Alexa was the only one with a Facebook page and hadn’t checked it in a month. She vacated Wallace’s desk and moved to the table. As Bruce hovered over her shoulder, she logged in on her laptop. Wallace was checking the weather.
“Stormy was right. MetService says 120–140 kilometer-per-hour gusts by 6:00. Periods of rain, squally storms, followed by a cold front.”
Bruce bumped her shoulder.
“Ouch.”
He stepped away. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The pain reminded her to stop by the medical center. She looked back at the page and could barely remember who half her forty-nine “Friends” were. A few high school ghosts, a smattering of undergraduate acquaintances. Mel, Charlie’s wife, who posted pictures of Noah and Benny. Rita, her stepmother, who shared artful table settings. Her friend Mary. Mary was dead, but her account lingered. A lump lodged in Alexa’s throat.
“You have a friend request,” Bruce commented.
Alexa wished she couldn’t smell his woodsy aftershave. She clicked to see who wanted to be friends. Shark Man. Kana Duffy himself. She smiled slightly, confirming the request, and then searched for Ban the Cage and quickly joined. More heated or heartfelt comments. Bruce pulled up a chair, and they read silently, shoulders almost touching, Alexa clicking and scrolling:
Dick Shanley: Cagers playing with killing machines. What did you expect? The locals have suffered long enuf.
Miles Smith: DOC dickheads.
Roger Trubeck: Sharks injured when they r taunted by bait and ram cages. One had eye gouged out.
Carolyn Parker: A shark got in a cage with divers in South Africa. Guess who was hurt? The shark.
Sue Griffiths: Don’t tease these beautiful creatures that my ancestors loved and respected.
Theo Hall: As tourists, my wife and I were greeted by anti-caging protesters. We paid $$$ to dive. We were stared down by locals, attacked in the pub. In Queenstown no one threatened to cut me up for bungee jumping.
Alexa pointed. “Theo is the one who gave you the pictures from his dive,” she said to Bruce. “The American.”
“Look at the response,” Bruce said. “From Lucas Grogan.”
A low burn simmered in her chest as she read Grogan’s comment. She was still angry he had started the engines while she was in the shark cage.
Lucas Grogan: Sorry you weren’t treated well. Glad we saw some big ones down under.
Ed McAdam: Footage has emerged of a 6m great white shark lunging at a dinghy in Halfmoon Bay, your competitor torn apart, and you still take people out? Ought to lock you in your cage.
Bruce scooted closer. “Start a list of any people who made threatening comments, and put McAdam at the top.”
The landline rang. Wallace answered. “Eh. Right. All good.” He called to Bruce, “Gray’s mobile company for you, Senior.”
Bruce jumped up. Alexa listened to the conversation with interest.
“Yes,” Bruce confirmed. “Section 88. Plausible reason.”
In the U.S., the police had authority to search cell phone records if exigent circumstances were present. The same rules applied here. The wiped-up blood and gouged bullet hole were exigent circumstances. And her life had been threatened.
Bruce hung up, sat at the head of the table, and opened his laptop. “Should be in my inbox. If anything, the records will help us formulate a timeline.”
Alexa returned to scrolling and trolling, using her Pilot G2 gel pen to add names of people who had posted threatening comments. While she was lost in her task, a tap on her shoulder made her start.
“Senior says for us to start visiting the fishermen,” Constable Kopae said.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Alexa said.
Wallace nodded from his desk. “Let’s see your Facebook list first.”
It had five names.
“I know two of these men,” Wallace said.
Kopae studied the list. “Yeah nah. I know Ed McAdam. He’s on our trawler list.”
“Do you know Nathan Rawner, Mr. Kill the Cagers?” Wallace asked.
Kopae shook her head. Alexa scrolled back for the “Kill the Cagers” comment and clicked on the name. Rawner’s profile was marked private. Alexa sent him a friend request—figured it was worth a try—and shut down her computer.
“Speak with Whale Man first,” Wallace instructed.
Alexa thought Stephen was the whale man. “Who?”
“Zeke Harata. He’s the Māori elder who Stephen claims saw him pick up the PLB. Harata doesn’t have a phone, so just stop by. It’s on your way to McAdam’s place.”
“We have three lists,” Kopae said. “Trawling fishermen. Gun permits. Facebook. Did any name make all three?”
The sergeant and constable cross-checked for a hat trick. No luck.
Bruce spoke as Alexa and Kopae opened the door. “Ask permission to see the nets. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Kopae said.
“If you see something suspicious—identify, determine significance, photograph, record.”
Kopae nodded and Alexa patted the crime kit.
“If there is any danger, call us and leave immediately. Get back before the storm hits.”
“Radio is right here.” Kopae patted her belt.
Alexa did a mental eye roll.
“Methinks he’s worried about you,” Kopae said on the porch stairs.
Alexa refused to engage. Her story about Grogan’s shenanigans on Glowing Sky burst from her mouth. “He started the engines to scare me,” she said. “While I was in the shark cage.” She suspected all of them—Duffy, his film crew, Grogan, the fisherman, Constable Briscoe, maybe—were in cahoots. They had watched her storm off the pier. Probably laughing.
Not. Funny.
Kopae swiped fingers through her hair, settled her cap firmly, and looked to be suppressing a smile. They walked across the soft grass to the car. Kopae picked a leaf off the windshield before opening the car door. “Why were you in the shark cage?”
Alexa explained about the fiber as a jeep pulled up. Supervisor Lowell nodded to them. Stephen, head down, sat in the back. Part of Alexa wanted to stay, listen to the interrogation, and another part was glad to leave misery behind.
Shoving the crime kit in the back seat caused her to grimace. She told Kopae to stop by the medical center. “I might be getting an infection. I’ll run in, get some antibiotics.”
“We better move. The clinic closes in ten minutes. I’ll drop you, hit the Kai Cart, pick us up some lunch. We’ll chow on the way to Zeke’s.”
The thought of food occupied Alexa all the way to the clinic.
Joan, the nurse practitioner, was pulling on her jacket when she arrived. Alexa explained about her wound.
“Let’s take a looky.”
She removed her jacket and ushered Alexa into the same exam room where they had conducted the partial autopsy on Gray’s body. It smelled of disinfectant. “Took me an hour to clean it,” Joan said. “It’s not like we have a cleaning crew.” She washed her hands, pulled on gloves, and asked Alexa to remove her shirt. “Sit here, love.”
Alexa hopped onto the exam table and dangled her Keds.
“What have we got?” Joan pushed Alexa’s bra strap out of the way and gently prodded the inflamed skin surrounding the laceration. “All the classic signs, even producing pus. What happened?”
“I, um, ran into a gaff.”
“Blimey. Looks more like someone tried to catch you with one. Bacteria from fish guts is the problem.”
“Gross.”
Joan’s wire-frame glasses caught the overhead light. “Does your running into a gaff have anything to do with Andy Gray being shot?”
“I can’t say. Thank you for keeping quiet about the bullet.”
“It’s been hard,” Joan said earnestly. “My husband is ready to lead a shark hunt. He’ll be gutted if Shark Man says no to culling. But he will, right? We can’t blame Andy Gray’s death on the sharks.”
Alexa nodded. “Um, my shoulder?”
“I’ll clean it and start you on amoxicillin. I keep some stocked. When was your last tetanus shot?” Joan stuck a thermometer in her mouth.
“I’m ’ood,” Alexa mumbled.
Joan was efficient. Alexa’s temperature was 37.3 degrees Celsius. Slightly high. Pill bottle in hand, she was on the clinic porch searching the sky for storm signs when Kopae honked.