Death in Cold Water (5 page)

C
ubiak woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of music, classical guitar, floating in from the hall. He was groggy and lay still, imagining himself somewhere far from his little house on the Lake Michigan shore. Mexico, perhaps. Or Belize, even. He'd never been to either but after listening to Rowe's chatter about his vacation the sheriff couldn't help but fantasize about palm trees and water sports, the kind that didn't include swimming into shark caves.

Maybe last night's business with Andrew Sneider had been a dream, and in reality he and Cate had flown to the tropics as they'd so often planned. Or they were starting another morning at home in Door County with Cate in the kitchen fixing breakfast. When he'd returned from Ellison Bay, Cubiak had expected to find her sound asleep, with Butch curled up at the foot of the bed. But at a quarter past three, when he finally got in, the house was empty. Had Cate come in later or had she spent the night at her condo? He ran a hand over her side of the bed. The sheet was smooth and cool.

In the shower, Cubiak faced up to the real truth about why he'd been fishing the day before. Yesterday was the day his daughter should have turned eleven. He'd spent the afternoon away from home to avoid seeing reminders of Chicago flashed on the TV screen during the game and being reminded of Alexis's birthday, but sitting on the rock ledge, all he could think of was the cake lit with candles, the party, and her gleeful delight as she ripped the wrappings off her gifts. This was the nature of grief and its litany of perpetual reminders.

He was still learning what it meant to forfeit one reality, to lose those he loved, and still trying to understand what it meant to try to create a different and separate existence. How to be faithful to what had been, while being true to what was now. His friend Evelyn Bathard had found a way forward following the death of his wife. Could Cubiak do the same? And how did Cate fit in?

Like him, she was carving out a new life on the peninsula. Cate had spent her childhood summers in Door County with her aunt Ruby and uncle Dutch, but after witnessing her aunt's tragic death, she'd fled and gone back to Milwaukee. Cubiak differed from Cate in many ways and had been surprised to slowly find himself attracted to her that first summer they met. When she left, he resigned himself to never seeing her again. Since her return two years ago, they'd grown closer: To the point where they were more or less living together and more or less a couple. More than less, really. To the point where Cubiak had started imagining a future for them. Was it even possible, he wondered, considering what had happened with Ruby? Cate said she didn't blame him. But Cate didn't know her aunt's whole story, and Cubiak did.

He'd kept quiet about Ruby's secret for four years, but he knew that eventually he'd have to tell Cate everything. He'd have to take the chance that the truth wouldn't jeopardize their relationship.

Cubiak was toweling off when his phone dinged. A text from Rowe gave the names and numbers of Sneider's cook and housekeeper. So the nightmare was real. Andrew's father was missing, possibly kidnapped. He had work to do and once again his personal life had to be put on hold.

The sheriff dressed quickly and called Rowe. The deputy reported a quiet night at Sneider's homestead. No calls, e-mails, or visitors. The staff had been given the day off, as the sheriff had directed, and Andrew was on his fourth cup of coffee.

“You get any sleep?” the sheriff asked.

“Enough.”

Cate had the coffee poured and the bacon on when Cubiak reached the kitchen.

Despite lingering fatigue, he was cheered by the sight of Cate—a woman born to money and privilege—standing in his kitchen like a short-order cook with a cast iron skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other. Seeing her, Cubiak felt his heart lurch. In the morning light she was beautiful. To him, Cate was always beautiful: tall and streamlined, with long brown hair so naturally dark it looked black.

“I got into town late and didn't want to disturb you, so I went to my place to sleep,” she said.

For Cate, at least temporarily, home was a rented condo at a nearby lakefront development. For the time being, at least, she chose to avoid both her grandfather's estate and the homestead she'd inherited from her aunt and uncle.

“But I see you've been busy.” She glanced at the kittens. “Did they follow you home?”

Oh gawd, he'd forgotten the kittens. “Fished them out of the bay yesterday.”

Cate's smile vanished. “Someone threw them in?”

“Yeah. Good chance it was Leeland Ross.”

She grimaced.

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. You went in, didn't you?”

“There wasn't much choice.”

She laughed. “They are cute, and, anyway, I found the little bottle you'd left on the counter, so I filled it and fed them this morning.”

He kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

Cubiak ate quickly and between bites told her about Sneider.

“That's a name from the past. I saw him once, I'm sure, at Ruby's. I was just a kid and he came by after grandfather died to offer his condolences to the family. They'd been good friends when they were younger, but by the time I started spending my summers up here my grandfather hadn't spoken to him in years. I remember Ruby being upset by the visit and Dutch having to calm her down.”

“Ruby didn't like him?”

Cate stirred milk into her coffee. “They'd had a falling out but I don't know over what. Funny, though, I remember not liking him either. It wasn't just because of Ruby's reaction. I guess some adults are scary to kids. Bushy eyebrows or whatever.”

“Did you know his son, Andrew?”

Cate cradled her mug in her hands. “Until this morning I didn't even know Gerald had a son.”

While Cubiak laced up his boots, she talked through her schedule for the day: She was starting the next phase of her photo assignment on Wisconsin historic sites for a special Midwest edition of the
National Geographic
and planned to shoot The Ridges Sanctuary later that morning. “Weather's going to start turning and I need to get the outdoor shots in while I can. I was hoping you could join me for lunch.”

Cubiak was printing a sign about free kittens when his laptop dinged, announcing an e-mail. It was a message from the state crime lab informing him that the evidence team was on its way to Ellison Bay.

“Sorry, but I can't. It's going to be a busy day,” he said to Cate.

T
he lineup of staff vehicles in the parking lot for the Door County Justice Center told Cubiak that Rowe had rallied the force. Even his very pregnant assistant, Lisa, was at her desk.

“What are you doing here? You should be at home, resting,” Cubiak said. He'd watched Lisa move through the stages of pregnancy—the early excitement and anxiety, the exhaustion, the calm energy. He remembered when Lauren was pregnant with Alexis and was still remorseful over how much of that he'd missed because of work.

Lisa gave him a tolerant smile. “I'm fine and I want to be doing something. May as well wait here as at home. It's only five minutes to the hospital. I'll be okay.” She glanced at the hand-scrawled poster he held. “Free kittens?”

Cubiak shrugged. “If you get a minute, maybe you could make a few copies and put them up around the station, okay? But don't exert yourself.”

She laughed and pushed to her feet, heading to the copier.

In his office there was a message from the state police following up on the APB Rowe had submitted the night before: no sign yet of Sneider's car.

Earlier that year, Lisa had cataloged Door County's arrest history for the previous five decades. Cubiak skimmed the summary: Drunk driving. Domestic violence. Drug possession. Child abuse. Murder. Assault and Battery. Robbery. Arson. But not a single abduction in the previous fifty years.

Nearly half the people who worked for the department were reserve deputies, telecommunications specialists, or personnel connected with the jail and courts. Other officers handled drugs and road traffic. One deputy dealt with juvenile offenders. The sheriff was left with a handful of investigators and deputies to take on the Sneider case.

These men and women had just come through a busier than usual summer with a flurry of break-ins at a couple of the larger resorts. But the perps had been caught, and he knew his team was anticipating some downtime as the tourist season abated. For their sake, he hoped they'd clear up the Sneider situation quickly.

A
t 8 a.m., Cubiak met with his team in the incident room. Coffee and doughnuts in hand, they looked at him with open curiosity. What was going on? Why had they been called in?

Cubiak stuck the photo of the missing man to the evidence board.

“Gerald Sneider,” he said.

A sound like a gasp went up and the room snapped to attention. They know him, Cubiak realized. They know his reputation in the county and his history with the Packers.

He started all over with the specifics on Sneider's age and description: Caucasian, six foot three, 210 pounds. No known physical scars. Missing. Possible abduction.

Cubiak took them through the sequence of events from the previous night. “We don't know if the note found in the kitchen referred to Sneider, but if it does and state lines were crossed, this may be a job for the feds. For now, it's in our hands. I realize this is not the type of situation we ordinarily come up against, but there's basic investigative work to be done and that's where we start.”

Cubiak handed out assignments. A senior deputy was charged with gathering information on Sneider's history with the Packers. “Not just the PR stuff but the backroom deals. Anything that may have left someone with a bad taste in the mouth.”

A team of two investigators was to canvas the town of Ellison Bay and the area around the estate. “See if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary. Check to see if Sneider had any run-ins or longstanding feuds with his neighbors—someone unhappy about property line disputes, or zoning issues. A man with that much money to toss around can step on a lot of toes without even trying. Keep it low key. At this stage, the man is missing. No more. We're not trying to rattle anyone, yet.”

Another deputy was to start checking on Andrew's alibis from the time the game ended to the time he was stopped for speeding, while another was to look into his affairs. “Andrew presents himself as the loyal son, concerned about his father's welfare, but we need to know the true nature of their relationship and whether Andrew is solvent or in debt up to his ears. More often than not, the perp is found close to home.

“Deputy Rowe will question the secretary and I'll talk to the cook and housekeeper. In all instances, we're looking for means and motive.”

Cubiak was about to ask for questions when there was a knock on the door and Lisa popped her head in. Her eyes were wide and her expression somber. “Sir, Sheriff, sorry but there's an urgent call for you,” she said. She held up a piece of paper.

What now? Cubiak thought. Had Andrew disappeared as well? He looked at the note.
FBI
, it said, written in red.

“Wait here,” Cubiak told his staff. He followed Lisa as far as his office and waited for her to put the call through.

The voice on the line was brisk. “This is Special Agent Quigley Moore from the Green Bay satellite office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation calling to inform you that we have a situation that we need to discuss.”

“The disappearance and possible kidnapping of Gerald Sneider,” Cubiak said.

Moore hesitated. “How'd you know?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“There was a message delivered to the Green Bay Packers office.”

“And one here at Sneider's home.”

“I'll be there in an hour. We'll talk more then,” Moore said and hung up.

In the conference room, Cubiak reported back to his team. “Under normal protocol, the feds don't come in unless and until we request their assistance. So something's up. Until we're told anything different, we continue doing our jobs. Anything at all, get back to me with it.”

A
little more than an hour after the call, Lisa buzzed the sheriff. “Visitors, sir, in the lobby.”

Cubiak had expected Moore to arrive alone. But when he reached the lobby he found a man and a woman standing side by side in front of one of the Free Kittens notices that Lisa had taped to the wall.

The visitors were a matched set, both tall and with the kind of posture that made Cubiak's shoulders hurt.

As they turned toward the sheriff, the man erased the bemused look from his face and held out his hand. “Sheriff, Special Agent Quigley Moore and my assistant agent Gwen Harrison.”

Moore had steady green eyes and the kind of chiseled features long associated with Hollywood icons. Harrison was what the guys in Cubiak's old neighborhood would call a stunner, but he suspected that for a woman to get that far in the agency meant that behind the looks there were brains to match.

The federal agents were a no-nonsense pair. Moore's close-cropped hair was brushed back; his trousers were dark and neatly creased and the cuffs broke on the laces of spit-polished wingtips. Harrison's hair was blonde and slicked into a bun. Her suit jacket was the same dark color as his; her pencil skirt barely covered the knees. And her shoes had that hard shine that comes from good leather with heels low enough to be sensible and high enough to be sexy. Looking at the two, Cubiak wondered if he shouldn't have worn something other than jeans and his faded navy blue sweater that day.

The two held up their credentials but the sheriff didn't need to see their ID to know they were from the FBI; the perfume of calm confidence that they exuded marked them as federal agents.

“We're here to assist in the search for Gerald Sneider,” Harrison said, giving him a firm handshake.