one as if he didn’t know. Alexa could see they weren’t Merrells.
“If the results prove it’s the same gun that shot Robert King, you’ll be off to jail for good, Mr. Neville,” Wallace growled. “Either way, you’ve stolen a car and obstructed justice by withholding evidence.”
Stephen looked like a kicked dog. Alexa wanted to pat him and tell him everything would be all right. But that wasn’t true. She had a theory that his irrational behavior was due to post-traumatic stress disorder.
“Constable Briscoe and I will stay with him until Lowell gets here,” Wallace continued. “I’ll start on the reports, Senior. Then it’s home to the missus. Briscoe, you’ll bunk at my crib.”
“Who needs a ride to the inn, then?” Constable Kopae asked. “At least the rain has stopped.”
Bruce stood and stretched. “Everyone meet back here at 7:30 a.m.,” he said.
* * *
The wet earth smelled violently of sea and humus. Alexa’s heart wouldn’t stop pounding as she and Bruce stood side by side, backs to the inn, watching Kopae’s taillights fade into darkness.
“I think Stephen has PTSD,” Alexa said.
Bruce shifted closer. “You may be right.”
The relief of being safe settled like a cloak around her shoulders. Maybe she had been more scared than she admitted. Alexa gazed upward, stretching her tight neck muscles. The multitude of peacock-tail stars made her gape, made her wonder where the rain and clouds had gone, swished away like a magic trick, made her wonder if some of the stars might shake loose and fall like sparkler sparks into the sea.
She looked sideways. Bruce was staring heavenward, a quarter-smile at his lips. She had an urge to touch those lips, taste them. He shouldn’t be so near. She hitched her tote higher on her shoulder and set the crime kit on the ground.
Bruce caught her eye. “The Stewart Island Town Council replaced all the streetlights with dimmer lights. To welcome the dark.”
She looked back to the sky and sea. The only luminance besides the multitudinous stars was a nautical warning blinking in the inky harbor. “They must be dimmed. I’ve never seen so many stars. It’s like a glowworm cave.” That was as poetic as she could get.
Bruce’s breath hitched. “Geographic isolation has its perks.”
“A dark sky sanctuary,” she whispered, “all around.”
They turned to each other as if the geographic poles of their births were opposites attracting. Bruce tilted forward; Alexa leaned in. Their lips touched, settled, the pressure hard and soft simultaneously, Bruce’s tongue prodding Alexa to part her lips, her heart, shift her body, lean closer.
Tinny music from the pub escaped when someone opened the door. “Having a smok-o,” a voice called.
Bruce pulled back. “Er, um.” His arm that had been around her waist fell as he scanned the perimeter. They saw a flare of a lighter on the patio. Bruce scowled at the smoker and then looked at Alexa as if her lips were toxic. “I shouldn’t have done that. Entirely unprofessional. I apologize.”
“But…” She took a disappointed step back and stumbled against the crime kit.
Bruce grabbed her arm. “Don’t fall.”
“Too late.”
* * *
There were only six people in the pub. “Time After Time” blared from the jukebox. Catch you if you fall. Right.
The pen-chewing bartender from the night before tore his eyes from horse racing on TV as Bruce ordered two burgers and two pints. He hadn’t asked, but a burger and a beer was exactly what Alexa wanted.
And another kiss.
“It’s past 9:00, mate,” the bartender said. “Kitchen’s closed.”
Bruce showed his badge. “See what you can do.”
The proprietor, Constance, came out a swinging door. “I heard, Rob. You pull the beer, I’ll fry the burgers.”
“Ta,” said Bruce.
Alexa grabbed the first beer and sat at a table. She stared into the foamy suds while a meteor shower streamed across her brain. Each bright streak—longing, lust, anger—flared for attention. She couldn’t catch hold of any one. Bruce’s kiss disintegrated with each passing moment. He was right. Kissing the boss was verboten. She gulped her beer as Bruce pulled a chair out and sat. He avoided her eyes. “I’m knackered.”
So, he was going to pretend the kiss hadn’t happened.
She stared into her mug and warned herself to slow down, take smaller sips, fewer risks. In her peripheral vision a bearded fellow in a black knit-cap weaved toward the jukebox. Alexa held her breath, would bet money on the Eagles, but Pearl Jam from her high school days blared.
“I, well, em,” Bruce started and then stopped.
He was at a loss. Alexa liked this.
Bruce tried again. “I’m sorry for what happened. Word got out, it would put my new position in jeopardy.”
Alexa’s nostrils flared. “I have my own career to protect. Why didn’t you tell me you were moving to Auckland?”
Bruce looked surprised.
“You didn’t say anything at breakfast.” She regretted the words as soon as they escaped. He didn’t owe her an explanation.
“It only just happened. I was going to mention it, but then you called that American bloke over. Theo Hall. The one who went cage diving with his wife. He sent me his photos from the trip.” He pulled out his mobile and started scrolling, but then his hands went still. “It was a hard decision. Sharla is furious.”
The ex, Alexa concluded. What kind of name is Sharla?
Pearl Jam was making conversation difficult, so they settled back against their chairs and sipped their beers until it ended, and the pub reverted to hushed tones and a TV ad. The knit-cap man said, “Be seeing you, mate,” to the bartender and left, letting in a gust strong enough to ruffle the napkins on their table.
Bruce leaned forward, his eyes sad. “She thinks I’m shirking my parenting responsibilities.”
“Are you?” Alexa had no tolerance for dads who abandon their kids. Once their dad had recoupled a few short years after her mom died, Alexa and Charlie had been shoved to a distant third and fourth place, barely visible.
“I’ll be earning more. Marriage dissolution is expensive.”
“Money isn’t…” Stupid cliché. Alexa shut up.
Constance came bearing plates heaped with burger, fries, and side salad. “Long day, you two?” She fetched a bottle of Wattie’s Tomato Sauce from the next table, swiped it with a towel, and set it down. Alexa grabbed it.
“No longer than yours,” Bruce said kindly.
Constance’s apron was spattered with sauces, her hair had escaped its top knot, and mascara was smudged under her pale eyes. “I heard it was Andy Gray killed by the shark,” Constance said. “Odd twist, that. Will this end the shark cage diving?”
“That’s for the courts to decide,” Bruce replied.
Alexa delicately dipped her fry in the ketchup, then scarfed it.
“Caging brings tourists,” Constance said. “It’s not…well, it’s not that I support it—I say if we leave them alone, they’ll leave us alone.”
“Whom are we referring to?” Bruce asked, also eating a fry.
“The sharks. We’ve always coexisted with them. But the cage diving rents my rooms, fills my restaurant, helps me pay off my expansion.”
“Expansion?” Bruce asked.
“The wing where you and…” She looked at Alexa. “I’ve forgotten your name, I’m sorry. But the en suite wing. She’s in Room Three, and you’re in Room Four.”
Bruce coughed.
“The tourists pay six hundred dollars to cage dive, so dropping more money for accommodation and grub is nothing to them. They come here—to the pub—to toast their bravery. They help me pay my loan, eh?” Constance lowered her voice. “Lots of my neighbors want it banned. Hold it against me for catering to them.”
Bruce interrupted. “Anyone in particular?”
“No names will pass these lips. They drink here as well. Only pub on the island. Cheers.” Constance surveyed the room and hastened to the bar.
Alexa gazed at Bruce as he gazed at the proprietor, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. Was their relationship doomed? He caught her looking and grinned. “Penny.”
“My thoughts are worth a quarter.” She smiled back, and the tension between them lifted. They attacked their meal with mutual gusto.
After a moment, Bruce said, “I have a meeting with the local rep for PāuaMAC, a Mr. Stormy Parker, at 11:00 tomorrow. His association has been trying to shut down the caging companies. He says sharks are protected, but pāua divers aren’t.”
“They can protect themselves by not going in the water,” Alexa said.
“And we need to check up on your fiber. Go around, check fishing boats for similar netting. Might lead us to the killer.”
“There are a lot of fishermen on the island, right?”
“Briscoe said it was a trawling net. Not all fishing boats are trawlers. That narrows it down. I’ll get Wallace to make a list.” His left eyebrow rose as he studied Alexa. “I heard what you said about Stephen suffering PTSD. I’ll interview again in the morning. Before we have him flown to Invercargill.”
“Good,” she answered. The calories were a needed energy boost. But then Alexa almost choked. “Dammit.” She set her burger down.
“What?”
“I need to get back to The Apex. Now.”
“Why?”
“There was blood splattered near the lodged bullet. I took photos of it—remember?”
Bruce picked up his napkin.
“When Wallace and Kopae returned later, the blood had been wiped away. I want to go back in the dark and use BLUESTAR to take samples.”
He wiped his mouth. “Not to worry. BLUESTAR will detect blood trace weeks and months after blood is cleaned up.”
She relaxed and picked up the burger. “You’re right. Centuries even. I read a report about BLUESTAR FORENSIC spray illuminating blood shed from the Battle of Gettysburg in 1863.” Would a Kiwi know about Gettysburg?
“Your war between the states, right?”
Sexy and smart. “Tomorrow night, then. I promised Constable Kopae she could come with me.” She resumed operation burger, and when it was complete, she wiped her face and fingers. “May I see Theo’s pictures?”
Bruce twiddled with his phone, frowned as he read a text, then scrolled. “Here are the ones dated Sunday—the day they went caging.”
The first photo showed a shark swimming below the cage, the top of its sleek gray body stippled with sunlight. In the next, a monstrous white swam straight at the cage, its black eyes emotionless. Had it veered at the last second, or rammed? Theo had had his thrill factor, caught it on camera to show back in Santa Monica with cheese and crackers. Alexa enlarged the photo and was surprised to see a gash on the shark’s snout. A stab of sympathy for the creature surprised her. Lured by blood, its instincts activated for naught.
Exploitation, the water taxi man had said.
Was caging taunting the sharks? Causing them harm? No one chummed with dead cows to lure lions on a safari. And in the North Carolina mountains, fed bears were dead bears. Did the same apply here?
“The public doesn’t know about the bullet wound,” she said. “I hate that the sharks are getting all the blame.” Her sympathy continued to surprise her. The next few photos were also of the shark, farther away, turning, coming back, then just a tail in liquid green.
Alexa realized she was scrolling backwards, looking at the last photos first. One photo was Theo and his wife—Meredith—embracing on board. Another showed Theo pulling on dry-suit gloves. Then there were scenic photos: the horizon dotted with islands, the shore, a fishing boat. Alexa touched the screen. She enlarged the boat’s name: Darla Jo. Again.
“Odd,” she said to Bruce.
He hiked an eyebrow.
“When I was alone at the station and y’all were searching for Stephen…”
“Y’all?”
“Yes. You all, whatever.” She paused, making sure Bruce was listening. “I read the DOC shark-sighting forms. This boat, Darla Jo, was mentioned several times as being in the vicinity of shark sightings. It’s the same boat docked at Golden Bay Wharf.”
He took the phone, studied the photo. “What are you thinking?”
She covered up a yawn. “It’s just something I noticed.”
Bruce’s forehead bunched. “Sometimes it’s small details like this that solve a case. I’ll look into it. What’s the owner’s name?”
It had been a long day with about a thousand new names. “I don’t remember. I think the water taxi man said the fisherman who owns the boat lost his job at the clam farm.”
“Clam farm? You mean oyster farm.”
Something else niggled. “The Darla Jo owner has a truck, and I have a witness—an American girl studying kelp—who saw a truck coming down the drive to Golden Bay Wharf the day Andy was killed.” She got out her notebook and gave Bruce the information.
“Worth looking into.” He rubbed his eyes, told her to get some sleep, and excused himself to ask the bartender who owned Darla Jo. Alexa was relieved. If he’d walked her to Room Three, she would probably have invited him in.