They walked out the front door of the station. Alexa shifted the crime kit to her other shoulder and looked up at the etching, the one she had noticed when she’d first arrived: E tū ki te kei o te waka, kia pakia koe e ngā ngaru o te wā.
“I know waka is canoe,” she said shyly. “What does the rest mean?”
Constable Cooper’s dusky lips mouthed the words. She adjusted her police cap and turned her dark eyes to Alexa. “‘Stand at the stern of the canoe, and feel the spray of the future biting at your face.’”
Alexa shivered. The inscription felt portentous. During her first case in New Zealand, she and Constable Cooper rode in a small motorboat to a forbidden island. The constable had stood at the bow, where there was even more spray than the stern, where the wind had bitten her face. Alexa’s, too. She could almost feel the bracing air, the spray, the turbulent waves under her Keds. In retrospect, she understood Cooper’s presence on the island had protected her.
She felt shame that she had ever suspected the constable of murder.
“I’ll drive,” Constable Cooper said. She strode toward a white station wagon, jazzed up with blue and yellow police checks and the word pirihimana, Māori for police, and unplugged it from a charging station.
Alexa opened the car door.
Constable Cooper put her hands on her hips. “I said I’ll drive.”
Alexa sometimes forgot the seasons and the steering wheels were backwards in New Zealand. “My bad.” She jogged to the other side and slipped in. She sniffed appreciatively. New car smell was something she’d never experienced personally. “Nice car.”
Constable Cooper buckled up and placed her cap on the dash. Her hair, a blunt black pixie, was tucked behind her ears. “It’s a Škoda Superb hybrid. Has a range of nine hundred kilometers.”
She backed out of the parking spot. “If I keep it charged.”
A couple blocks from the station Alexa spotted Taj Spice Indian takeout. She had hoped for a cozy dinner with Bruce so they could talk shop, but she knew that wasn’t happening, especially since DI Steele was MIA. “I’m starved.”
The constable turned into the lot.
They ordered at a window and settled at a picnic table with their fragrant paper bags and drinks—an L&P for Alexa and a Diet Coke for the constable. Alexa zipped her jacket against the cool evening and surveyed the other customers: parents with identical twin preschoolers more interested in their soccer ball than the naan clutched in their fists, and three teenagers—two girls and a boy—eyeballing Constable Cooper. Alexa scooped chicken tikka masala up with her naan and chewed happily. She gulped the fizzy lemon soda to tame the heat. “How are things in Rotorua?”
Constable Cooper wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I don’t live there anymore.”
“That’s right. You’ve moved to Auckland with Bruce.” That came out wrong. “I mean, DI Horne recruited you to Auckland. He thinks highly of you.”
She shrugged and took tiny bites, avoiding Alexa’s gaze. Her short-sleeved police shirt stretched tightly over her muscular arms. An awkwardness lodged between them.
One of the teens laughed. “You’re a crack-up,” her friend squealed.
Sated by tikka masala, Alexa blabbed out the story her roommate told her about how Cape Kidnappers got its name. “But it probably already had a name, right?”
Constable Cooper’s eyes gleamed topaz in the dim light. “You didn’t believe that the Māori kidnapped Captain Cook’s cabin boy, did you?”
Alexa hadn’t had an opinion. She’d been in a hurry to hit the road. “Of course not.”
“Te Kauwae-a-Māui is the rightful name, the fishhook of Māui. The local iwi chief and his son believed the cabin boy to be Māori and held against his will. They tried to rescue him. Several were killed for it.”
Roaring bombarded Alexa’s ears. Four motorcycles pulled into the parking area and surrounded Coop’s patrol car—two on one side, two on the other. The riders—all in black and red—revved their engines until Alexa covered her ears. Their helmets and Darth Vader–like visors scared her. One by one they cut their engines.
Alexa held her breath as they lifted the helmets, releasing beards and braids and flattened mullets. Two looked Pākehā, or White, and two looked Māori or Pacific Islander. Alexa squinted: one man had a crude C-U-R tattooed across his forehead.
A pickup pulled in. Two guys got out and joined the others.
The couple gathered their twins, scowled at Constable Cooper as if she were responsible for the infiltration, and hustled to their car.
“What should we do?” Alexa whispered.
Constable Cooper stood, her face impassive. “Don’t worry. They aren’t interested in you.”
The last biker to dismount pulled a red bandanna from his pocket and wiped his face. Fangs were tattooed on the corners of his mouth. He touched forehead and nose with one of the guys from the pickup truck and then turned and strutted toward their picnic table. Alexa, paralyzed, watched the man stop in front of Constable Cooper. He curled his lip and snarled. Constable Cooper didn’t flinch.
The hair on Alexa’s neck stood. She focused on the man’s steel-capped boots. He walked away, trailing the scent of weed.
Alexa tried to stand, but her knees refused to lock. Constable Cooper glided over to the table of silent teens and said loudly, “Kia ora. Do you need a lift?”
One girl’s mouth dropped as shook her head. The other two kept their eyes on the Curs.
Constable Cooper whispered to them. They gathered their food and scrambled into an old car. She stood, arms akimbo, as they drove away, the bikers watching her watch the kids.
Alexa rose slowly, careful not to make eye contact with the men. She wanted to sprint to the patrol car, but followed woodenly behind Constable Cooper, who paused in front of one of the motorcycles. “Nice bike,” she said. When she finally unlocked the Škoda, Alexa jumped in.
Constable Cooper placed her cap on the dash and checked her mirrors. “I told the kids to go straight home. The gangs like to recruit ’em young. They aren’t interested in someone old, well, middle-aged, like you.”
Alexa had never thought of herself as middle-aged. She willed Constable Cooper to mash the accelerator and get them out of Dodge. “I can’t believe you stood up to that guy.”
“That was a senior member, Rikki Griffin. I’ve met him a few times.” She started the quiet motor and pulled onto the street. The last gasp of twilight had faded. “He’s here for the tangi.”
“Whose funeral is being held?”
“Sonny Brown, a former president of the Curs.”
Alexa looked over her shoulder. The bikes gleamed under a streetlight. “Why are they allowing a motorcycle gang to hold a funeral at a school? That’s crazy.”
“The Curs aren’t a motorcycle gang. They’re a patch gang.”
“What’s the difference?”
“They’re a street gang. You don’t have to have a motorcycle to join.”
“Why are they allowed to hold the funeral?”
Constable Cooper’s jaw clenched. “Everyone has a right to a funeral. Sonny has three grandchildren at that school. His family needs to express their love. A lot of Māori knowledge is passed down to children at funerals. Words to traditional songs, customs. All that’s being lost.”
Alexa took a deep breath, relieved her heart rate was no longer in the red zone. “Do you think there’s a connection between Harlan Quinn’s death and the Curs, Constable Cooper?”
“You can call me Coop.”
Alexa was honored.
“The pack probably has the weapons, but I don’t think they killed him.”
Alexa looked out the window, quiet, until they passed through the sleepy town of Clifton. Then she filled “Coop” in on all she knew about Katrina Flores. “She’s uptight about privacy. She refused to give any info about who ordered the picnic basket. Then there’s a server, Blair. She said Ms. Flores delivers the picnic baskets.”
They turned onto the serpentine lane that led to The Retreat and Black Reef. “The first time I drove this road—on Thursday—a fancy ATV forced me into a ditch. The server said Ms. Flores likes driving them.”
“Might have been her, but Mr. Quinn was dead by then.”
“I lifted a fingerprint from the picnic basket. I’ll mention that. See how she reacts.” Alexa peered into the dark, remembering how DI Steele had shared her personal problems as they drove this same stretch earlier in the day. She thought of her nephews Benny and Noah. She’d do anything to protect them. Would the DI be back on the case in the morning, another kid episode done and dusted?
Coop parked next to the inn steps. Golden light from the windows and double front doors bathed the wide porch. The valet hustled toward them but stopped a few feet shy of Coop’s door.
She stepped out. “I’ll leave the car here.”
The valet gave the Škoda Superb a once-over and nodded. Alexa shouldered her crime kit and followed Coop into the lobby. The clink of glassware and animated conversation carried from the dining room, as did enticing aromas.
Katrina Flores glided toward them. She had changed from the silk blouse and green skirt to a clingy knit dress. Her coppery hair was gathered into some complicated updo—a little less tame than the bun she’d worn earlier. Her green eyes skimmed Constable Cooper’s face and uniform and landed on Alexa. “You’re back. What can I do for you?”
“DI Steele sent us for the information she requested, and we have a few more questions.”
“I can’t answer them now.” She gestured to the dining room. “We’re busy.”
Constable Cooper showed her badge. “Make the time, please.”
Alexa heard a familiar voice and craned her head past the vase of orange poppies for a view of the bar. Amit Gupta leaned against it, talking loudly to the bartender. He had struck her as reserved, and she wondered if he’d had too much to drink.
A middle-aged couple entered the lobby. Their smiles faded at the sight of Constable Cooper. Ms. Flores excused herself and greeted them, giving a mouth-watering description of the menu and summoning a server. Then she beckoned Alexa and Coop to follow her down the hallway and into her office. She stood in front of her desk. “How can I help you?”
“Is Mr. Gupta staying here?” Alexa asked.
She shook her head slightly. “I told your boss our guests have a right to privacy.”
Alexa let the “boss” comment slide. “This is a suspicious death investigation. Is he a guest?”
“Suspicious death? Why is Mr. Quinn’s death suspicious? Wasn’t it a heart attack?”
“There have been updates. It’s very important that you help us. Is Mr. Gupta a guest at The Retreat?”
She nodded. “He’s staying in the Harmony suite.”
Coop wasn’t speaking, so Alexa forged ahead. “DI Steele asked that you find out who delivered the picnic basket to Black Reef. The menu refers to it as a Romantic Picnic for Two.”
Ms. Flores studied her shoes: tiny high heels with straps that made Alexa’s feet ache.
“Have you found out who delivered it?” Alexa repeated.
“I haven’t had time.”
Maybe being on a first-name basis with the manager might melt her reserve. “May I call you Katrina?”
Ms. Flores met her eyes and shrugged.
“A source told us it was you who delivered the basket, Katrina. Is that true?”
She stiffened. “Who told you that?”
Alexa knew to shield Blair. “Did you know Mr. Quinn was married?”
“I don’t ask our guests about their private lives.”
“Mr. Quinn also had a mistress. You met Lynn Lockhart. He set her up with a cottage.”
Katrina’s chin quivered.
Alexa glanced at Coop to see if she noticed. Her face was unrevealing. “We believe Mr. Quinn was seeing someone else, besides Ms. Lockhart.” She paused. Katrina studied her shoes again, her face flushed. “Earlier when I was here, you referred to Mr. Quinn as ‘Harlan.’ That’s a little familiar for a manager/guest relationship.” In for a penny, in for a New Zealand dollar. Alexa plunged ahead. “Were you in a relationship with him?”
Katrina walked behind her desk and gripped the back of the chair. “That would be unprofessional. Mr. V would fire me. I need this job.”
Coop finally spoke. “Ms. Glock here is a forensic expert. She lifted prints from the picnic basket handle. She’d like to take your fingerprints.”
Alexa raised her kit. “It was a good print. There’s sufficient detail to make a comparison.”
Katrina pulled the chair out and sat heavily. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” Her eyes were fearful. “How did he die?”
Constable Cooper pulled a chair close to Katrina and sat. She took out her notebook and pen. “Cause of death is pending,” she said. “How did your relationship with Mr. Quinn start?”
Katrina swallowed. “This January, around the New Year. Mr. Quinn invited me in when I delivered some food. He said he needed a chess partner.”
“Did he invite you into the big house or bunker?” Coop asked.
“The big house. It was between meals, so I had time.” Katrina found a pen on her desk and clicked it repeatedly. “I’m a decent player. My father taught me.”
“I play too,” Coop said. “Whatever move you make, the consequences are difficult to determine.”
Katrina nodded. “The second time he invited me in, we had wine while we played. We met all that week.” A lock of her coppery hair escaped its binds and she twirled it contemplatively. “I got caught up in his charisma.”
Alexa felt anger at Harlan Quinn for luring Katrina into his den.
“What about Lynn Lockhart?” Coop asked. “Didn’t she catch on?”
“I only saw him in the afternoons. Ms. Lockhart was too busy buying more art, more clothes, more stuff, to notice. He had dinner with her every night.”
What a double-crossing double-crosser, Alexa thought.
“You were okay with all that?” Constable Cooper asked.
“I sound horrible, even to myself. I didn’t know what I was doing, and then all of sudden there was excitement in my life. He texted me and said he was coming early this time, before Ms. Lockhart expected him. To see me. He thought we should meet in the bunker so the housekeeper wouldn’t get nosy.”
Coop took notes. “How many times did you meet in the bunker?”
“Only once. Last Saturday, when I delivered the picnic basket. We shared it. He was supposed to text me Sunday, but never did. Or the day after.” She rubbed under her eyes. “I thought he didn’t want to see me again. Or that he’d left. Maybe he had an emergency. When I heard the siren on Thursday, I drove over to see what was going on. I saw the hearse and knew it was something terrible.”
“You drove me off the road,” Alexa said.
Katrina looked at her blankly.
“I need your phone,” Coop said.
She wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara. “Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Do I have to give you my phone?”
Coop didn’t hesitate. “You have the right to refuse.”
“I refuse,” Katrina said in a small voice.
“Come to the station at nine a.m. to make a statement,” Coop said. “Bring the phone. Ms. Glock will take your fingerprints now.”
Katrina jerked. “I need to contact a solicitor before I consent.”
Coop closed her notepad. “He or she can come with you in the morning.”
“Here’s my card,” Alexa said, sliding it across the desk. “Call if you think of anything that might help us find out what happened to him.”