Death in Cold Water (7 page)

Cubiak sent the deputy outside and then, to be polite, accepted the drink.

“What gives with the upstairs decor? Was your father a world traveler?” he asked.

“Both my parents liked to travel. The themed rooms were my mother's idea. They're reminders of the favorite places they visited together.”

“Did you go with them?”

Andrew gave a sad smile. “No, Sheriff, I did not.” He looked away. “My parents adored each other. Theirs was a classic case of love at first sight and lifelong devotion. They were inseparable, as the saying goes. Naturally, they were eager to have a baby, but after I was born, they realized that children needed more time and attention than they cared to give. I was much loved but an inconvenience, a problem they solved with nannies and then boarding school. Very British, you know.” He assumed the accent and almost choked on the word.

A clock ticked and Andrew went on. “So, no, we weren't close. After Mother died, my father sold the houses in Green Bay and Miami and came to live here, with the rooms and the memories.”

“What about the locked room?”

“Oh, that.” He hesitated. “I couldn't have that whole crew of men tromping through there this morning but, of course, you'll want to see it.”

Andrew got the key from a carved ivory box in the library and led the way up. He was stooped and slow, whether tired from the previous day or burdened by worry, Cubiak couldn't decide.

The stairs to the third floor were in a separate passageway at the back of the house. Easy to miss, Cubiak thought.

In the hallway at the top of the stairs, Andrew pointed to two narrow doors on one side. “Staff quarters,” he said.

He waited for the sheriff to inspect the rooms and then he moved to the double-wide door on the other side. “Father had a wall removed and two rooms converted into one. Ready?” he said almost jauntily as he inserted the key.

Whatever Cubiak expected to find behind the locked door, it wasn't a hospital bed surrounded by the paraphernalia of a quixotic private medical clinic.

“You ever hear of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, Sheriff?” Andrew stepped aside and let Cubiak enter. “It's a rare and fatal degenerative brain disorder, affecting one person in a million. Most patients die within a year or two. My mother was diagnosed shortly after her fifty-fourth birthday. But my father refused to accept the fact that there was no cure. He believed that if you tried hard enough, you could overcome any shortcoming or fault in the human system—mental, emotional, or physical.”

Andrew pulled the curtain at the window. The sun was out and light flowed in above the treetops, exaggerating the paleness of his parchment complexion and the harsh sterility of the room's antiseptic white walls and surfaces.

He went on in a monotone. “When the doctors at the Mayo Clinic couldn't give him what he wanted, he dragged my mother around the world to every self-professed healer he could find. He was convinced that if he just tried hard enough, he'd find the person who could make her well, and she put her faith in him, like she always did. I protested, of course, but my objections were ignored. When Mother couldn't walk anymore and was too weak to stand, he brought her back and set up a personalized hospital room with round-the-clock, private-duty nurses and a revolving door of gurus, doctors of questionable repute, and even shamans that he put up in the guest houses.”

As Andrew talked, Cubiak inspected the room more closely. In his determined efforts to keep his wife alive, Sneider had allowed her to be treated with a boggling array of purported remedies. Opaque green and blue bottles of various sizes and shapes filled a glass-front cabinet marked Potions. Dozens of dried herbs in sealed plastic bags hung in another, while the shelves of a third were piled with metal pill boxes. Cubiak stopped in front of a tall chest of drawers labeled Fungi. He didn't dare open the drawers.

There were gadgets as well. A Jacuzzi tub filled one corner. A white curtain hid an array of oxygen and exercise equipment and multiple IV trees. Electrical appliances, including wrist and ankle straps and a domed cap with wires, lined two shelves on a back wall.

What one can do with money, Cubiak thought. “And how long did this go on?”

“Four or five months. Six at the most. After she died, Father closed up the room. As far as I know no one's been in here until today.”

Andrew waited for Cubiak to step back into the hall. “For my father, my mother's death represented the ultimate failure. I don't know if he ever accepted the fact that his egomaniacal ideals had prolonged her suffering, but he was never the same afterward,” he said, pulling the door shut behind them.

Downstairs, Andrew headed to the front hall. “Okay if I take a walk? I could use the air,” he said.

Cubiak stood on the porch and watched him go, the deputy not far behind. When the two men disappeared into the woods, he retraced his way through the first floor. The evidence technicians had opened the drapes, but even bathed in sunlight the opulent rooms retained their gloom, as if all life and hope had been banished. Passing from one to another, the sheriff felt as if he was walking through a well-maintained museum. Once there had been life within these walls, but no longer.

Cubiak poured a fresh cup of coffee in the kitchen and made his way to Sneider's office. Moore hadn't prescribed any boundaries, so he decided to have a look around. He rolled the great chair away from the desk and was about to sit down when the front door banged open and heavy footsteps thundered across the foyer.

“Sheriff !” The cry was croaked and rigid with fear.

It was Andrew.

“In here, the office,” Cubiak replied.

The thick hall rug muted Andrew's steps, but moments later he charged into the room, followed by the relief deputy. Andrew was short-winded and his barrel chest heaved with the effort of breathing. Burrs stuck to his legs and arms, and a dark shadow played across the lower part of his face. Struggling to steady his trembling hand, Andrew thrust out his cell phone, holding it like a miniature bomb.

“Four hundred grand,” he said, his eyes huge in his pale face. “They want four hundred thousand dollars.”

“They called?”

Andrew shook his head. “No. A text. Here.” Again he jabbed the phone toward Cubiak.

The sheriff took the device as Andrew collapsed onto the couch. “What else?”

“Nothing.”

“No instructions?” the sheriff said as he laid the phone on the glass-topped desk.

“Just what's there.”

Andrew reared up and glared at the phone as if he expected it to explode. “Jesus, I don't have that kind of money,” he said, grabbing at his hair. “What am I going to do?”

“Nothing.”

Andrew struggled to his feet, sputtering in protest.

“There's nothing you can do, yet. For one thing, they haven't given any instruction. And besides, it's out of your hands.”

Andrew sat down again. “What do you mean?”

“Whoever's behind this left a message at Packers headquarters as well as here. The governing board called in the police and the FBI, and this morning two federal agents showed up at my office to help with the investigation. I'll tell them about the text. They'll know what to do.” At least Cubiak hoped they would. He assumed Moore and Harrison had experience dealing with kidnappers.

“I see,” Andrew said, but his response was drugged with doubt.

“I finished the coffee. Do you want a glass of water? Some tea?” Cubiak offered.

Andrew rubbed his neck. “Water,” he said as he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Andrew had been gone less than five minutes when he got the text. Had he been expecting the message? Cubiak wondered. The sheriff motioned the relief deputy into the hall. “What was Andrew doing when he got the text?”

“He was walking by the cliff.”

“Were his hands in his pockets or by his side?”

The deputy frowned. “By his sides. He was swinging them along as he walked.”

“You saw both hands the entire time?”

“Yeah, for sure. When he pulled out the cell, he held it in both hands to keep it steady while he read the message.”

In the kitchen the sheriff filled a glass with ice and then called Moore while he ran the tap.

Moore seemed nonplussed. “We'll trace the text but it's probably from a prepaid phone that's at the bottom of the lake by now. Proves one thing though. If Andrew's behind the scheme, he's not alone. Unless he had another cell in his other pocket with a preprogrammed message that he sent himself.”

“Not likely. The relief deputy was with him and said both Andrew's hands were visible the entire time.”

Moore grunted.

“What about the ransom demand?” the sheriff asked.

“With no instructions, it means little. A message to keep us guessing and let us know the game's still on.”

The game? Cubiak thought. A man's life might be at stake. “Doesn't it seem like an odd amount? Four hundred thousand instead of an even half a million?”

He could almost see Moore shrug over the phone. “Four hundred, five hundred grand, whatever. If the perp is a disgruntled employee or a neighbor, someone with a personal grudge, it might seem a little high. But if we're dealing with terrorists or professionals, it's another matter. Worldwide, kidnappings bring in about two billion a year. It's big business out there. In fact, I've seen cases where the ransom demand has been five times what Andrew's been asked for. If anything—assuming we're dealing with a terror threat here—I'm surprised they didn't ask for more. These people need major funding for their operations.”

“Andrew claims he doesn't have access to that kind of money.”

Again, Cubiak sensed the shrug. “Tell him not to worry. When it comes to the actual arrangements, we'll take care of things.”

“You'll pay up?”

“We'll play it out, see how far it goes. The final decisions are made up the ladder.”

At the other end of the line, a door opened and Cubiak heard Moore in a muffled conversation with someone else. “Yeah, good. Okay. Sure, now's fine.” When he got back to the sheriff, Cubiak asked what the agents in Green Bay had learned.

“Nothing new from the team office but a couple of my men talked to Sneider's secretary. He says he's basically retired and hasn't been to the estate in five years. In the past two years, he says he's met Sneider twice at the Packers office and then it was only to follow through on business correspondence concerning Sneider's logging interests.”

“He's from Green Bay?”

“No. Nashville, but he's lived up here for thirty years or so. A bit of a loner, according to my agent. Big house, five cats, expensive tastes. Follows chess not football. Hard to see how he connected with Sneider. I've got a man tracing his movements for the past six months, see if there's any red flags in where he's been and who he's been in contact with. If this is an inside job, he'd be a good candidate.”

Moore was interrupted again. Cubiak was about to hang up when the agent was back on the line. “Have you started going through Sneider's files and personal papers yet?”

“No.”

“Don't bother with them then. Agent Harrison is on her way there now. She'll take it from here.”

So much for being in charge, Cubiak thought.

Andrew was on the couch with his eyes closed when the sheriff got back to the office with the glass of water.

“One of the federal agents, a Gwen Harrison, is on her way here now,” Cubiak said.

Andrew slumped into the sofa. “I've got to talk to the FBI?”

“It's routine. They'll be talking to all kinds of people. Nothing to worry about.”

Andrew cast a nervous glance around the office. “Yeah,” he said.

Cubiak opened a tall casement window to let in the cool air.

“Your father didn't have a computer?” he asked, taking in the old-fashioned furnishings.

Andrew laughed. “He didn't trust computers. Also didn't know how to use one.”

“No laptop, notebook?”

Andrew shook his head. “Didn't even have a typewriter. My father liked to talk things through, settle deals with a handshake. Anything in writing, his secretary handled.”

Cubiak considered the wall of custom-made, built-in wood file cabinets. Gerald Sneider had been a powerhouse for decades. There were drawers full of business correspondence that could harbor secret agreements or point to potential enemies. After talking with Moore, Cubiak knew that leaving Andrew alone with his father's papers could jeopardize the investigation. He had no choice but to wait there with him for Harrison.

The sheriff surveyed the dozens of photos and certificates that hung on the walls. The pictures and documents, all richly matted and framed in gold, created an impressive profile of Sneider as an upstanding citizen. There he was standing alongside a series of Green Bay mayors and Wisconsin governors and U.S. senators. Plaques honored him as Businessman of the Year, Citizen of the Decade, and even State Philanthropist of the Century. There were accolades from the Lions, the Kiwanis, the Rotary, the Boy Scouts, more than a half-dozen civic organizations.

Just as impressive were the photos that traced the missing man's long history with the Packers, first in black and white and then in vivid color: a picture of Sneider with every quarterback and coach since Vince Lombardi, and then one of him with each of the Packers' five Super Bowl teams and five of its NFL championship teams. Big shoes to fill, Cubiak thought, looking at Andrew sprawled on the couch.

“Your father has quite a legacy, especially with the Packers.”

Andrew made a sound like a laugh. “To some people, the Packers wouldn't be what they are without him. They're the only franchise team in the league that's publicly owned. He bought his first share of stock for twenty-five dollars in 1950 when he was seventeen. That gave him his first vote in the organization. After that, every time there was a stock drive, he anted up. So far, there've been five million shares issued and my dad ended up with six hundred thousand of them, the maximum of two hundred thousand for himself, my mother, and me. That's all very public, but what most people don't know about is the private support, the many times he kept other owners afloat when they ran into financial trouble or pumped money in when the team's economic woes were kept quiet.”