For a quarter hour, the three walked through earthy silence. Alexa could see no human trace, no sign of an archaeological dig. Pushing through two scratchy bushes, Alexa followed Cooper into a clearing, and light and sound suddenly switched back on. A steaming pool fed by a waterfall sliding down a cliff, as beautiful as a movie set, opened before her. Pulling her eyes away, she spotted two more men and tried not to act surprised: they were dressed as Maori warriors, bare-chested, holding spears, loincloths around their solid waists, a glimpse of tattooed buttock as one man turned profile. Their faces were covered in intricate spirals and symmetrical lines. The barefooted men padded to either side of Ngawata and stood staring straight ahead.
“Ko wai koe?” Ngawata asked her.
Alexa looked questioningly at Cooper.
“She does not understand Maori,” Cooper said.
The elder threw both hands into the air, up above his head, and turned around slowly. As if he were a conductor for a symphony, birds began to sing, the waterfall increased in volume, and a wind blew steam from the hot pools toward them. “This is sacred land of our ancestors. Pākehā are not welcome,” Ngawata said.
“I understand,” replied Alexa. Her nostrils were assaulted by sulfur, her vision blurred. “I also understand that it was wrong that district councilor Koppel came to this place and brought a stranger. Can you tell me about that day? And would you mind if I recorded the conversation?” Alexa opened her tote.
“No photos. No recording.” The man on Ngawata’s right took a step toward her. He continued speaking, staring at her. “Pokokōhua! That Pākehā landed in a cove, and I caught him sneaking around.”
“This is our island caretaker,” Ngawata said. “He will describe the trespassing.”
“How do you know it was Paul Koppel? Who was with him?” Alexa’s questions tumbled out as she stared at the caretaker. He looked to be in his forties, and his tā moko had deeper hues than Ngawata’s. Black ink lines were carved above each eyebrow in permanent malice.
“We have ways of knowing.” He spat on the ground. “The councilman followed the other man through the island, and they rooted around the opening of wāhi tapu area. They dared to step into the cave, the sacred burial cave, disturbing the slumber of our mighty ancestor.”
“Did they take anything from the cave?”
“They came out…” The caretaker held out a closed fist. Alexa held her breath as he turned it over, and stretched his fingers.
Empty.
“I followed them and watched them undress and sit in the golden waters.” He pointed to the steaming pool and then spat on the ground again.
“Did you speak to them, ask them to leave?”
“I watched through trees. I did not speak.” He turned and spewed a torrent of Maori at Ngawata.
“He has evidence the men came back again when he was not here to protect. Our ancestors have been once again desecrated,” Ngawata said flatly. He turned to face Alexa, and his eyes contained all knowledge of wrongdoing, all trail of theft, rape, pillage linking white men and men of color. Alexa’s shoulders drooped; she fought the urge to kneel, apologize, sacrifice.
Wait. The warring on this island—she had read at the coffee shop—had been mostly Maori against Maori.
Until recently anyway. She thought about the aborted dig and found her voice. “You understand what has happened to Mr. Koppel since that day, yes?”
“The spirits have acted.”
“The spirits? You understand Mr. Koppel had a wife and two little boys?”
“The spirits have acted,” Ngawata repeated. His stare was a cold blast, blank as that statue carved in stone.
“Mr. Ngawata.” Alexa coughed. “Do you know who killed Paul Koppel?” Sulfur and steam were swallowing her.
What the hell was happening?
“You leave now, for your safety. The spirits are disturbed by your trespass.”
“I will leave when you answer my questions.” She glanced at the caretaker and the other man who stood silent. Who was he? She looked at Cooper, but the officer refused to meet her eyes or help out. “I need your names and for you to show me the cave the men entered. And if you have your ways—who was the other man?”
“Mā, mā.” The caretaker pointed to his head. “White.”
Another white man, she thought. That narrows it down. Then she noticed each of the warriors had clubs tucked into their waists. Green clubs, jade maybe, about two and a half inches wide. Her eyes widened.
Ngawata began talking in Maori to Cooper. They pressed their foreheads and noses together, and then Cooper spoke to Alexa. “We will walk out together, and I’ll answer your questions. Mr. Ngawata will remain here.” She strode toward the thicket and disappeared, her broad shoulders and straight back vanishing into the bushes.
Alexa, fighting an urge to run after Cooper, to run like a scared puppy, turned to look at each man directly, her heart pounding. “I need to see the cave before I leave.” Raindrops began pelting her skin with cold precision.
“For your safety, you must leave,” Ngawata replied. The two men flanking him stepped toward Alexa, their eyes bulging and their chins thrust forward. She looked away, instinctively aware that meeting those eyes would provoke attack.
“I will make arrangements to speak with each of you again.” Her voice shook. “On the mainland.” Her parting words, directed to the ground, felt as feeble as her bravery.
Terrance had been right.
She shouldn’t have come to the island, powerless against a force stronger than she.
She squeezed through the break in the bushes, wondering if she’d make it back to the beach, to the water taxi. Or would she vanish, another Pākehā never to return from the forbidden island?
But Cooper was waiting for her. Alexa followed silently. No boat was on the beach when they popped out of the forest nor on the horizon. The lake surf was louder, pounding fists upon the shore. Rain pelted. Cooper stood near the water, arms folded against her chest, her hair slicked to a black helmet against her skull. “Let’s wait under the trees,” Alexa shouted, turning from the bleak shoreline. The tote, heavy and useless, knocked against her as she trudged back toward the tree line. Cooper followed. “Okay. Time to talk,” Alexa said. “I asked Mr. Ngawata if he knew who killed Koppel, and he started talking to you in Maori. What did he say?”
Officer Cooper turned her broad face and impassive eyes toward Alexa. Her blue lips parted. “He repeated that the spirits have acted. It is what he believes. He has no knowledge of who killed Koppel beyond that. Only that Koppel deserved it.”
“What about the other man? Is he in danger from these ‘spirits?’” Alexa made quote marks with her cold fingers.
“Taonga is missing. The spirits will act.”
Alexa could not believe what she was hearing. All this crap about spirits.
“Who were the two men with Mr. Ngawata?”
“The one you spoke with is Ray Herera, the island keeper, and the other man is my uncle, Taylor Cooper.”
“Your uncle? He didn’t act like an uncle.”
Cooper was silent.
“Officer Cooper. Talk to me. You’re a cop. What do you think?”
“There’s the launch.” Her voice was urgent. “It is time to leave. Now.”
The ride back was rough. Waves and rain assaulted the vessel and occupants; buffeting winds made the going stomach-clenchingly slow. There was no way to continue her conversation with Cooper, who sat on the bow again, holding tight to cleats, placing as much distance as possible between herself and Alexa, who had insisted on a life jacket. The extra layer added scant protection, and the captain remained silent, concentrating on maneuvering the small craft.
As the boat approached the dock, Alexa spotted a yellow- cloaked figure standing beside a piling.
It looked like Detective Inspector Horne.
Chapter Fourteen
Why is he here?
Before the boat bumped the dock, Cooper vaulted. Alexa waited until the captain cut the engine and started wrapping lines around the dock cleats. “Thank you,” she said, handing him her dripping life jacket. He offered her a hand up, which in her shaky state she accepted but slipped on the wet wood anyway, landing on her ass.
“You right?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sure,” she said, turning over and looking at him from all fours. She stood, heat flooding her face, and guardedly walked toward the DI.
“Has something happened?” she asked before he could comment on her grace.
His face was grave, but he shook his head no. They stood in the rain and watched Cooper disappear into the parking lot.
“I have more questions for her. But Officer Cooper’s clammed up.” Alexa’s teeth chattered. Her saturated jacket was a pitiful reminder of how useless she’d been. Horne took off his poncho while scanning the dock area.
“I’ve put her in an awkward position,” he said, turning back to her. “Family and work don’t mix, but she was the only way Ngawata would consent to you stepping foot on the island. She was your ticket and protector, you know.” He handed her the poncho.
Instead of protesting, she struggled into it, disappearing and then reappearing, dropping her tote in the process. “I don’t see how I needed protection. From what?”
DI Horne picked up her tote, slung it over his shoulder, and studied her, one eyebrow an inch higher than the other.
She knew he was right. The forbidden island and the three men holding court had been menacing. “We can talk in my car. Now you’re getting wet, and I need to get the heater going. Or you can stop by Trout Cottage.”
Alexa longed for a hot shower and dry clothes. It was five, and she couldn’t face going back to headquarters. “Why are you here?”
“Go home. Get dry. I’ll follow you in my car and explain.” He handed over her tote.
Alexa drove fast through the rain. Even though her body was cold to the core, she was warming up to the man in the rearview mirror.
* * *
Turning on the electric kettle, she put Earl Grey bags in mugs and told him to fix the tea. “Back in a jiffy. I’ll just take a quick shower.” Her voice shook.
The hot water eased the shivers racking her body; the knowledge that Horne was in the next room prolonged them. She let go her restraint and imagined him showering with her, his nakedness pressed against hers, his mouth hot and hungry.
Cold water extinguished the vision.
Alexa toweled off vigorously, wiped a hole in the steamy mirror, and studied her hazel eyes. Control. I do not want to get involved. Her reflection was noncommittal, so she hurried to dress. Beige bra, granny panties. Last night’s jeans, clean white T-shirt, and NC State Wolfpack sweatshirt. Slipper socks. A quick comb through her combatant hair and she corralled it into a ponytail. A brush of lip gloss and she was armed.
“My cup of tea,” she said, looking at the DI sitting on the couch and then at the steaming mug he’d set on the coffee table.
She popped into the little kitchen and arranged a couple of Tim Tams on a plate.
“I love these cookies, by the way.” She set the plate down, picked up the mug, steadied herself, and perched on the edge of the recliner, hoping for the becalming effects of oil of bergamot. Why was her heart racing?
“Best biscuit there is.” Horne stared at her, one eyebrow inching higher than the other. “You look ten years old.” His large hands encircled his almost empty mug. “Do you drink tea in the States?”
“Hot in the winter, iced and sweet in the summer.” Was looking ten years old good or bad?
He nodded. “What transpired on the island?”
“Why were you at the docks?”
He studied her, his blue eyes darkening. “You’re a hard case.” He swallowed the last of his tea. “I was at the docks because I had four phone complaints and two walk-ins about police trespassing on Pirongia Island. I was concerned you might have a greeting committee.”
“You’re kidding. Who are these people?” So he had been looking for someone at the docks.
“You know Rotorua has the largest indigenous population of anywhere in the country, right?”
“I think so.” Mary had said there were a lot of Maoris in the area. The councilwomen had mentioned it as well.
“Over thirty-five percent of Rotoruans are Maori,” Horne said. “Elsewhere in New Zealand, Maori makeup maybe ten or fifteen percent of the population.”
“So people of Maori ethnicity complained?” Alexa thought of Terrance.
“Right. Let’s just say my decision to get you on the island was shortsighted. I’ve disregarded the rules of tapu—the sacred Maori code. According to one elder who came in and complained, we have offended the gods.”
“Me?”
“Not just you. The police department.”
“But…”
“And the consequences are disaster, demonic possession, or death.”
“Get real,” Alexa snapped. “That crap doesn’t belong in the twenty-first century. You don’t believe that, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is that we have a segment of our population insulted and angry. I’m sorry to have put you—” Horne stopped.
“What?” Alexa knew what he was about to say. In danger.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more respectful of the Maori community. What happened on the island? Did you learn anything or find anything?”
Alexa recounted her trip, told him Paul Koppel and his buddy, another white guy, were suspected of making a second trip to the island and maybe stole treasures. She left out the strange transformation from silence to symphony with the raising of Ngawata’s arms at the golden pools. She now doubted her memory—probably had imagined it—and described the Ngawata posse. “The two warrior men had green clubs. I wonder if a club was used to attack Jenny?”
“Clubs? You mean patu?”
“What?”
“Patu. Maori war clubs. Made of greenstone.”
“Is greenstone the same as jade? They looked jade.”
“That’s greenstone. It comes from the South Island and is considered a treasure by the Maori. More valuable than gold.”
“They looked like small paddles.”
“Patu were used for hand-to-hand fighting. Most are made of whale bone or wood. Only royalty had clubs made of greenstone. They’d be worth a fortune. I wonder where they came from.” He bit into a Tim Tam and chewed thoughtfully.
“Couldn’t they have come from the caves where the chief was buried?”
“I wonder. Theft of artifacts. It happens. But I’m off track. Let’s get one from the Rotorua Museum and see if it matches the weapon used in Jenny’s attack.”
“Good idea. First thing in the morning.” Alexa then told him that the extra duct tape prints had yielded no match.
“That clears anyone from the department,” Horne said. “We all have prints on file.”
They talked about what would happen next, Alexa relishing the role of confidant. The DI had an interview scheduled with the mayor’s husband. Full disclosure of Koppel’s financial records had produced some unexpected deposits. Detective McNamara was meeting with the owner of Bowen Realty Group. And Koppel’s phone records had been released.
Horne stood.
Alexa took the plunge. “Are you hungry?” She had an urge to rock this man’s even keel.
“I have to go back to headquarters and then pick up my daughters.” He checked his watch and then stared at her. “Rain check?”
* * *
The evening ahead stretched long and empty, and Alexa, restored by hot shower, hot tea, and hot thoughts, restlessly turned her attention to food. Rice and beans tonight. She would add ga
rlic and onion and went into the wee kitchen to check if there might be cumin or red pepper hidden in the cabinets. Barking dogs made her jump. Her phone.
“Hello?”
“Alexa? It’s Terrance.”
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
Alexa immediately remembered his concern from their lunch- time talk about the island. She should have called him. “I’m fine, Terrance. I was able to speak to Mr. Ngawata on the island, and Officer Cooper made a good guide.” Hardly.
“I am relieved. But watch out for yourself. People are talking.”
“What people? What are they saying?”
“My people. There is concern that a Maori may be unjustly blamed for this murder. Maori have been made scapegoats throughout history.”
Like people of color in the States, she thought. “Please assure whoever you’ve been talking to that we are doing our best with the evidence we have. We aren’t jumping to any conclusions or falsely accusing anyone. Trust me.”
“I wish I could. But history is full of shattered trust.”
“Evidence will guide us.”
Silence.
“Terrance, did you call the police department about my trip to Pirongia?”
More silence. And then Alexa realized he had hung up. She stared at her phone for a few moments, shaken. Watch out for myself? Mary’s brother meant well, but his call left her uneasy.
The little kitchen came with a rice cooker, which would free her up for a walk along the river to calm her nerves. The bergamot had failed. She measured rice and water, slowly and methodically, as the river beckoned.
The skies had cleared, as so often happens in the small island country; a “change,” her colleagues in Auckland had called it. She grabbed the cottage umbrella, just in case, and headed for the door, checking her watch. Just past six—what time did it get dark? On impulse, she grabbed the little egg basket and decided to find Trout Cottage’s owner and return it.
The scrambled egg incident seemed years ago, yet this was only her fifth night at the cottage. What had Egg Boy said? A side trail either before or after the falls led to Flying Fish Farm. The air was fresh, clean, light, North Carolina’s humidity a faded bad dream. Alexa inhaled deeply and hustled along the roiling emerald Kaituna, certain there could be no more pristine air anywhere.
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