Exposing Ethan (Cassidy Kincaid Mystery Book 4)

by Amy Waeschle

  A tug of anguish pulled at her. “Of course.”

  Bruce pocketed the notebook, then the two of them walked toward the front door. “I’m going to check in with our operations and follow some leads.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to investigate Pete’s death?” she asked as Bruce reached for the doorknob.

  “If it’s tied to the illegal trafficking, then yes,” Bruce said. “But if it’s an isolated crime, then that would be handled by local law enforcement.”

  “Can you connect Pete’s death with Lars’?”

  Bruce looked pensive for a moment. “We’ll need to look into that, but Cassidy, I can’t promise anything. Skid marks aren’t exactly a smoking gun.”

  Cassidy hugged herself tighter against the sudden image of the two crash sites that had blended together in her mind since watching that news program in Quinn’s apartment.

  “Sorry,” Bruce sighed. “I know this isn’t easy.”

  A shiver of emotion washed through her, sending her pulse thumping into her temples.

  “We’ll do everything we can, okay?”

  Cassidy watched him step through the door and close it softly behind him. Though she believed him, what if the secrets surrounding Pete were buried too deep and the truth stayed hidden?

  “It’s so good to see you,” Mark said, pulling her into a long, soft hug.

  It took her a moment to react; hopefully Mark didn’t notice. He released her, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes, and escorted her down the hallway to a door that led to the TV studio. At the end of the room stood two empty couches on a brightly lit stage. Cameras waited in the shadows, manned by a handful of people getting them ready.

  “I’ll take you to makeup,” Mark said, leading her through the room to another door.

  After googling “what to wear for a TV interview,” she had skimmed the long list of dos and don’ts: don’t wear white, or stripes, or checks, or dangly earrings, or a dark suit unless you want to look like a hit man, or a short skirt unless you want people to look at your legs and not listen to your message. She had chosen what felt like the safest option, a pair of navy-blue pants with a soft blue button-down shirt, her nicest shoes, and knee-length socks so as to not show her ankle if she should happen to cross her legs. The article said no jewelry, but she wore a delicate gold chain with a four-leaf-clover pendant for courage, a gift from her father and the only item her stepbrother, Reeve, hadn’t stolen for drug money.

  A woman leaning against a brightly lit desk, scrolling on her phone, was waiting.

  “You’ll be in good hands with Melody,” Mark said, smiling at the woman who jumped to life as they neared. He pulled Cassidy into another quick hug. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  A tingle of nerves chewed at her stomach. Within the hour, she would be talking about her passion in front of millions of people. Cassidy’s best friend, Emily, had squealed in jealousy when she’d shared the news.

  “They aren’t going to ask about Costa Rica, though, right?” Emily had asked.

  “Oh, no,” Cassidy had replied. “You think they would?” The network representative had asked about her research, her publications, and of course, the current topic of Mount Rainier; Washington State’s tallest mountain and an active volcano.

  “I guess not. I mean, it wouldn’t exactly give you the credibility they’d be wanting to convey.”

  “Thanks,” Cassidy said.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean it like that.”

  So here I am, about to present myself to the wolves, she thought as she settled into the makeup artist’s chair.

  Too much face powder later, she was being directed back into the studio. Mark hurried over, thankfully saying nothing about how caked-on her face surely looked. He was probably used to it.

  Two people sat on the couches, chatting, both holding large, white mugs of tea. Cassidy was blown away at how perfect they both looked. The man had handsomely graying hair and bright blue eyes and a lean but square jaw; the woman wore a soft yellow dress that set off her olive skin and long black hair. Both of them had alarmingly bright, white teeth that glowed when they turned their attention to her.

  The man, Steve Taylor, pumped her hand once firmly. “Welcome, Dr. Kincaid,” he said. “Thank you so much for coming,” the woman, Danielle McKay, said, her soft handshake a wisp of silk.

  Steve offered her the couch across from them and the three of them sat. A young man in jeans and a button-down shirt delivered a mug of tea identical to her hosts’.

  “You’re gonna do great,” Mark said to her with a wink, then slipped off into the shadows.

  Cassidy felt the base of her palms moisten and resisted rubbing them on her pants. She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to go.

  Steve and Danielle continued their conversation, with Steve making Danielle laugh, like this was some kind of mixer.

  “Dr. Kincaid, how do you know Mark?” Danielle asked, sipping her tea.

  Cassidy opened her mouth but her brain was slow to the party. “From college,” she said, which contained a thread of truth because she had met Pete when she was in her PhD program, which technically was at a college.

  “Are you an avid skier like Mark?” Steve asked, his eyes alight with so much energy she wondered if the makeup team had added some kind of treatment.

  “I probably don’t get out as much as Mark, but yes, I’m a skier, too.”

  “I take it your job keeps you very busy,” Danielle said, cocking her head and scrutinizing her in a way that made it clear who would dominate the conversation.

  Cassidy smiled, but it felt weak. “Yeah.”

  A cameraman appeared to adjust microphones and fine-tune Cassidy’s position on the couch. Someone else was counting down, and the interview started.

  Steve opened with a short recap on the recent seismic activity on Mount Rainier. Somebody with half a brain must have briefed him, because he did pretty well. Then Danielle jumped in with the transition to what an eruption would mean for residents in the affected area. They showed the classic image of Mt. St. Helens blowing her top in 1981 and the mudflows ravaging the Toutle River. And then Danielle introduced Cassidy.

  They covered her findings from her PhD, including a clip from her “seismic scream” recording that she had made right before Mount Redoubt erupted.

  “Would we have had that same pattern of seismic activity before Mt. St. Helens?” Steve asked.

  “Definitely,” Cassidy said.

  “So, based on this recent activity, when do you think Mount Rainier will erupt again?” Danielle asked, her pretty face rapt with focus.

  “It’s an active subduction zone, so we’ll likely see some minor seismic activity, but the likelihood of another large-scale eruption like St. Helens is low for at least another ten thousand years, maybe longer.”

  “But if the volcano starts screaming, you’ll be sure to alert us?” Steve asked, a chuckle on the edge of his tone.

  Cassidy knew this was supposed to be comic relief, so obliged him with a smile. “Of course.”

  “You’ve recently returned from Kilauea,” Steve said. “Are the two volcanoes connected somehow?”

  Cassidy explained the mechanics of a hot spot, or the thin layer in the Earth’s crust responsible for Kilauea’s seemingly limitless supply of magma, and how it was not connected to the tectonic activity beneath the Cascade Mountains, at least not directly.

  “Your work takes you to some remote places, Dr. Kincaid,” Steve said. “Is your life ever in danger?”

  Cassidy’s mind flashed to her escape from Mel’s treehouse during her pursuit for Reeve. “Most of my work doesn’t put me in direct contact with active eruptions. So no, it’s not dangerous.”

  “But there are certainly dangerous people in some of these locations. Costa Rica, for example.” Steve’s expression remained open, calm.

  A blast of heat seared right up her face. Did he know about Mel and what happened? The news media had hounded her only wee
ks ago. Were they going to expose her involvement on national television? “I always have a team with me,” Cassidy replied, forcing her voice to keep steady. It was lame but better than saying she knew how to shoot a gun, or how to set off fire alarms.

  And then the interview was over, and she was thanking her hosts and they were signing off and a tech was unclipping her microphone. Her two hosts disappeared as if she’d never been there.

  “Wonderful to have you on the show, Dr. Kincaid,” a voice said.

  Cassidy stood and peered into the shadows outside of the bright light. “Thank you for having me.”

  The figure stepped forward, his expensive shoes flashing in the bright lights. His dark suit was tailored perfectly over his trim build. Finally, she saw his face, and although he was still a stranger, she recognized who he was. She knew it from his Nordic features and sharp blue eyes. Izzy’s eyes.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Kincaid,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m Preston Ford.”

  Three

  “Mr. Ford,” Cassidy stammered while a million questions bloomed in her brain. “It’s…nice to finally meet you.”

  “I heard you were here. I wanted to introduce myself, thank you for your efforts.”

  Cassidy wasn’t sure which efforts he meant—educating his viewers on volcano hazards or finding his daughter. She remembered Bruce’s pledge to interview Izzy and wondered if somehow Preston Ford was about to ask her to help him prevent it.

  “Your father would be very proud, Dr. Kincaid.”

  Cassidy blinked while her mind took a left turn. “Excuse me?”

  Mr. Ford’s face brightened, as if he enjoyed unsettling people. “Ethan was in advertising; don’t you think our paths would have crossed?” he said in an almost teasing tone.

  “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.” Cassidy’s toes throbbed inside her tight shoes. She could almost feel her flip flops calling to her.

  “He’s actually the reason I’m here tonight.”

  Cassidy mentally shook her head to clear the incoming fog of sadness this idea brought on. She pictured herself and her father tucked into a cozy booth at a restaurant and his steady eyes lighting up the space while she spent the evening describing her latest projects and goals.

  “Take care, Dr. Kincaid,” Mr. Ford said, and stepped to the door on the side of the room, the same one that had swallowed her hosts earlier.

  “Nice job, Ace,” Mark said, exiting the production booth. Once at her side, he followed Cassidy’s eyes to where the door was just closing behind Mr. Ford.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Preston Ford.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “As in network owner, Preston Ford?”

  Cassidy started to rub her eyes but remembered that she was wearing mascara.

  “And you didn’t introduce me?” Mark teased. “What did he want? I mean, I know you’re a famous geologist and everything, but…”

  Cassidy replayed the conversation. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Well, let me walk you out,” Mark said.

  Cassidy hurried after him, eager to get out of this strange world with its bright lights and people who knew too much.

  She picked up her purse from the makeup room, then Mark led her into a hallway. “I’ll send you the link to the show so you can watch it later.”

  “Please don’t,” she said. “It was scary enough the first time.”

  “You were scared? Well, it didn’t show. And think of the exposure you have now for your work. That seismic scream you recorded before Mount Redoubt blew is freaking cool.”

  Cassidy thought back to Steve’s question about dangerous people. Had he been about to unearth her experience in front of millions of people?

  At the entry, Mark stooped down to give her a long hug, his beard catching in her hair. “I’ve missed you,” he said, before releasing her.

  Cassidy put on a brave smile.

  “You around for a while?” he continued, undeterred by her silence. “Let’s get together for beers soon. We still haven’t celebrated your new job yet.”

  Cassidy’s gut rolled upside down. Spending time with Mark always made her feel closer to Pete, but it also made her feel like holding onto him and never letting go. “Okay,” she said.

  Mark embraced her one last time. Cassidy tried to relax against him while her heartbeat thumped loudly in her ears. Since Costa Rica, she hadn’t let anyone get this close to her.

  With a wink, Mark took a step back. Cassidy turned away and pushed through the glass doors as a question bloomed in her mind: would she ever be able to let someone get close to her again, or was the flashback in the Mission District a week ago proof that she would never heal?

  She pulled up a rideshare app to request a ride, reminding herself to call the garage in Shasta, California to find out the status of her broken-down car while she waited, noticing a missed call from a number she didn’t recognize.

  Her stomach clenched with a flush of nerves. A little more than a week ago, she’d been hounded by the media in connection to Mel’s trial. Was there some new development that was about to bring the media hounds barking all over again? Standing there, sweating in the hot sun, she decided to ignore it and send a text to Bruce instead, letting him know she was leaving the station.

  He replied right away. I can’t wait to watch you school those news anchors

  Cassidy grimaced. Was he planning to watch her on TV?

  She texted: You won’t believe who I saw after

  You can tell me about it on the ride to the airport. I’ve got a car coming at five.

  Cassidy checked her watch: just after eleven. She gave Bruce a thumbs-up just as her car arrived.

  Cassidy slid into the backseat, the space icy from a blasting air conditioner. She collapsed against the headrest and watched the buildings and cars blur as the driver accelerated.

  After a deep breath, she dialed the number she’d added to her contacts for Shane’s Automotive. While she waited for Shane to come to the phone, her mind returned to the conversation with Preston Ford. She had wanted to ask about Izzy, even warn him about the FBI’s eagerness for an interview, but instead, she’d been sent down memory lane. How close had her father and Preston Ford been? And what had he meant about her father bringing him to Seattle?

  “Shane here,” a melodic voice rang through her phone.

  Cassidy identified herself. “The tow job last Sunday?”

  “Right, the blown radiator,” Shane said with a sigh. “Engine’s toast, so you can either have a new one installed or I know a wrecker who will take it off your hands for parts.”

  An ache tightened behind her ribs. “How much is a new engine?”

  “Let me see,” Shane said. Cassidy heard the gentle tapping of keys. “With parts and labor, it’s looking like five grand.”

  Cassidy pinched the bridge of her nose. Five grand was a lot, but it was still cheaper than buying a new car. And she couldn’t bear the idea of it being cut to pieces, not with all the memories it held. “How long would it take?”

  “Uh, ‘bout a week right now.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Can I think on this?” Quinn would know what to do. She was clueless about cars.

  “Of course,” Shane replied.

  Cassidy was about to hang up when Shane added, “Say hi to Dutch for me.”

  With the phone cradled in her lap, she stared out the window. Her mind replayed the memories of riding on the back of Dutch’s motorcycle from Shane’s lot to the club in San Francisco. She remembered sending Dutch off in the ambulance after a beating from the club’s bouncers. Since then, she had failed to locate him. Was he okay?

  When the driver turned down her street, her mind calmed. Tall, leafy trees cast their wide shade patterns on the broken sidewalks. Someone was running a sprinkler on their tiny patch of lawn and a boy and girl in bathing suits were sprinting over it.

  Once inside her house, she stepped out of her shoes and yanked
her dress shirt from her waist, then unbuttoned it while striding to her room on the far side of the kitchen. Two minutes later she had changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and pulled her hair into a knot. Her house had no air conditioning, but a decent breeze wafted through the rooms. She made a note to close the windows before leaving later.

  Bruce had said she might be away for as many as two days. She kept a spare set of clothes and contact lenses at Quinn’s but threw together a bag of essentials. What does one wear to an interrogation by the FBI? she thought, scanning the clothes hanging in her closet. Her hand went to play with her pendant, sliding it back and forth while she evaluated her choices.

  Once packed, she used her phone to check the time and noticed a new message waiting for her. Since reporters had hounded her about Mel’s trial weeks ago, she was wary of foreign numbers. But a voicemail from a reporter was rare. She considered deleting it, but curiosity won.

  “Cassidy, this is Brad Sawyer,” a tense voice called out followed by a tense exhale. She heard freeway noise in the background. “Call me back.”

  Cassidy’s pulse thumped hard into her temples. She inhaled a deep breath, her eyes drinking in the familiarity and safety of her kitchen. Quit meddling, a voice inside her head warned—Bruce’s voice.

  With a shaking finger, Cassidy tapped the key and put the phone to her ear. She flexed her toes on the cool wood floor as she waited. Finally, the tense voice answered.

  “Why did you call me?” Brad asked. This time, no freeway noise crowded the background.

  “I wondered if you might know where Pete was going that night,” Cassidy said, momentarily thrown by his lack of introduction. “I thought it was an accident, but now I know it wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, I figured that one out, too,” he said, his voice softer now.

  Her gut jolted upwards.

  “I had to bury that story,” he said.

  A shiver passed over her skin. This was all happening too fast. “What story?”