McAdam whipped off his sunglasses, leaned forward, clunked the oars against the gunnels. “Got a shark coming to take a look,” he said huskily.
Alexa’s mouth went dry. She whipped around.
Kopae turned too, wobbling the boat. Off to the right, a dark fin sliced the surface, parallel to the rowboat, trailing a V wake. “Shit,” Kopae said.
The enormous fin changed course, cutting the ocean in a straight menace to the rowboat, slow and unwavering. Alexa grabbed the bench, steeling herself for a ram. “Row,” she yelled.
“Splashing attracts them,” McAdam said.
“It’s already attracted,” Alexa screamed.
The fin disappeared. Alexa pushed her bottom off the bench and onto the floor of the rowboat. Any second they would be flipped into the water.
“Where’s he gone?” Kopae asked.
Alexa hugged her knees, head bowed, nose against mildewed life vest.
“Goddamn,” McAdam said. “He’s circling.”
“He’s turning,” Kopae whispered. “Coming around.”
Alexa lifted her head, attracted, for dark reasons from her own deep depths, to the macabre. With slow-motion care, she unfolded and inched back onto the bench, the rowboat listing—“Watch it,” Kopae screamed—her body shaking. The shark came alongside, first the white’s head rippled by, flashing razor-teeth in a primeval smile, then miles of gill and torso, the triangular fin so close Alexa could touch the faded crescent scar near the tip and the ripped-flag notches on the grayish flesh, then the tail fin trailing a smaller wake. A full minute—or year, it was hard to tell—of muscle and terror, the shark’s immensity spellbinding, and then it sank out of sight.
“Three and one-half meters,” Kopae whispered, clutching Alexa’s hand. “Maybe more.”
Gulls circled the rowboat, screeching. Alexa couldn’t breathe. “Is it…is it gone?”
“I don’t think so,” McAdam said.
They sat in silence, the boat turning in a slow tidal whorl, their heads swiveling to locate the fin again. Alexa thought it might be underneath them, planning a missile attack, but no, the fin resurfaced ten yards in front and circled back. This time the shark lifted its head out of the water and looked directly at her. Alexa cowered against Kopae and saw the shark’s eyes were navy, not black. The shark flipped on its side, exposing a sea of ivory, and then its tail nudged the rowboat, the judder making Alexa scream as the shark veered into the deep.
“Holy hell,” McAdam said. “Could have been a body slam.”
The clink of waves hit them broadside. The wind was picking up. They had drifted closer to shore. McAdam picked up the oars but dropped them when the shark exploded from the water thirty feet behind them, flipped over, crashed back with an enormous splash that sent waves to swamp their boat.
“Jesus help us,” McAdam said.
In two seconds, the shark breached again, a seal writhing in giant jaws. The screeching gulls flew at the commotion. Alexa looked to the shore. Should she swim for it, she thought crazily? No. “Row,” she yelled and lifted the tip of an oar, thrusting it at McAdam’s stomach. “Row before the wave hits us.”
Either hours or minutes later, Alexa couldn’t tell, the rowboat scudded into sand. McAdam dropped the oars in a clunk, hopped out, and pulled them in.
“The seal saved our lives,” McAdam said. “Diverted the shark.”
Alexa wanted to kiss the sand. Noticed she was holding Kopae’s arm. Dropped it. Stumbled, caught herself.
The trudge to his house was silent.
They lectured McAdam about making online threats, but their heart wasn’t in it—they were alive and for the moment that’s all that mattered—and left McAdam hugging a frantic Jack. “Little tyke knows something almost happened to me,” he said.
“Close one, that,” Kopae said as they buckled up in the car. Her bronzed cheeks were splotched with red. “Had my hand on the radio, but who was there to call?”
They drove slowly away. Alexa finally broke the silence. “I don’t know if this is how we should be spending our time.”
“Almost dying?” Kopae said.
Alexa unfolded the trawler list, her hand trembling. “Checking this list of trawler owners. Kerry Gloden is next.”
“I know Gloden,” Kopae said. “I, well, went out with his son Graham couple a times.”
Alexa let out a sigh.
“His place is on the drive back,” Kopae said. “We can head to the station after Gloden’s, see what’s up. Maybe they’ll have the ballistic reports.” She took her cap off, ran fingers through her hair, and pulled it back on. “Can’t stop shaking.”
“No way I’m ever getting in a little boat again,” Alexa said.
“Me either.”
They reverted to silence, Alexa reliving the horror of being inches from those jaws. Rowing with the sharks instead of cage diving. Maybe she would tell Charlie.
Gloden lived in a single-story brown duplex close to town. After pleasantries about Graham “living the good life in Ozzie land,” they learned Gloden’s net wasn’t on his boat. “I’ve had a change of mind about trawling,” he said, unlocking a storage shed behind the duplex. “Too destructive to the seabed. I work on the salmon farm in Big Glory Bay now. Sustainability. That’s forward thinking. Why do you want to see my nets?”
“Part of an investigation is all I can say,” Kopae answered.
The trawling net, buried beneath musty tarp, was old and white.
“Ta,” Kopae said, covering it back up and leaving the shed. “Are you ready for the storm?”
“They sent us home from work, that’s why I’m here.” Gloden’s yard was on a rise above the harbor. He searched the sky. “Glad I’m not at sea.”
“Me too,” Kopae and Alexa said simultaneously.
An army of gray clouds stalked toward the island. They hadn’t been visible from McAdam’s place. It was past 4:00, and Alexa was antsy.
* * *
Wallace, alone in the station, was hanging up the landline when they rushed in.
“Hi, Senior,” gushed Kopae. “We had a little adventure.” She halted. Wallace’s face was a canvas of confusion. “What’s up?”
“That was Auckland ballistics.” He shook his head. “Two things: The bullet damage in Robert King’s skull came from an 870 Remington shotgun.”
“Same gun Stephen had,” Kopae said. “Clinches case one.”
Alexa’s heart sank.
“Wait. Here’s the thing,” Wallace said. “The shell doesn’t match Stephen’s Remington.”
“What?” Kopae said. “How can they know that?”
Alexa didn’t know how to unload a gun, but she had studied ballistics during her training and answered automatically. “It has to do with rifling, which is the unique spirals and grooves imprinted in the gun’s barrel. These get imparted on the projectile.”
“But they’re wrong,” Kopae said. “All the time in the weather probably eroded it.”
Alexa’s mind whirled, twirled, and landed on the temporary ranger who supposedly helped Stephen euthanize the whales. “Did Supervisor Lowell give you the name of the ranger with Stephen during the euthanasia? He probably had a checked-out Remington too. He could be the one who shot King.”
“Lowell checked and the record book is misplaced or something,” Wallace said. “He has ordered a full-out search. I’m waiting for his call. But he’s en route to Invercargill with Stephen, flying before the storm hits.”
“Where’s the DI?” Alexa asked. “We have to let him know.”
“He and Briscoe are following up on phone records. Gray called a landline number three times, twice the day before he made his cash deposit, and once the next day. Address is 7 Whips Way.”
Kopae frowned. “Who lives there?”
“Sean and Missy Warren.”
“I know Warren through his truck,” Kopae said. “Nicest one on the island.”
“That name sounds familiar.” Alexa ran it through her cast of characters. The memory refused to solidify, but she remembered something else. “The American gal who measures kelp—Madalyn—she mentioned a truck passing her as she was leaving Golden Bay Wharf the afternoon Gray was killed.” She rummaged through her tote for her notebook.
“Lots of trucks on the island,” Wallace said, reaching for the phone.
Alexa found her notes. “A black Chevy.”
“That’s Warren’s,” Kopae said. “Wait a minute.” She fiddled in her pockets, then looked at Alexa. “Where’s our trawling list?”
Alexa found it and handed it over.
“Sean Warren is on our list, Senior,” Kopae said. “He owns a trawler— Darla Jo—and it docks next to The Apex. He could be Andy’s killer. We better head over to Whips Way, see if the DI needs help.”
“Hold on.” Wallace dialed the DI’s number.
“Darla Jo shows up a lot on the white-shark-sighting forms, too,” Alexa added.
“Bloody hell,” Wallace said. “Horne isn’t answering.” He dialed another number. “Briscoe? That you?”
Briscoe insisted he and Bruce were fine. They were having tea with Missy Warren and the kids. Sean Warren was on his way. “Five minutes,” Briscoe said. “He’ll be here in five.”
“Have senior call us,” Wallace said.
“He got back safe, then?” Kopae asked. “Briscoe? From the shark boat?”
“He came back babbling about where Gray was thrown overboard. Off Native Island. Three sharks pinged at the same time. He’s a shark expert now, says they were fighting over prey.”
Alexa’s stomach churned. “Is that close to Ringaringa Beach?”
“Yeah nah,” Kopae said. “You can see it from shore.”
The radio blared, and Wallace jumped to answer. “Eh?” he said. “Speak of the devil.” He played with some dials and turned the radio so the women could hear. “It’s Shark Man, at the ferry terminal. His pronouncement.”
Alexa was curious to hear what Kana Duffy had to say.
“…does not support culling of white sharks due to the…bleep, garble…on Ringaringa Beach.”
The radio reception cleared.
“…indiscriminate killing of sharks does not increase human safety. No kill permits will be issued by Department of Conservation. The ban on water activities on Stewart Island is lifted. Proceed with caution as we share the waters with Carcharodon carcharias, mangō taniwha. Tune in next week for ‘Critical Pings—One Shark’s Journey.’ This is Kana Duffy from Foveaux Strait.”
The radio went dead. Alexa felt a tug of affection for Duffy; he’d made the right call.
“Nothing changed then, eh?” Wallace said, his eyes downcast. “I’m still not letting my boy near the water.”
“We’re down to one caging operator. That’s something,” Kopae said.
Alexa couldn’t bear the waiting. “We need to do something.” She looked out the window. The dark sky gave her an idea. “Let’s hit The Apex before the storm gets bad and use BLUESTAR on the cleaned-up blood splatter. To prove Andy was killed on his own boat. The killer might even have left a footprint in the blood. It happens.”
“I thought you needed darkness,” Kopae said. “To see it glow.”
“Total darkness isn’t required. Low light like this works.”
They turned to Wallace, whose brows had knit together. “Means, motive, and opportunity. Darla Jo parked next to The Apex gives Warren opportunity. Take the radio and keep it with you.”
Kopae grabbed a yellow rain slicker from a coat hook. She looked at Alexa and pointed to another, navy blue and enormous, for her to grab. Alexa did gratefully.
A jolt of adrenaline flooded Alexa’s veins as they jumped into the car and screeched off. The village already looked forsaken. A lonely light seeped from the Four Square grocery window. “Do you lose power during storms?” Alexa asked.
“No worries. We use diesel generators.” A gust of wind tested her steering.
Alexa looked up the hill at Island Inn. Someone was retracting the patio awning. Battening down the hatches. She turned to the whitecap-ruffled harbor. The dark clouds that had been marching forward had now descended, angry and possessive. She could smell approaching rain through Kopae’s cracked window and the sharp fresh scent of wind off faraway icebergs. Her phone, which she slipped in her pocket, had no bars.
Wallace’s voice crackled on the radio. “DI called. He doesn’t like this stuff about Sean Warren. Says to be ready to assist him. No word from Lowell yet.”
“Yes, Senior,” Kopae said. “The wharf is halfway to Sean’s house.”
Droplets dappled the windshield as they pulled into the empty Golden Bay Wharf parking area. Alexa opened the crime kit. First, she took out the camera and mini tripod. She disabled the flash and set the lens to manual. This was easier to do in the dry car. She hung the camera around her neck and tucked it down her coat. She retrieved her Maglite and tucked it into her pocket.
“Are you ready?” Kopae dropped the keys in her pocket, grabbed the radio, and cracked the car door.
“Hold on. Let me mix the BLUESTAR.” Alexa dug around in the kit and pulled out a small spray bottle of distilled water and a BLUESTAR packet. She added two tablets, one beige and one white, to the water and gently swirled. Science in all its glory, she thought. She readied a second bottle too.
Kopae ogled the bottles. “It will react to blood, eh? What if it’s fish blood? Like from that shark?”
“We’ll do a quickie human blood check.”
“What can I carry?” Kopae asked.
She looked like a kid in a candy shop, so Alexa gave her the tripod and spray bottles. “Don’t shake them.” The rain was light, but if it increased, it would dilute the BLUESTAR results. “Do you have an umbrella?”
“In the boot.”
Alexa slipped the navy poncho over her jacket as Kopae found the umbrella.
From the rise they could see the three boats tethered to the pier: the water taxi, The Apex, and Darla Jo. Two additional boats were moored in the bay.
“Storm prep,” Kopae said. “Boats are safer being moored than…”
Wind snatched the rest of her words away.
The hill gave them a vantage point, and Alexa scanned the area carefully. Both boat houses were shuttered, the beach was forlorn, and moody waves clapped the shore. She filled her lungs with air and started down the path, Kopae following, over the sand and onto the pier, the light rain making the wood slick.
The Apex, jostling the dock, was even with it. All they would have to do was jump over the guardrail.
“Lines should be let out.” Kopae was breathing hard. “Boats in a storm need more line.”
Andy Gray could no longer take care of his boat. Who would tend it, Alexa wondered?
Sean Warren’s Darla Jo at the opposite end of the T-shaped pier looked abandoned: rust seeping from a porthole, chipping gray paint, a hulking winch with a stray cable clanking against a pole, a homely wheelhouse, and a rustic cabin. The fishing boat was half-again as long as The Apex, and an empty soda bottle, wedged by a wooden box, was the only indication that it wasn’t a ghost town boat of yore. Alexa was tempted to snoop around, but she talked herself out of it. No probable cause.
Yet.
The distance between The Apex and dock was two feet. “Let’s go,” Alexa said. She held the crime kit to her chest and jumped the rail, the poncho parachuting behind her. Kopae landed lightly beside her, the spray bottles tucked in her pockets. Alexa dug out gloves and booties for each of them as The Apex heaved with a swell. A black band of heavier rain ruffed the entrance to the bay. It would descend shortly. “We better hurry,” she said.
They wound up the spiral staircase, Alexa tugging the crime kit free of a rail. Up top—where someone had attacked her with the gaff—wind flared her poncho. She swallowed to moisten her dry throat, let the kit slide off her shoulder to the floor, and approached the gouged rail, stopping four feet shy. “That’s where I saw the bullet,” she pointed. “We’ll spray this area.”
Kopae turned in a billowing circle, taking in the scene, and then handed Alexa a bottle.
Alexa adjusted the nozzle to fine mist. She remembered the thrill of the first time she had used the product: in a Raleigh parking garage. “You can spray it,” she told Kopae magnanimously. “Stand with the wind to your back.”
Kopae looked stricken and waved the bottle away. “I forgot the radio. I set it down in the boot when I was getting the umbrella. Sarge said to keep it with me. I’ve got to get it. What if he’s…”
“Okay,” Alexa shouted. “Go. I can’t wait, though.”
Kopae clattered down the spiral stairs, leaving Alexa alone on The Apex.