Bruce stood. “You did right by sharing the bank statement.”
“What now?” Lisa swiped at her face. “What does it mean?”
“We’ll get back with you as soon as we know.”
Mrs. Squire’s nose tipped upward. “Andy was hiding something.”
“No he wasn’t. You never liked him, Mum.”
Kopae ushered the mother and daughter out. When they left, she turned toward the team. “It’s the cage protesters. Blockading the pier. A crowd is gathering to watch.”
“You stay here, Constable,” Bruce ordered. “Glock can explain about the deposit. I agree with Mrs. Squires. Gray was up to something.” He motioned for Wallace to join him and left.
Alexa walked to the window and watched them hop in Wallace’s SUV.
“It’s my island. I should be down there,” Kopae said.
“I hear you.” Alexa returned to the table and sipped her lukewarm coffee.
“Idiots,” Kopae said. “The pier is private property—belongs to Stewart Island Charters. The protesters don’t have a permit.” She laughed. “I would know if they did. I’m the one who would issue it.” She leaned on the table and began jotting a list of names.
Alexa watched. “Who are they?”
“The protesters I saw on the pier.”
Julie Dreyer
Hani Kawata
Mason Star
Stormy Parker
Alexa pointed to Stormy. “DI Horne said Stormy Parker was a pāua diver rep, and coming to the station this morning.” She was sure he was the same guy who had threatened Theo in the pub. What had he said? “I’ll slice you up and chum with your guts.”
“Stormy is vocal about ending cage diving. A lot of pāua divers wade in from shore, and he’s afraid for their safety.”
“Is pāua diving popular around here? Like hunting and fishing? Or is it business only?”
“It’s both.” A gleam came into Kopae’s eyes. “I’ve gone pāua collecting with my uncle and auntie at Butterfield Beach. I only wade, stand on rock. But Johnnie takes the snorkel, swims out past the breakers. Shows the missus who da man. And he does right—makes sure pāua and kina are the right size, doesn’t take more than he should.”
“Kina?”
“Sea urchin. But Johnnie quit diving since he saw a white up close and personal. He was prying a pāua off the rock. A shadow blocked the sunlight. He looked up and saw a white flick its tail, come straight at him. ‘Taking a look,’ Johnnie said. They’re curious. But now…with the chumming so close to shore, he’s afraid next time it wouldn’t be just a look.”
Kopae wrote another name, Liz Chambers, and dropped the pen. “Have you ever cared enough about something to protest?”
Alexa had joined the Save the Earth club in high school—they had snipped plastic six-pack rings and made Turn Lights Off posters, but they hadn’t protested like young people today. She admired that young climate-change activist from Sweden, what’s her name—Greta Something. But caring too much led to disappointment. “No. Have you?”
“I care about law and keeping people safe.” Kopae walked to the window.
Alexa joined her. Side by side they stared down at the harbor. Alexa noticed smudge marks where Stephen had rapped against the glass. Trace evidence. The panes made the station feel like a jail.
Be of use, she thought. She told Kopae about the deposit in Andy and Lisa’s bank account.
Kopae perked up. “The money trail. He lied to Lisa. What was he hiding?”
Maybe a dead shark. Alexa told Kopae what she had learned from Constance about Andy Gray killing a shark.
“Anyone who hurts or kills a great white has to report it,” Kopae said. “Big fines if you don’t. Andy Gray wasn’t all lightness and lollies.” She hung her cap on a wall hook and walked to her cubicle.
“What would you do with a big dead shark, anyway?”
“Well. Black market. Jaws and teeth. Fins. But that hardly makes sense. Andy needed live sharks for his business, not dead ones. He should have reported it.”
“Sergeant Wallace said he’d tell Supervisor Lowell.” Alexa came over and leaned on the cubicle partition, her mind jumping to money being the root of evil. “How will you follow up on that deposit? Is there a bank on Stewart Island?”
“Ah no. There’s an ATM at the Four Square. We do online banking.”
Alexa had only been in her Auckland bank once, to open an account. Everything else was mobile banking.
She explained how the DI had teamed them up to investigate trawling fishermen. “He gave us four names.”
“We’ll do that later. The DI had said to stay here. He was worried about you last night. About your safety. He drove my car like a hoon when he got the call from 1-1-1.”
A hoon was a reckless driver. Usually young and male. “I was fine.”
Kopae smiled. “Both of you staying at the inn, eh?”
Alexa’s new phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and turned sideways, hiding her pinking cheeks, even though she and Bruce had nothing to hide. Professionalism was something she admired about Bruce: he would toe the line instead of tow her to bed. “Hello?”
“It’s Kana. I have information that might pinpoint where the shark attack took place. Meet me at the Halfmoon Pier. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
“There’s some kind of protest…”
Duffy hung up.
Alexa fingered the sleek phone and rationalized that Bruce had ordered Kopae to stay in the station, not her. So leaving wouldn’t break her new pledge to follow rules. “That was Kana Duffy. I need to see him about the case.” Before Kopae could respond, she grabbed the crime kit and opened the door. “As soon as I get back, we’ll start on the trawler list.”
Kana Duffy had said to meet on the pier, so that’s where she headed.
She retraced her earlier route: View Street to Golden Bay. The back of her neck tickled when she passed the smoked salmon shop; a figure watched her through the window, but she couldn’t make out who it was. The crime kit knocked her thigh with each quick stride, and her gash throbbed with heat. At the bottom of Elgin Terrace a small gathering stood in front of the ferry terminal, including Wallace’s wife, little girl, and grandmother. Alexa scanned the area for Duffy. Something poked her.
“You,” Granny Maumau said, wielding her umbrella.
“Put that down,” said Nina, grabbing Maumau’s wrist.
Alexa wanted to rush by, but it would be impolite. Nina had fed her and clothed her. “Good morning,” she said. “I’ll return your clothes later today.”
“I’m washing yours now,” Nina said. “What’s happening?”
Alexa had to take a step forward to let a woman walk by.
Wallace’s daughter jabbed the crime kit. “Is that a doctor bag?”
“Shelly, don’t poke,” said Nina. “You’re teaching her bad habits,” she scolded Maumau.
“No, it’s not a doctor bag.” Alexa fumbled in the side pocket for her forensics ID badge and hung it around her neck. “It’s for crime scenes.”
Shelly’s copper curls blew into her face. She used her pudgy hands to hold them back as she stared expectantly. “What’s a crime scheme?”
There was no time to explain.
“We dropped Sam off at school and saw the commotion,” Nina said. “Is Kipper okay?”
“More caging shenanigans, that’s what,” said Maumau.
“Wallace is fine,” Alexa said. “I have to go.” She wanted to get to the root of why all these people were gathered and find Duffy.
The water taxi operator nodded at her as she stepped onto the pier. She had last seen him headed to Ulva Island with the birders. Alexa spotted the woman with purple hair whom she had spoken to after the autopsy. Locals were becoming familiar, she realized. They appeared here and there like actors in a play. Dial M for Murder or something. The purple-haired woman’s toddler was straining to break free of his mom’s hold on his arm. The water between the planks looked deep. Had to be, if this was the ferry pier. If she had a child, not that she wanted one, she wouldn’t take him onto a crowded pier where he could break loose and fall off.
A singsong chant—something about the cage—floated through the crowd. No sign of Duffy, or Wallace and Bruce.
She dodged hikers with bulging backpacks and wedged between birders with binoculars. A grungy man in gum boots and overalls—well, maybe fishing bibs—stared at her. He was familiar—maybe she had seen him in the pub. Past him she saw the main attraction.
Five people, arms outstretched, hands clasped, formed a chain across the pier. No one could get through. “Caging kills, caging kills,” they chanted. Alexa recognized a few of the protesters—especially the one in the black knit-cap. He liked Pearl Jam. Another woman held a blowup of a white shark bursting from poster board. Be My Chum was written in red. A man next to her waved a Ban the Cage sign. Droplets of blood ran from the letters.
Bruce, his back to her, stood in front of the protesters. Constable Briscoe was to his right: his collar was askew. Wallace stood behind the protesters, facing the crowd.
“Ban the cage,” the protesters yelled. “Ban the cage.”
“Caging provides jobs,” a man from behind Alexa screamed.
She whirled. It was the man in fishing bibs. Every time the protesters yelled “Ban the cage,” he yelled “Jobs.”
Behind the fisherman she spotted Scratch, the asshole from the bar, in full ranger regalia: khaki shorts, forest-green pullover, ankle socks, boots. She intended to ignore him but reconsidered. She edged past the fisherman and approached him. “How are you?” she said perkily.
“Missing you,” he said.
Alexa studied his feet. She could see an orange label on the side of his boot: Merrell. The boot imprint at the scene where King’s body was discovered had probably been his—a case of classic crime-scene contamination. Same thing had happened in Rotorua. “You need to come by the station, drop off your boot.” She walked away as he protested. She’d deal with him later.
Movement in the harbor caught her eye.
Glowing Sky was moored to a piling. A short staircase ramp led from the pier to a boarding bridge. But no one could board. Two men with grim expressions stood on deck, the steel cage glistening behind them. Alexa figured one was Lucas Grogan, Gray’s competitor. The other man she had seen before. He was the fisherman who had given her a lift to the inn when she first arrived.
A boat half the size of Glowing Sky motored past. The skipper called through a bullhorn, “I’m ready for the hunt.” Three industrial-looking fishing poles and an enormous gaff were racked across the stern. A few people on the pier clapped as the boat broke the no-wake rule and circled in a flourish of wake.
Alexa turned to Bruce, wondering why he wasn’t calling a halt to the protest. She could see the 8:00 ferry entering the harbor.
A tap on her shoulder made her jump. Kana Duffy gave her his best movie star smile, but she couldn’t hear what he had to say because Bruce was yelling for the protesters to stop.
“We have a right to protest,” the woman with the Chum poster screamed.
“You don’t have the right to interfere in someone’s business,” Bruce said, pointing. Three people pulling luggage were trying to get through to meet the approaching ferry. “This is private property. Dismantle, or we will begin making arrests.”
No one could argue that the protest was interfering with business, Alexa thought, if passengers couldn’t reach the ferry. It blared its horn. What would happen, she wondered, when passengers tried to disembark?
“I have some information for you,” Duffy told her.
Her attention ricocheted to the shark poster the angry woman was waving five feet away. The blowup of the shark showed a slash across its snout. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was the photo Theo had taken and shared with Bruce.
Wallace tapped the tallest protester from behind—the black knit-cap guy from the pub. “Mason,” he said. “I don’t want to have to cuff you.”
“Then don’t,” Mason responded. “Cuff them instead.” He pointed to the men on Glowing Sky. “Chumming is responsible for Andy’s death. Your own kin might be next.”
Duffy pulled papers from his backpack and shook them to get Alexa’s attention. “These are tagging reports.”
The hullabaloo—that’s the word Lisa Squires’s mother had used—continued and she ignored Duffy.
Granny Maumau broke through the spectators. “Kipper,” she called.
Sergeant Wallace’s face went red.
“You can’t arrest Mason,” Maumau said. “Where will I get my pāua?”
Wallace yelled at Maumau to leave the pier. He turned back to Mason. “Come to the station. Fill out the forms for a proper protest.”
The ferry was swinging broadside to tie up. A man on the deck appeared to be filming the commotion.
“That’s my film crew,” Duffy announced.
“Everyone leave,” Bruce yelled at the crowd. “Unless you have legitimate business.”
The ferry horn sounded again, causing circling gulls to squawk and fuss.
The protesters dropped hands, grumbled, and followed Wallace, who ushered Granny Maumau slowly along. Spectators parted to let them through, then followed, talking animatedly.
Alexa spotted the young mother, her toddler safe and heavy in her arms.
Bruce strode to the Glowing Sky ramp and called to the crew, “All good now. I have a constable ready to join you. Make sure everything goes okay.”
The captain—the man Alexa figured was Lucas Grogan—hopped from the boat and ran up the stairs to meet him. “Sir,” he said to Bruce, “please lift the ban on water activities. I had to refund twelve customers today.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Are you Mr. Lucas Grogan?”
“In the flesh.”
Alexa thought that was odd to say, given that the only flesh exposed on Grogan was his nose and mouth. He wore long-sleeved sunscreen shirt, pants, gloves, wraparound sunglasses, and a hat with side and neck flaps.
“You want to take passengers out, knowing what happened to your competitor?”
That’s hardly fair, Alexa thought. Andy Gray was shot.
“My caging practices are one hundred percent safe.”
“Mr. Kana Duffy is here to represent the Department of Conservation.” Bruce waved Duffy over. “He will assess the situation from your vessel and make his pronouncement of whether to discontinue the ban on water. I have an officer also accompanying you.”
Briscoe hustled to his side. “That would be me, captain.”
Alexa hugged the crime kit and stepped closer.
Bruce scowled. “What are you doing here?”
“She came to meet me,” Duffy said.
Bruce’s left eyebrow hiked up.
“I have information for her. About the sharks.”
“If this information relates to our case, you’ll share it with me. I’m the commanding officer.”
Duffy shrank in stature a bit. “I have shark identification data. From NIWA.”
“What is knee-wah?” Bruce asked.
“National Institute of Water and Atmospheric Research,” Duffy said. “They’re the ones tagging whites around here. They’ve tagged over a hundred.”
Alexa scanned the harbor for fins.
“They’ve got acoustic data-logging platforms set up all around the island that record the time and date of a tagged shark when it swims by.”
“Get to the point,” Bruce told Duffy. “I don’t have all day.”
“I can use pings to see what sharks were in the vicinity of the fatal attack,” Duffy said.
Duffy didn’t know about the bullet wound, Alexa reminded herself.
“That’s well and dandy,” Bruce said. “But we don’t know the vicinity of the attack. All we know is where Gray washed ashore.”
Grogan swiped his sun hat off. “The attack had nothing to do with our cage dive operation.”
A scraping clang made Alexa jump. The ferry employees were lowering the gangplank.
“We know Mr. Gray was attacked by more than one shark,” Duffy said. “I think from the bite marks that it was three different sharks. I can use ping coordinates to locate where two or more sharks breached the surface at the same time.” He smiled at Alexa like they were in cahoots. “Alexa can come with us and make note of the location.”
Bruce shook his head slowly. “Share your information with Constable Briscoe. I have other plans for Ms. Glock.”
Alexa’s heart missed a beat, but she spoke up. “Since I’m here, I’ll take a look on Glowing Sky.” She lifted the crime kit. “Before it sets sail.”
Bruce considered and then nodded. “Do we have permission to see what type netting you use on board?”
“What?” Grogan asked. “My nets?”
“Netting. It’s part of our investigation. Unless you object?”
Grogan sighed. “I have nothing to hide. Come with me.” He did an about-face and boarded his vessel.
Permission granted in front of witnesses. Bruce called her over and lowered his voice. “Briscoe will tell Duffy about the bullet wound.”
“Good,” Alexa said. “He needs all the facts.”
Two men holding video recorders, tripods, and lights barreled toward them. Duffy waved and pointed to Glowing Sky. “My lads, fresh from the ferry,” he said. “You missed the excitement. Small town gone wild. Might make a good show. Let’s board.”
She guessed they were Duffy’s camera crew. She caught up with Grogan and boarded.
Glowing Sky outsized The Apex. There were two rows of benches instead of one, and four engines. A platform jutted above the engines. Alexa craned her neck as she slowly weaved through Duffy and his crew. She gauged the distance from the upper deck to the sea to be eighteen feet: a high dive at a swimming pool. Her belly flopped at the thought. But it was the stench of chum that stopped her cold.
There it was. A cooler of blood gut soup, ladle at the ready, against the rail. The fear and despair of being in the cold, black water coated with chum. Bile rose in her throat.
Alexa regrouped and approached the fisherman. “I’m Alexa Glock, helping the police with their investigation. Thanks for giving me a ride from the ferry.”
He nodded, shifting in his tennis shoes, his pewter-colored eyes landing on the crime kit.
Grogan called, “Show her whatever the hell nets we have on board, will you?”
She followed the fisherman, who apparently worked as crew when he wasn’t fishing, up the narrow stairway to the upper deck. He pointed to safety netting stretching from railing to deck. His longish curls defied the breeze as if stiff from salt. She nodded and scanned the pier. The sight of Bruce’s broad back caused her a pang as he left the pier. A giant white bird flew by at eye level, an albatross. It landed in the water, turned and stared up at her, its dark eyes calculating.
Are you good luck or bad luck?
She had to turn sideways in the cramped stairwell to let Grogan pass. He had wrinkles around his eyes and sandy hair under his hat flap. “Hurry up,” he said. “We’re getting set to leave.”
Below, the fisherman pointed to two nets attached to poles. Not even close to a trawling net. More for butterflies.
“That’s it,” he said.
She said thanks and went to tell Briscoe goodbye. He stood at the cage, which Alexa noted was attached to a cable—no flimsy ropes like in the YouTube—and big enough for three or four people to stand upright and still have ceiling space.
“I can’t believe I’m going down,” Briscoe said.
She envisioned the cage sinking in the cold water. Herself stuck inside. A thin blue line, perhaps an eighth-inch in diameter, was threaded through a bar at the bottom. She knew from the YouTube that it was a foot bar, to keep the tourists from floating. The line snaked to the far side.
Alexa’s heart skipped a beat. The line wasn’t netting, but it looked like polyethylene and the color matched the Stealth Glider. Could the same fiber be woven into rope? She used her phone to take photos and then pulled on gloves and stretched her hand through the bars. It was out of reach. “Where’s the door?”
A shadow loomed over her. The fisherman had returned. She hadn’t heard a peep.
“Where’s the door?” she repeated.
She followed his strange steel eyes to the top of the cage where hinges indicated the entryway. “I need to get in.”
“You can climb up,” he said. “No time to lower it over the side, so you can drop down.”
Alexa took this as a challenge. She dropped the crime kit, tore off the gloves, and grabbed as high as she could. The bars were perfect footholds, and the steel supported her weight without give. She winced as the pull on her trapezius and deltoid muscles made her gaff wound gape. On top she turned two latches, heaved the door open with a clang, and lowered herself in.
Easy-peasy.
Briscoe and the fisherman stared like she was a zoo animal. “Give me gloves, scissors, and a plastic bag,” she commanded the constable.
“Evidence, eh?” Briscoe’s brown eyes sparkled. He pawed through the kit and passed the items through. She gloved up, snipped off a strand of the line, and held it close to her eye. Damn. It was interwoven with specks of white. All this trouble and no match.
The cage rattled, vibrated. The growl of engines filled her ears. The fisherman laughed. What the hell?
Her blood turned cold. She was trapped in the cage, and the boat was leaving.