Death in Cold Water (21 page)

To avoid the media crowd gathered outside the station, Moore and Cubiak had agreed to meet at the sheriff 's house. The agent was waiting when they pulled in.

“That's it, just him?” Andrew said, looking around wildly as if expecting to find the cavalry. He fumbled with the door and practically fell on top of Moore. “Where is everyone?” Andrew asked, ignoring the agent's outstretched hand.

“They're in town, already in position. We have time,” Moore replied. The duffel was on the ground at his feet. It had plumped out nicely.

While Butch sniffed his shoes, Moore set the bag on the kitchen table. “Go ahead, open it.”

Andrew undid the zipper and peered inside. “So that's what a million looks like.” He raised the duffel several inches off the table. “It's heavy.”

“Twenty-two pounds,” Moore said.

Suddenly Andrew dropped the bag and threw up his hands. His face was wet with sweat. “I can't do it,” he said.

Moore made a show of pulling out a chair and sitting down as if this were just a casual get-together of friends. “Why not?” he asked.

“I . . . I don't have my car. If they know what I drive, they'll expect to see it.”

Moore smiled patiently. “It's Halloween. There are a lot of people out and about, and we've made sure the streets in both directions are parked up. If anyone's watching, they'll see you walking up the street and figure you had to park a couple blocks away. Ideally you reach the bench at eight, stop to listen to the chimes, put the bag underneath, and then continue on your way.”

“What if I'm early? What then?”

Moore picked up the bag and walked to the other side of the kitchen. “Easy,” he said as he turned and started back toward the chair. “If you get there before the hour, sit down with the duffel in your lap—like this—and wait.” He spoke slowly, demonstrating each step. “The bell tower chimes at eight. Ding, ding, etcetera. When it's finished, bend over, slide the bag under the bench, and then walk away.”

“That's it?”

“Right.”

“What if someone tries to grab me?”

“No one's going to come after you. All they want is the money. Here, try it.”

Moore gave the bag to Andrew and motioned him across the room. “Go on, show me,” he said as if he were coaxing a child. First time through, Moore sounded the chimes as Andrew approached the chair. “Don't rush. It's okay if you're a little late, makes it more credible.” The second time, he made him sit and wait.

“Okay?”

Some of the color had returned to Andrew's face. “Yeah. Okay,” he said.

“The rest is up to us,” Moore said and clapped Andrew's shoulder. “Don't worry, we've got it covered.”

A
t half past seven, Cubiak pulled into the post office parking lot and stopped in the shadows behind the loading dock. “You know where we're at?” he asked. In the dim light Andrew nodded.

“You got three blocks to cover. Take your time. Look in the store windows. Play tourist or shopper, whatever. Go around the long way,” he said, pointing toward the park. “I'll watch until you reach the corner and then I need to get in place.”

Cubiak lifted a brown wig and cowboy hat from the back seat and put them on. “A wannabe Willie Nelson. My disguise,” he explained.

Andrew almost laughed.

When it was time to begin, the sheriff retrieved the duffel and went around to open the passenger door.

“It's okay to be nervous,” he said as he handed the bag to Andrew. “But don't worry, everything will be fine. We've got this covered.” Cubiak realized that he was echoing Moore. But did the feds really have everything under control? the sheriff wondered. The kidnappers had probably spent days, maybe even weeks, laying out the scenario, and the FBI had had only hours to plan a response.

Andrew walked away like a man petrified with fear. With each stilted step, the cumbersome bag bounced awkwardly against his knee. He kept up like this for a full block. It wasn't until he rounded the corner onto Main that he started to relax. Cubiak waited until he lost sight of Andrew, and then he took off in the opposite direction, circling toward the bank on the street north of the clock tower. At five minutes before the hour, he entered the glass-walled lobby and assumed his position at the ATM. From there he had a clear view across the alley and through the small park to the corner where the clock tower and the bench were located.

Along Main Street strings of twinkling orange lights softened the darkness and gave the downtown a festive feeling. Thanks to an unexpected warm front that had pushed through in the afternoon, it was a balmy night, and people were out. One woman wore a witch's hat. Another who was dressed in black leggings and a sweater sported cat ears and a tail. Someone costumed as Darth Vader strode along behind them. Tourists or FBI? Or residents on their way to a party?

Stores and restaurants were still open, and people stopped to look at window displays or wandered in to shop or eat. Kids were downtown as well, trick-or-treating from one shop to another.

A
ndrew reached the bell tower four minutes early. He was on target, but for a moment he looked around as if lost or confused. “Sit down,” Cubiak muttered under his breath.

Andrew glanced up at the clock and lowered himself to the edge of the bench. Only his back was visible to Cubiak but it seemed clear from the way his shoulders curved forward that he was holding the duffel on his lap as instructed.

A
t eight, the clock chimed. For several minutes, the soft tones filled the night air. Then they faded to nothing, and in the silence that followed, Andrew bent over as if to retrieve something he'd dropped.

He was taking too long. “Come on,” Cubiak said, urging him to be done with it. Finally, Andrew sat up and slowly rose to his feet. In the light from the streetlamp, Cubiak made out the dark lump beneath the bench. The duffel was in place.

Nothing happened.

Andrew strode to the corner and froze.

“Don't look,” Cubiak said.

As if he'd heard the sheriff, the Sneider heir crossed the intersection and passed a couple stopped outside an antique store. Soon he was just another shadowy figure walking along the street.

Cubiak checked his watch. Two minutes had elapsed and the bag remained under the bench.

Darth Vader strode purposefully past the tower, his cape billowing in a sudden breeze. Cubiak tensed, waiting for him to snatch the duffel.

Another five minutes dragged by. Half a dozen cars had stopped at the intersection, one long enough to drop off a young couple outfitted in hockey uniforms. Still the bag sat unclaimed.

Moore had given orders that they wait as long as needed, but Cubiak was getting restless. What if one of the young trick-or-treaters spied the bag and picked it up? What would the kidnappers do?

The sheriff started to text Moore. Suddenly without warning a flash mob of teenagers in costumes swarmed the corner. Running and riding bikes, they flew in from both sides of Main and the cross street. Waving banners and blowing horns, the crowd swelled to an outrageous number of youth. Almost instantly the intersection churned with chaos.

Cubiak bolted from the lobby and raced toward the throng.

Rap music blasted and the kids danced and gyrated to the beat. Five boys jumped onto the bench and began yelling “Party! Party! Party!” Glass bottles hit the pavement and shattered.

When Cubiak reached the fringe of the frenetic crowd, a whistle blew and the kids scattered. Flying like the wind. As one girl raced past, the sheriff grabbed hold of her cape but the flimsy fabric ripped and he was left holding a long sequined scrap of nylon. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bench for the duffel. The bag was gone.

Moore ran up, redfaced and furious. “The duffel?” he asked.

Cubiak shook his head.

“Fuck!”

Cubiak waited for the outburst to continue. Instead Moore clenched his mouth tight and slowly settled down. When he spoke again, he was calm. “They think they've outsmarted us but there's a tracking device in the bag and my guys are following it now. In the meantime, we've collared three of the revelers. We'll get what we can from them,” he said.

Cubiak was doubtful. The kids were probably ripped on adrenalin, he thought. They wouldn't know anything.

A
n hour later, the team reconvened at sheriff 's headquarters. In a small conference room, Agent Harrison talked to Andrew, trying to calm him down. In the incident room, Moore monitored reports from the men tracing the bag.

“They're headed north, up the peninsula,” Moore said.

Moments passed. He leapt to his feet and hurled his phone to the wall. “Goddamn. Those fuckers left the empty bag in a cornfield,” he said. Moore slammed a clenched fist to the table. “They must have emptied it earlier and then split up.” He kicked a chair halfway across the room. Then, as quickly as he had erupted, Moore calmed again.

“Go talk to those kids, see what you can get from them,” he said.

Cubiak grabbed a bowl of Halloween candy from the lobby and walked into the room where the three teens were waiting. The boys regarded the sheriff with sullen indifference but beneath the thin bravado he sensed fear.

“You know who I am?” he asked.

They glanced at each other and nodded.

“You're not in trouble,” Cubiak said. He shoved the dish of candy across the table toward them.

It took a minute but first one, then another, and then all three helped themselves to chocolate bars.

“If you tell me how this all worked, you can go home,” Cubiak said, reaching for a piece of licorice. “Your parents don't have to know.”

Did they believe him?

Cubiak pretended to receive a phone message and excused himself, leaving them time to confer. When he returned after five minutes, they were ready to talk.

The call to meet on the corner was sent over Twitter and Facebook. They were promised a party. Music and free food at eight o'clock. Bring a friend.

“Didn't you wonder who was behind it?” he asked.

All three shrugged.

“Who cared? It was something to do,” one of them said.

When he was satisfied they'd told him all they knew, Cubiak sent the kids home.

Moore was still in the conference room when the sheriff reported back to him.

“That's about what I figured it would be,” the agent said and went back to pounding on his laptop.

Cubiak waited at the window. It was late and the landscape was dark except for the sprinkle of stars above the tree line. “What now?” he said.

“Plan B.” Moore didn't elaborate.

“How much was in the duffel?”

“
Not
a million dollars. We put about ten grand on the top to make it appear authentic. The rest was paper.”

“You'll play around like that with a man's life?”

Moore exhaled loudly. “The kidnappers aren't going to harm Sneider. They want the ransom and know they won't get it unless they can prove he's still alive. They'll try again but this time they'll up the ante and . . .”

Before he could finish Andrew burst through the doorway and hurtled himself across the floor toward Moore.

“The money's gone?” Andrew was red faced and waving clenched fists in the air. “What the fuck does that mean. This was supposed to lead to my father, to get him back! Now what?”

Moore didn't flinch. “We have a . . .”

Andrew cut in. “A what? A contingency plan?” His voice dripped with scorn. “You know what, fuck you. Fuck all of you.”

C
ubiak bolted awake. After four hours of sleep, he was edgy but felt rested enough that he knew it was pointless to stay in bed. Following the fiasco with the ransom money, he'd hung around headquarters for more than half the night, caught in the undertow between Andrew's ongoing rant and Moore's studied silence. Even after one of the deputies drove Andrew back to Ellison Bay, Cubiak remained, ready to help as needed. When it was obvious there'd be no new developments that night, he left. But at home, he was too agitated to sleep. Trusting in beer to counter the effects of the caffeine he'd consumed through the evening, he sat up and drank with only Butch for company.

Cubiak's first thought was about Moore, who'd probably been up all night hatching a new plan to rescue Gerald Sneider. The sheriff almost felt sorry for the FBI agent. Sometimes things went awry. But, fuck it, he thought, echoing Andrew. The feds own this; let them plot things from here.

His next thought was about Cate. Where was she? What was happening to them? Before he could change his mind, Cubiak dialed her landline. He didn't expect her to answer and was startled by the soft hello that drifted over the wire after the third ring. At least she was at her place and not at some hotel with her ex-husband.

Cubiak wanted to ask her when she was coming back—if she was coming back. That's where he wanted to start. Instead, hearing her voice, he told her he might need her to take some pictures later that day for official business.