Death in Cold Water (13 page)

The sheriff wanted to ask the media crowd how they'd learned the FBI was in Door County but he knew they'd clam up if he approached them as a whole. His best chance of getting inside information was to talk to Justin St. James, who wasn't there tonight.

Cubiak was turning away when the surly face of Leeland Ross came into focus farther down the bar.

Leeland was thumping a thick index finger against the shiny wood surface and carrying on a one-way, spitfire conversation with a man in a houndstooth sports coat, not Leeland's usual style of companion. The stranger had his back to the door and one arm bent at the elbow, giving Cubiak a good look at his elbow patches. The sheriff was sure he'd seen the coat before. Curious, he stepped around the media posse and waved a couple of singles at Hank, signaling a call for a beer. The bartender served him without breaking his raconteur stride, making it difficult for the sheriff to catch more than a growling hiss from Leeland's animated discourse and leaving him no choice but to make a clumsy turn that brought his arm in contact with the hunched shoulders of the man in the black-and-white jacket.

“Sorry,” the sheriff said as the man spun toward him.

“No problem.” The man had long straight black hair and a wan complexion, like someone sprung from a sunless world.

Cubiak recognized him from the press conference as well. “You're a reporter, aren't you?” he asked.

“Fucking
New York Times
,” Leeland said.

His companion shot him a look.

“Well, pardon me,” Leeland said as he started twirling one of the half-dozen bottles they had emptied.

“Searching for a little local color for your story?” Cubiak said.

The stranger hesitated, then gave an aha smile and extended his hand. “Not hardly. I grew up here. Name's Steve Ross, Leeland's cousin.”

Leeland smirked. “Kissing cousins, even. Uncle Freddie was Stevie's daddy.”

“My sympathies on your father's passing.”

Steve nodded.

“You've been here for a while then, since the funeral last week,” Cubiak said.

“I was scheduled to leave the morning the Sneider story broke. This is not my usual beat, but since I was already here my editor asked me to stick around and see what I could come up with.”

“But there's been nothing in the
Times
. I've been reading it online,” Cubiak added by way of explanation.

Steve made a what-can-you-say gesture. “The editors want something longer, more in depth.”

“They're willing to wait and see how this plays out?”

“Something like that.”

Suddenly, Leeland shoved the empties aside and slid from the stool.

“I'm outta here. You coming?” he said, striding past the sheriff and calling over his shoulder to his cousin.

And like that they were gone, but Cubiak barely noticed their absence because when Leeland vacated his spot at the bar, the view to the back of the room opened and the sheriff saw Cate sitting at a corner table. Cate, who disliked noisy places, especially noisy bars, was in an intimate conversation with a man Cubiak didn't recognize. More media? he wondered. A photographer, perhaps. Maybe one of her colleagues. Whoever he was, he had chiseled good looks and the body of someone who worked out hard and regularly.

Cate was the kind of woman men paid attention to. Traveling the world as she did on assignment, Cubiak knew there were advances made and suggestions dropped, but he succeeded in not thinking about any of these when she was gone. He preferred to picture her working on the assigned shoot. He thought he'd finally weaned himself from jealousy and couldn't understand the tug of suspicion he felt seeing her now with this man.

Cubiak was several feet away when the man with Cate reached for her hand. She let him take it, just as she had let Cubiak take her hand the day before at The Ridges. Sitting on the beach with her, Cubiak had sensed a strong bond between them. Now he felt betrayed.

He watched as the stranger leaned toward Cate, his head close to hers. The man said something. She shuddered. Cubiak knew he should turn and walk away, but his anger propelled him forward.

As he approached the table, Cate looked up. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks wet. She pulled her hands free and swiped both across her face.

“Dave.”

“Anything wrong?” He looked at her, ignoring her companion.

Cate shook her head. “Dave, this is Garth Nickels.” She hesitated. “My ex-husband. He's with
USA Today
.”

Another of the bothersome reporters. Cate had once called Nickels an opportunist and said he'd only married her for her money, but she'd also said that her ex had published two books and written a script that had been optioned for a TV movie.

Nickels set cold blue eyes on the sheriff and made no move to stand or offer a hand. He was a man full of himself. For his part, Cubiak wanted to slug the itinerant journalist—payback for whatever he had said that day to hurt Cate and for all the past injuries and slights he'd flung at her.

The men exchanged indifferent nods.

“Everything okay?” Cubiak asked, mentally kicking himself for the inanity of the question.

“We're good,” Cate replied.

She smiled but she did not ask Cubiak to join them, and during that split second of waiting for an invitation that he knew would not be forthcoming, the sheriff felt a bitter wave of resentment toward the two of them. Cate and her former husband shared a history that did not include him, and the sense of his exclusion made him feel even more isolated and separate than the badge and gun. He mumbled something about needing to get back and clumsily retreated. At the bar, Hank had moved on to another of his theories, and the reporters were sucking down another round of drinks, but Cubiak moved past in a blur, paying as little attention to them as they did to him.

On the way home, Cubiak stopped and bought a fifth of vodka. He hadn't intended to replace the bottle he'd finished earlier that week, but he rationalized that it was okay this one time, that it was just a little something to help him keep his mind off Cate.

Alone in his kitchen, he sat and drank. He tried to stay focused on the Sneider case but kept detouring to Cate. After she'd returned to Door County they'd spent months dancing around each other. At first just friends, then occasional lovers. Gradually, bits and pieces of her wardrobe started showing up in his closet. Initially, he'd been unsettled and unsure of how much commitment he was prepared to make. By the time she had claimed her own shelf and half the hangers, he'd grown comfortable with the idea of spending more and more time together. For the past eight months, Cate had basically been living with him, absent only when she was on assignment or the few times she'd stayed at her condo working against deadline. Now here she was cozying up to her ex-husband, who'd ridden into town chasing the Sneider story. Had she been with him the night before as well? Is that why she hadn't come home?

Home. Half in his cups, Cubiak said the word out loud. “Home. Who am I kidding?” he asked Butch, who lay on the floor, her head on her paws and her worried eyes fixed on him. Cate would never want a permanent home with him. She was cut from a different cloth. She deserved better. Not Nickels, either. Someone better than both of them.

It was past midnight when the phone rang and Cate's cell number popped up on caller ID. Cubiak stared at his mobile and then pushed away from the table. Hurt and angry and shamed by what he knew would be his slurred voice, he stumbled into the cold, still yard. The crunch of his boots on the gravel muffled the ringing phone. Cubiak walked to the rocky shore and looked up at the bright night sky, waiting for the house to fall silent again.

C
ubiak crawled up from the dark depths into the bright light of Wednesday morning. Everything hurt. His eyes, his stomach, his mouth, his head. Mostly his head. He thought he'd transcended the wretched ordeal of the hangover, had vowed he'd never endure such misery again, not since the last time, which really had been a long time ago. Flat on his back, he gingerly pushed away the covers and stretched his hand to the other side of the bed, conflicted by the cool emptiness beneath his fingertips. Cate had not come back. On the one hand, the realization saddened him. But she had not seen him like this, and for that small gift he was grateful.

He should have called her last night. He should have asked why she'd been crying. He groped the nightstand and pulled the phone onto the mattress. Maybe it wasn't too late. He dialed three digits of her number and hung up, defeated. Cate had spent the night with the bastard ex-husband, Cubiak was sure of that.

“Fine,” he said. If that was the kind of miserable man she wanted to waste her time on, she was welcome to him.

Sitting up, Cubiak caught his blurred image in the dresser mirror. No prize here, either, he thought. Butch hovered in the doorway. Uncertain. Deferential. Confused. Put off by the stink of liquor or tired of trying to rouse him? He called the dog in and rubbed her head. Then he plodded to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth. Hungry for the taste of coffee, he made his way to the kitchen, stripping off his clothes and dropping them on the floor as he went. Too disoriented the night before even to undress himself. Or to toss the empties into the trash. Had he really drunk all that beer along with half the vodka? This was not the man he wanted to be.

Ignoring the mess, he filled the coffee maker and fed the kittens. Bolstered by caffeine he called Lisa and made his excuses for coming in late. “They're all in with Agent Moore,” she said. He cringed. Well, what did he expect? Rather than embarrass himself by showing up in the middle of the session, he went for a jog instead. It would clear his head and loosen his stiff joints.

Thirty minutes later a much revived Cubiak was dropping empties into a black plastic trash bag when Emma Pardy knocked on the back door.

“Rough night?” she said, walking into the kitchen.

He grunted and tossed the bag into the corner.

“Fresh scones,” she said, pulling a small white bakery box from the oversized canvas tote draped over her shoulder. “And the latest news,” she added, dumping a half-dozen newspapers on the table. “I haven't had my morning caffeine yet. Do you mind?” she said, indicating the coffee pot.

Cubiak shook his head. He'd already sat down and started flipping through the papers. The Sneider case was front-page headline news in the Green Bay, Milwaukee, and Madison papers. Nickels's piece was in
USA Today
, but only in the sports section, not news, Cubiak noted with small satisfaction. Again, there was nothing in the
New York Times
. Cubiak scoured the paper twice to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Even with Steve Ross working on an in-depth report, the sheriff thought it odd that the paper didn't bother with a mention of the case.

A frosted cherry pastry appeared on a plate before him. Beside it, a mug of fresh coffee. Whether it was because of the fresh air or the morning exercise, he was suddenly hungry. “Thanks.”

“I've got more for you on that bone, too,” Pardy said as she slipped into a chair opposite the sheriff. She laid a red folder on the table and from it pulled a single sheet of paper. “Not much, sorry. But I can tell you that as we both suspected it's not recent. Looks like it's been submerged for years, decades even.”

Cubiak skimmed the report and when he looked up, Emma was cuddling one of the kittens.

“Has Cate claimed one yet?”

“No.” His answer was harsh.

“Oh.” She seemed surprised. “Can I have one when they're ready?”

“You can have them all.”

Pardy tucked the kitten back into the nest. “You know, Dave, it seems you have plenty on your plate at the moment. And my daughter's Brownie troop is having an adopt-a-pet campaign. I can take the whole litter with me and then the girls will help find good homes for them. If it's okay with you, that is.”

“Really? You'd do that?”

Pardy laughed. “Why not? We already have a house full of animals—gerbils, fish, two dogs, even pet rats. What's a few more kittens temporarily added to the mix?”

Something about the carefree manner in which the medical examiner spoke of children and pets threatened to open a door Cubiak didn't want to go near. “Sure. That would be fine. Good to be rid of them.”

Pardy was about to say something when the phone rang.

“Chief.” It was Rowe shouting over the sound of a man yelling in the background. “Quiet,” the deputy trumpeted. Then back into the phone, he said, “Chief, are you at your computer?”

Cubiak pulled his laptop off the counter. “I am now.”

“Look at your e-mail. You gotta see this.”

Cubiak logged into his e-mail. Rowe had sent a video attachment. The sheriff stared at the screen.

“Holy Jesus,” he said, motioning Pardy over.

On the monitor, a naked Gerald Sneider knelt on a bed of white pebbles, hands tied behind his back. The captive's face was ruddy and wet with tears, and his terror-filled eyes were trained on the camera as he pled with his tormenters: “No, no, please.” Again and again he begged, voice cracking and choking. A sign reading $4 Million hung from his neck.