Alexa stood for the entire hour’s crossing, holding on to the interior rail of the ferry and staring at the heaving horizon while the captain calmly picked his way through swells, some exploding over the bow. Her queasiness was barely abated by the ginger tablets she’d bought from the ticket lady. She vowed to fly back, instead of taking the ferry, even if it meant chipping in some of her own money.
Now on terra firma, passengers dispersed like sea spray in the wind. Alexa, jerking her roller suitcase through puddles, caught up with the man in the fisherman’s sweater. “Excuse me. Is there island Uber?”
“Uber?” His nickel-colored eyes focused on her wet Keds.
“Or Lyft?” A raindrop hit her squarely in the right eye, blurring the world. She shifted the crime kit more securely on her shoulder and rubbed her vision back to normal.
“There’s the one taxi.” He pointed up the road at vanishing taillights. “Best way to get around is to ten-toe it.”
She needed to dump her stuff at the hotel and get to the police station, pronto. “How far to the Island Inn?” She had reserved a room ahead of time, conscious of her per diem, and wasn’t expecting a Ritz-Carlton.
“Five-minute walk.” He pointed a long finger to a building perched above Halfmoon Bay. The rain distorted the inn into a cream-with-red-trim watercolor. “Heading that way. I’ll drop you.” Without waiting for an answer, the lean man strode toward a hulking black pickup truck in the parking lot.
What the hell.
Mr. Fisherman threw her suitcase in the bed of the truck, next to netting and rope.
The truck purred to life as Alexa arranged herself on the cold leather seat. She buckled up as the driver accelerated onto Elgin Terrace. Horsepower and rain drowned any chance of introductions. She glanced at the man’s profile. Early forties, angular and weathered. In three minutes they arrived at the small two-storied inn.
“Thank you for the lift.”
Mr. Fisherman nodded.
A group of people holding signs watched her from the patio area as she hauled her case out of the truck bed. It looked to be a mini-protest. Their screams of “Ban the cage, BAN THE CAGE” got louder as Alexa approached—as if she were going shark cage diving. Not. Happening. She squinted through the rain at the signs: Paua Divers Aren’t Bait, CHILDREN SWIM HERE. Mr. Fisherman honked as Alexa scurried past and through the door.
An old-timey wooden reception counter stood at the far end of the lobby. The Americans from the ferry were already checking in. “I don’t appreciate the greeting committee,” the man said to the receptionist.
“Sorry about that,” she replied, removing her glasses. “Caging is a bit of a stink on the island.”
“The money we pay to dive with the sharks goes toward ocean conservation,” the woman chimed in.
“Some of it,” said the receptionist.
The high-vis couple snagged my taxi, Alexa concluded, unzipping her raincoat. Off to the right, a waiter carried a tray of fried fish and chips in the busy restaurant. Her stomach growled in protest. To the left an arrow pointed to Full Moon Lounge.
The Americans nodded at Alexa as they hurried off.
“Kia ora. I’m Constance Saddler, proprietor. Are you a shack diver too?”
“Shack diver?” It took her a second to decipher. “No. I’m not here to dive with sharks. I have a reservation. Alexa Glock.” She fished her phone out to check messages. No bars. “Is there cell reception on the island?”
“Not to worry. On fine days.” Constance looked a few years older than Alexa, early forties. Her blond hair, dark at the roots, needed a trim. “What brings you here?”
“Business. Can you give me directions to the police station?”
Constance’s eyes widened. “It’s number two View Street. A short hop.” She took a map from a stack on the counter and circled a dot. “It’s about the hunter, yeah?”
News had leaked. “I can’t say.”
“Right then.” Constance checked the computer screen. “You’ve booked a studio. I’ll take you there.”
They exited out a side door, where a one-story wing had been added. “These are our private entrance suites.” Constance unlocked Number Three with a key. “You have an en suite double, tellie, and wee kitchen.” Constance cracked the window and approved when the curtain billowed. “Would you like standard or trim?”
Alexa was caught off guard again.
“Milk for your mini-fridge. Standard or trim?”
“Standard, thank you.”
“I’ll be back later with your milk.” Constance paused. “It wasn’t a local, you know.”
Alexa watched through the window as Constance hurried away. She supposed on an island with fewer than four hundred residents that everyone would know everyone and there would be no secrets. She pulled hiking pants and socks from her suitcase and set her white Keds by the window—which she closed—to dry. She changed, combed her thick dark tangles into a ponytail, laced her boots, and grabbed a mini-package of biscuits next to the electric kettle. She would dine on her way.
The sea-green cottage at 2 View Street belonged in a children’s picture book. Alexa checked the sign. Yep. Police Station. She climbed three steps to the front porch and turned toward the harbor. Through tapering rain, she could see the ferry leaving, causing her a flutter of panic. Stranded on a remote island. And Then There Were None, and all that. She swatted away such irrational thoughts of remote locales and killers among us and entered. Sergeant Kipper Wallace had expected her two hours ago. A uniformed woman in a cubicle turned. “Hello. How can I help?” Her name tag said Constable Elyse Kopae.
Alexa had learned Kiwis used the term “constable” instead of “officer.” Same difference. “I’m looking for Sergeant Wallace.”
“Are you from Auckland forensics?” The constable was young, maybe Māori, with dark, direct eyes. Her black hair was chin-length. She did not have a lip and chin tattoo like some Māori women. Neither had Mary.
“Yes.”
“The senior is at the fire department. Waiting for the all-clear so he can take off.”
“Senior” was another oddity. Instead of saying “sir” or “boss,” police officers called their superiors Senior. Alexa couldn’t bring herself to use it. “Take off?”
“To the location.”
Constable Kopae pointed out the room’s single window to another sea-green building. One side was an open garage housing an inflatable raft. Alexa’s stomach flip-flopped.
She flew across the wet grass. A slightly overweight man opened the door before she knocked. “You made it. I’m Sergeant Kipper Wallace.” He was mid-forties and wore a bright orange jumpsuit with SAR on the breast pocket.
“Alexa Glock.” She put the crime kit down and extended her hand.
“Glock, eh? Like the gun?” Mostly bald, the sergeant had patches of sandy fuzz above each ear.
“Glock, paper, scissors. That’s me.”
The sergeant’s shake was firm. “Call me Wallace.”
“Sorry I’m late. The ferry…”
“The entire island knows when the ferry is late. We’ve got to get going,” Wallace interrupted. “The tide.” He looked Alexa up and down. “You’ll need a search-and-rescue suit like mine and overnight gear.”
“Overnight?” She had become an echo.
“No roads where we are going. We’ll fly, land on the beach, hike a couple kilometers to the body. Bush is dense. We’ll bunk at the hunter’s camp. My constable will rig you.”
Back across the grass, Kopae pointed to an orange jumpsuit hanging from a hook in the unisex bathroom. “It will keep you visible. Don’t need you getting shot.”
“Who would shoot me?”
“There are hunters out there. You can use my rucksack. I keep it ready. Lost trampers, that kind of thing. It’s got a torch, compass, water, tooth powder, towelettes, space blanket, and jumper.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“Are you from the States?”
Alexa nodded and pulled the generous-sized suit over everything but her boots, which she slipped back on and laced, glad for thick, dry socks. “How many officers do you have on the island?”
“We’re a two-person station, me and Sarge.”
“Two people? How do you get time off?”
“It’s all good,” Constable Kopae said.
“Don’t know what I’m getting into.”
“It’s rugged. Beast practice for you to have a tracker.” She handed over an orange-and-black walkie-talkie.
Alexa was alarmed. “Beast practice?”
Constable Kopae frowned. “You know, using latest knowledge and technology. Don’t you have beast practices in the States?”
Oh, Alexa thought. The constable was saying best. “Of course. We follow best practice procedures back home too.”
“That’s the SOS signal,” the constable pointed. “And it’s waterproof.”
The burn scars crossing her back tightened as Alexa studied the tracking device.