Death in Cold Water (12 page)

Cubiak knew the type. “A regular loser.”

Andrew laughed again, but it was a sound of bitterness, not mirth. “Yeah, something like that, I guess. Anyway, I owe enough that I guess it wouldn't be hard for the feds to imagine me staging this to get the money. That woman Harrison kept giving me a look.”

“You couldn't have borrowed against your inheritance or your allowance or just asked your father to help you out?”

Andrew colored. “I've already used up those options.”

“And you're here?”

“Huh? Yeah, I'm here, so what?”

“You have easy access to the dock.”

Andrew sniggered. “Not with your deputy around. He's like my shadow. I get up in the middle of the night to pee and he's standing in the hall waiting for me to flush.”

“You got rid of him today.”

“First time, and it wasn't easy,” Andrew said. He tossed down the dregs of the cold tea and looked at Cubiak. “Here's what I'd like to know: How the hell did those fuckers do it without being seen?”

They'd row up quietly just before dawn, Cubiak thought. “What about the note?”

Andrew groaned. “The note! They want more money! That's got to be it, right?”

“Not necessarily. The note says, ‘You know what this means.'”

“Yeah, it means they want more money.” Andrew glared at the sheriff as if he were a simpleton.

To Cubiak, the scrim of arrogant sarcasm was an intentional distraction. He's hiding something, the sheriff thought.

“Well, that could be,” he said, playing along. “On the other hand, there may be more to it than that, don't you think?”

Under the sheriff 's gaze, Andrew shifted and blinked. “Naw,” he said.

He's lying, Cubiak thought as he watched Andrew push back his chair and then cross the room to the small white TV on the counter. It was four and the Sneider story was on every channel, even CNN. Each report was accompanied by the same scene: B-roll of the heavy black gate at the entrance to the estate while one or another of the look-alike anchors breathlessly talked into a mic, updating the story of the missing businessman and implying that sinister forces might be responsible. Each report featured a litany of Sneider's credentials, including his link to the venerated Green Bay Packers. Andrew was invariably mentioned as an afterthought, as was the sheriff. This was a story about a self-made midwestern legend, the FBI, and speculation about a possible kidnapping by homegrown terrorists.

Cubiak waited for the deputy to return, and then he left. Heading south, he called Moore and told him about the snakes and the note. “Andrew claims not to know what it means. He thinks you suspect him because of his gambling debts,” the sheriff said.

“We consider all possibilities.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before the federal agent went on. “What do you think?” It was the first time Moore had asked for Cubiak's input.

“I consider all possibilities as well,” the sheriff replied.

A door opened and someone started talking to Moore. “Later,” the agent said into the phone and hung up.

L
ate afternoon shadows fell across the landing outside Bathard's back door where Cubiak stood listening to the quick clip-clop of footsteps advancing along the inside hallway. From the sound, he knew that Sonja was coming to greet him. At home, Bathard favored soft-soled slippers, but Sonja wore Swedish clogs. “Good for your posture. You should try them,” she'd said more than once. The thought of maneuvering around in wooden shoes always amused Cubiak, so he was looking cheerful when the door opened to a wave of warm air and the aroma of fresh baked bread.

“Ah, David, just in time for supper,” Sonja said. Her face was flushed, her grayish-blonde hair brushed back, and her hands dusted with flour.

Cubiak colored as he straightened his shoulders. In the two years since Bathard had married the widowed schoolteacher, the sheriff had enjoyed many meals with them. Had he unconsciously timed his visit to coincide with dinner? He started to protest but she leaned forward and bussed his cheek. “You'll join us, of course. I'll set an extra place.”

Sonja took Cubiak's jacket and laid her hand on his wrist, the fingers starting to crook with age. “I'm glad you stopped by,” she said. “You're good for Evelyn. When summer's over, he gets restless but you keep him sharp. He's in the library now, with his books.” She smiled knowingly and left the sheriff to make his own way.

Cubiak knew several Door County residents who boasted of larger personal libraries, but he was sure that unlike the other bibliophiles, the retired coroner had read everything on his shelves, probably more than once. The sheriff found his friend in his favorite high-back chair, his feet on an upholstered ottoman and an oversized, illustrated book in his lap. He seemed to be dozing. But as Cubiak settled into the facing chair, Bathard opened his eyes. “
Paradise Lost.
Ever read it?” he asked, lifting the heavy tome an inch or two.

“I tried.”

Bathard laughed. “With the aid of Cliff 's Notes, no doubt. You really should delve into it, and now may be as good a time as ever. There's a lot to learn here, applicable even in our day.” He shifted the book onto a side table. “Something about recent events made me start thinking about people and the nature of evil.”

“So, you've heard?” Cubiak asked.

Bathard harrumphed. “Everyone's heard. A nip of sherry, perhaps?”

Cubiak raised his hand, the index finger close to the thumb. “Hopefully we still know more than the general public.”

Bathard handed him a small drink and arched an eyebrow, a gesture that Cubiak had learned to interpret as a question.

“Official word is still that Sneider is missing. No confirmation yet that he's been kidnapped despite something that appears to be a ransom demand and a possible terrorist connection.”

“Really? In Wisconsin?”

“That's what brought the FBI here, though they won't admit it publicly.”

“I know that there've been threats against the Packers and other teams but thought that was just hyperbole to keep funding up for Homeland Security,” the coroner said.

“The feds think there could be a connection with a Madison group trying to ingratiate itself with one of the international organizations.”

“Sad to say but in today's world, this could be reality.” Bathard looked at the sheriff. “But you don't sound convinced.”

“Not entirely. I've never had to deal with a kidnapping case but there's something about this situation that feels wrong to me.” After a sip of sherry, Cubiak told Bathard about the snakes and the second note.

“I can see why Andrew was upset. Although it may well be that the note is more telling than the drama with the reptiles.”

“Right, but considering the effort and time it took to set up the scene on the dock, I don't think it sounds like something that terrorists, domestic or otherwise, would bother with.”

“And the ransom demand?”

“Moore says it's not out of line.”

“You trust what he says?”

Cubiak shrugged. “I have no reason not to.” Despite the overly polished shoes, he thought.

Bathard pushed aside the ottoman. “What else? I can tell from your tone that something's bothering you.”

Cubiak showed the coroner the photo of the bone that Butch found on the beach the previous day. “Why there? Why now?” he asked.

“Coincidence?”

“I don't like coincidences.”

Bathard smiled. “Neither do I, but they happen.” He looked at the photo again. “There's no question, it's an old bone. One that could have washed up years ago and been buried on the beach until Butch dug it up. I've heard similar stories before. In fact, a few years ago, a parent chaperoning a school field trip to The Ridges came across a fragment of a patella not far from where you found this. She brought it to me and I passed it along to the authorities, but nothing ever came of it. I presume you gave this one to Emma?”

“She confirms that it's human. Based on the size, she thinks it's from a woman or a very small man—perhaps a young teenager, even. Maybe someone who drowned in a shipwreck. There's nothing to connect it to the Sneider case, but I can't shake the feeling that it's important.”

“Emma's right. There have been numerous vessels that have gone down in these waters. I don't know of any in that area that involved loss of life, but given the way the lake shifts, an object could travel a considerable distance before washing up on shore.” He was quiet a moment. Then he continued, “The historic collection at the library has several boxes filled with old documents and clippings, probably some of which haven't been looked at in decades, if ever. I can check into things the next time I'm on duty there.”

This time Cubiak raised an eyebrow.

Bathard chuckled. “I started volunteering two days a week as a way to keep myself occupied and out of the house. It was Sonja's idea.”

When they'd finished the dinner of roasted chicken and lentil soup, Bathard walked the sheriff out. In the cool, dark evening, the men were drawn across the yard to the boat barn where they'd worked together on the
Parlando.
The boat was still in Egg Harbor where it had been moored all season, but when they walked in the old barn Cubiak still half expected to find the vessel looming overhead in its wooden cradle.

“What now?” he said, looking up into the empty space.

“I'll dry-dock it here for the winter, again. That will give me the opportunity to clean the hull and make any necessary repairs.”

“More work?”

“Endless. You know the old saying: the two happiest days in a sailor's life are when he buys a boat and when he sells it.”

Cubiak laughed but as he slowly moved along the barn wall full of myriad tools and equipment, he grew thoughtful. “The day Sneider went missing, I found a note laying on a table in his house, and above it a Super Bowl ring hanging from a piece of white rope. The rope had a blue stripe in it, like this.” The sheriff fingered one of the nautical lines looped overhead. “At the time, I thought it was ordinary rope but maybe it was a piece of boat line.”

“Well, that's not going to help narrow things much. There's probably a hundred miles of rope or line like that around, used for one thing or another,” Bathard said.

They were back outside and near the jeep when Cubiak remembered the coroner's earlier comments about the nature of evil. “You never told me what Milton had to say about it.”

“Ah, Milton. For one, the great bard considered evil as something very real. We tend to dismiss the notion that malevolency is an actual force in the world, but Milton saw things quite differently. In his view, God represents good and Satan represents sin. And just as goodness or virtue exists as a tangible entity, so too, does its opposite.”

“And you, do you agree?”

Bathard looked up to where moonlit clouds skittered above the trees. “I've lived long enough to appreciate that the world is a place of balance and contrasts. If there's one, why not the other? Certainly, if evil exists, it's a lot like nautical lines in Door County. Plenty of it around.”

T
he parking lot behind the Rusty Scupper was full that evening when Cubiak drove into Sturgeon Bay. A late cocktail hour, he thought. Of course at the vintage tavern, which was a favorite with local shipyard workers, a cocktail ran more to a shot and a beer, or in winter, a glass of blackberry brandy, than to any concoction that was shaken or stirred. Whatever primed the pump, gossip ran freely when drinks were involved. “Everyone knows,” Bathard had said earlier in reference to the Sneider case, and Cubiak wondered both what the tavern patrons knew and what they thought they knew about the missing man.

When Cubiak walked in, the group of regulars hunkered near the door turned as one, but seeing who it was—nobody new and therefore nobody requiring closer scrutiny—they refocused on their drinks. Drifting past, the sheriff caught snatches of their conversation. The men were talking about work, not Sneider, happy about the overtime they'd been putting in refurbishing a luxury yacht and worried about shortened shifts when the boat left the hangar the next day and the building went dark.

A second cluster of people was gathered midway down the bar. There were six altogether. The four men and two women were dressed in a casual but decidedly upscale urban style that included designer jeans and, depending on gender, either well-cut sports coats or clingy sweaters. Cubiak recognized them as the reporters who'd been at the station that morning. They'd littered the bar with cash and were leaning over their glasses of draft beers and wine with that loose manner of people who'd been imbibing since lunch.

Hank the loquacious bartender was regaling them with one of his theories. He had several: one about the lost island of Moo, which he claimed predated Atlantis; another about black matter being the source of disease; and, Hank's favorite, the reason brandy was the unofficial drink of Wisconsin. Something about European heritage and the liquor being easy and cheap to produce from just about any fruit or vegetable—including plums and potatoes. Cubiak had heard that particular spiel before.