Her gaff wound was hot to the touch in the morning. Little red lines emanating from the nasty slash pointed to infection. After rubbing on Neosporin, she checked the tube’s expiration date. Long gone. She’d stop by the medical center—what were those crazy hours?—ten a.m. till noon. Joan would hook her up with antibiotics.
Before she left for a bite to eat—and maybe a tête-à-tête with Bruce over scrambled eggs—she checked her email. A message was from her boss. A spark of fear: Had Wallace complained about her rogue tactics? But, no, Dan had registered her for three upcoming courses: Bite Mark Analysis, Courtroom Testimony for Forensic Practitioners, and Advanced Latent Ridgeology. Score. Bite Mark and Courtroom Testimony would be repeats, but she knew she’d learn something new. Or could show off. The important thing was that Dan was investing in her. She replied with an update on the cases and suggested that she would benefit from a gun-safety class.
A second message was from the ballistics lab in Auckland and was cc’ed to Detective Inspector Bruce Horne and Sergeant Kipper Wallace. She read rabidly. They had completed firearms examination on the Browning A-Bolt rifle found with King’s body. They concluded the rifle had been wiped clean, but technicians had been able to use an electrostatic technique to produce a print. Washing the metal, applying volts of electricity, using toner. Alexa tried to remember the steps in this process—she had never done it herself. She read further. The fingerprint matched Robert King’s.
Damn. The print didn’t help solve the case.
The final paragraph made her heart sink: The bullet wound in King’s skull did not match the medium-sized bullets taken from King’s rifle. It was caused by a larger caliber, like a shotgun.
Bruce wasn’t at the breakfast buffet. Alexa fought disappointment by filling her plate but then had no appetite. The sausage was fatty and unappetizing, the eggs rubbery. What if he’s avoiding me?
She left her almost-full plate, pushed back from the table-for-two, shook her head at Constance hastening toward her with a sloshing coffeepot. “No thanks. I’ll get some at the station.”
Constance’s eyes darted around the room as she spoke softly. “One of my waitresses heard a tale that might be important.”
Like a Pavlovian dog, Alexa dropped the crime kit and searched for her pen and pad.
“Andy Gray killed a white shark and didn’t notify DOC.”
Live sharks had been Gray’s business. “Why would he do that?”
“Accidentally. It happens. One of his crew started talking merry hell—too much drink, eh—said the motor sliced up a white. Instead of letting it swim off trailing blood—sure to be torn apart by other sharks—Gray shot it.”
Grisly, but maybe humane.
“They hauled it onboard,” Constance continued. “The laws say Gray had to notify DOC, turn over the carcass for research, but the hand doesn’t believe he did.”
“I’ll let the DI know. Who was the crew member?”
“Trina doesn’t know his name. She’s new, aye, spending her summer hollies here.” Constance took a pencil from behind her ear and asked for Alexa’s pad. “Here’s her mobile number.”
Alexa thought about Gray’s crew members as she left the inn. What had the team found out from interviewing them? She was out of the loop.
The sweet-smelling breeze blew her hair—hanging loose because it had looked nice in the bathroom mirror—into a curly halo. She rummaged through her tote for an elastic band and wrestled it into a ponytail—down boy, she commanded. A boat in the harbor, slightly blurred by a soft morning mist, wended toward open water, a flock of gulls or maybe mollymawks in pursuit. She had read a sign about mollymawks—they were a subspecies of albatross that frequented the island. The vessel they were tailing was too small to be the ferry. Was it Briscoe and Duffy on Glowing Sky, ready for their cage dive expedition? The YouTube last night helped her visualize the process. Part of her wanted to go, turn her lie to Charlie into the truth. The lie had been a pathetic way to see if he cared about her. And it had backfired.
Some of us have to work for a living.
She shrugged off her annoyance and pulled out her phone. Duffy had said meet the Glowing Sky crew at 7:30, and it was only 7:10. She decided to walk to the harbor before heading to the station—she didn’t want to look too eager to see Bruce. She crossed the grassy lawn where they had kissed, wishing the replay in her mind would erase.
Traipsing across the grass in front of the inn, she checked over her shoulder. Someone had swung that nasty gaff as if she were a fish to brain. Paid to be cautious. Coast was clear.
What was the gaffer doing right now? Something as mundane as eating breakfast? Had he left the island? Had he killed Andy Gray?
Upended rowboats in sun-faded colors and large rocks marked the high tide line. She scrunched past them and kicked an oyster shell. A spray of sand blew in her face. Figures, she thought, spitting out grit: Her life was a series of rash mistakes and backfires. Like last night’s kiss. It had backfired.
Two terns played tug-of-war with fish entrails, and a crab skittered over a pile of kelp. The swishing and sucking sound of small waves calmed her down, soothed her ruffles. She watched a shell somersault backwards with a wave’s gentle retreat. A football field to the right, the beach curved into tangled trees and a derelict boathouse. Halfmoon Pier—twice as large as Golden Bay Wharf pier—was to the left. A huddle of people stood halfway down, maybe waiting for the ferry. Lucky for them the water was calm this morning. She wondered if the group was watching her watch them. She waved, but no one waved back. Alexa turned and located the sea-green police station up the hill. It looked like a pretty doll’s house.
Would one murder, or both, be solved by sunset, she wondered, hitching the crime kit and her tote on opposite shoulders. She winced. The strap hurt. Better start antibiotics soon, she thought, trekking across the sand.
The station door was propped open. What was it with these New Zealanders leaving doors and windows open all the time? Alexa pulled it closed. Only Wallace, at his desk, and Bruce, making coffee, were in the room.
“Sleep well, Ms. Glock?” Bruce said.
The quarter smile played on those lips she had kissed. Alexa looked away. “Very well, thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes. Where’s Constable Kopae?”
Wallace looked up. “On her way. Briscoe is at the dock. He’ll be sniffing out Lucas Grogan and his cage business.”
“I hope the constable has finesse,” Bruce said. He was wearing what Alexa considered his FBI outfit: pressed khakis and a black windbreaker with the New Zealand Police logo embroidered at the breast.
“Shark Man will snag all the attention,” Wallace said.
Alexa dropped her things and accepted a mug from Bruce. How did he know she added milk? He must have paid attention at breakfast yesterday. She sat at the table, the mug warm and comforting in her hands, and told them what Constance had said about the dead shark.
“I’ll report it to Supervisor Lowell,” Wallace said. “Department of Conservation violations are his jurisdiction.”
“Any news about Stephen?” she asked between sips. The firearms report weighed heavily on her mind.
“One case solved is the way I look at it,” Wallace said. “That firearms report? Read it with my porridge. The bullet in King’s skull came from a shotgun. Just waiting for the gun to get to the lab so they can confirm it was Stephen’s.”
“Maybe it was his. Maybe it wasn’t,” Bruce replied. “Keep an open mind. The shotgun is on its way. We’ll know if its ammunition matches the hole in King’s skull by afternoon. I’m going to have another go at Stephen.” He nodded at Alexa. “Before we fly him to Invercargill.”
She nodded back. If Stephen didn’t shoot King—accidentally or on purpose—who did? The prime suspects were King’s pals. “Did we rule out the men hunting with King?” she asked.
“I met them,” Wallace said. “When King disappeared, they joined the initial search. Devastated, all of ’em. Their holiday ruined by tragedy. Ever since uni, the four of them would take a yearly hunting trip.” Wallace dug through his file and pulled out a list. “Let’s see. James Riley from Dunedin, and Hal Moore and Ken Wilson from Rotorua. We Skyped individually with them while you were in Dunedin. They alibi each other, said they were together like Musketeers when King went missing. They’ve provided fingerprints and turned over their guns for comparisons to their local police.”
“Make sure to coordinate with ballistics in Auckland,” Bruce said. “We don’t want loose ends sabotaging the case.”
“Right, Senior,” Wallace said.
Could be a Murder on the Orient Express scenario, Alexa thought, where instead of a lone killer, all the suspects took part in the murder. She had enjoyed the movie but hadn’t liked that in the end, justice had not been served. “What about Andy Gray’s crew members? Are they still suspects?”
“We’re still tracking down John, but Squizzy Koch is off the hook—he spent the afternoon at the salmon farm, plenty of witnesses,” Wallace said. “Afterwards, he was seen at the pub. He provided information on those shark-sighting forms we confiscated from The Apex. Andy used them to figure out where to chum. One of his buds works at the main office and made copies for him. Gray shouldn’t have had them.”
“They would give him an advantage over Grogan,” Alexa said. “What have you found out about the Darla Jo’s owner?”
“Sean Warren?” Wallace asked.
“Ms. Glock noticed his boat was in the vicinity of several white-shark sightings, and he may have been in the area of The Apex the afternoon Gray was killed. A witness saw his truck.”
“Darla Jo is docked at the same pier,” Wallace said. “That’s probably why.”
“Get him in here,” Bruce ordered. He swung his eyes to Alexa. “Let’s talk fiber.” He looked at the wall clock: 7:35. “We’ll start without Constable Kopae. I’ll review. A strand of fiber was removed from Andy Gray’s fingernail. Is that right, Ms. Glock?”
She nodded. “The fiber matches trawler netting made by Van Kees Nautical Nets in Dunedin. Brand called Stealth Glider.”
“We surmise Gray came into contact with this netting—possibly during an altercation,” Bruce said. “Sergeant Wallace has produced a list of fishing trawlers on the island, and their captains. Ten blokes. Stormy Parker is on the list. He’s the PāuaMAC rep. I’ll talk to him when he comes in.”
“Lucas Grogan is on the list too, sir,” Wallace said. “He had a trawling boat before he sold it to buy a shark boat.”
Bruce looked interested. “Gray’s only competitor?”
Wallace nodded.
They divided up the list. “Team up with Kopae,” Bruce said to Alexa. “I’m short-staffed, what with Lowell guarding Neville, and Briscoe taking a cruise. Ask for permission to see the netting. Shouldn’t take long to see if it’s Van Kees’ brand, right?”
Alexa hid her smile and silently vowed to follow all the rules.
The station door pushed open. Andy Gray’s partner, Lisa Squires, and her mother walked in. Bruce and Wallace stood.
Lisa’s mother strode to the conference table. “We have some information you might be interested in.”
Lisa, red-eyed, held a form and followed meekly. “I don’t know if it’s important.” She glanced at Alexa.
“Please sit,” Bruce said. “You’ve met Ms. Glock?”
Lisa pulled out a chair and sat, but Mrs. Squires remained standing. “You were on that awful plane ride yesterday,” she said to Alexa.
“Yes. I continued on to Dunedin. Did you make it home before that rainstorm hit?”
“We were home for tea. Not that either of us was hungry—Lisa is staying with me. The sight of Andy’s body in the morgue—barely human.”
Lisa made a gurgling noise from the back of her throat.
“And that other family—all tears and hullabaloo. The young lasses. I’m glad they found their dad after all this time,” Mrs. Squires added.
The hunter, Alexa speculated.
“I know it wasn’t easy for you,” Wallace said. “My condolences.” He sat, fished reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, and turned to Lisa. “When are you due, lass?”
A soft smile tugged at her lips, and she looked down. A baggy sweatshirt hid her rounded belly. “Early May.”
“Lovely. How are you feeling?”
Her smile dissolved.
“Eh, well.” Wallace adjusted his glasses and took the sheet from Lisa. “Bank statement, eh? You shared finances?”
“Andy is, was, a good man.” Her chin quivered. “Nothing to hide.”
Alexa was relieved to hear her use “was.” Viewing her boyfriend’s brutalized body had cured her of denial.
“Tell them what you told me,” Mrs. Squires said. She squeezed Lisa’s shoulder and took the seat next to her. Bruce sat as well.
“It’s that, um, Andy’s mum called me. She was hysterical, right? She and his dad are flying here, to meet me, and I guess since Andy and I weren’t married, they have the right to Andy’s things. They’ll arrive tomorrow.”
“Not fair, that,” Mrs. Squires said, smoothing her tousled graying hair. “Lisa and Andy have been together three years. You should have made it legal.”
Lisa jerked. “Why would you say that?”
Mrs. Squires sniffed. “Tell them what you found out.”
“Andy hadn’t told his mum and dad—their names are Harry and Louisa—that I’m preggers. It was all awkward like when I thanked them for their generosity. They didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Well,” Bruce said, “perhaps Andy hadn’t found the right time.”
“Maybe he was waiting to tell them at the hollies,” Wallace suggested.
Or maybe he wasn’t keen about becoming a father, Alexa thought.
Lisa’s voice strengthened. “Yes, but…” She took the paper from Wallace and pointed at a line. “Andy told me this deposit was a baby gift from his parents.”
Wallace leaned in. “Five thousand dollars, dated 9 September. Two months ago, eh?”
“We used the money to update the shark cage. Add tubing over the steel, to comply with the latest DOC rule. So the sharks couldn’t get hurt if they crashed the cage.”
Also known as ramming. Alexa’s marine biology knowledge was accumulating.
“We added vinyl roll-down sides, too. Passengers don’t like wind spray. We want to keep the boat comfy. Good for business.”
“How was your business?” Wallace asked.
“You can see the balance of our loan.” She pointed to a column on the statement. “We were making our payments.”
Wallace whistled. “Those are hefty payments. You must not have had much left to live on. I’ll make some copies, eh.”
Bruce leaned forward. His black jacket darkened his eyes to navy. “You’re saying Andy lied to you about the origin of this deposit?”
Tears gathered in Lisa’s eyes. “He hadn’t told his mum and dad about our news. So how could that money have been a baby gift?”
Alexa handed her a napkin. She heard Wallace softly curse and open the paper drawer of the copier.
“Since you’re here,” Bruce said, “I’d like to ask about the gun Andy possessed.” He turned and called to Wallace, “Let me see that list of Stewart Island gun owners.”
Wallace closed the drawer, pushed a button, and popped over to Kopae’s cubicle. He shuffled through a stack. “Here we go.” He gave Bruce the list and went to collect the copies. “Need an assistant, I do.”
Bruce scrolled the list with his finger. “Andrew Gray had a Ruger handgun?”
Lisa nodded. “For protection. After our porch was chummed, he didn’t feel safe.”
“Were any other threats made to you or Andy? Besides the porch vandalism?”
“People give us dirty looks, say things under their breath in the Four Square. ‘Leave the sharks alone,’ ‘Go back to Aussie, convict,’ that kind of thing. We don’t go to the pub anymore. We were planning to move to Bluff.” The gathered tears crested and rolled down her pale cheeks.
“So, he bought it for protection,” Bruce said. “Where is the gun?”
Lisa’s hands cradled the swell of her belly. “I guess on The Apex. In the console box.”
“No gun was found on the boat,” Wallace stated. “Have you searched your house?”
“No. Andy carried it with him.”
“I’ll stop by, have a look, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Lisa shrugged.
Alexa wondered if ballistics tests could determine if Gray’s wound was from a handgun.
The station door yanked open. Constable Kopae popped in. “You’re needed at the wharf, Senior,” she said out of breath. “There’s trouble on the pier.”