by Amy Waeschle
“Not on the phone,” he said. “Meet me.”
“Where?”
“Birch Bay State Park.”
“In Bellingham?” Cassidy said, picturing the vast seaside park near the Canadian border. She had assumed Brad was in still San Francisco but realized this had only been a guess.
“Okay, when?”
“How soon can you get here?”
Cassidy cursed—now? She was supposed to be on a plane at six thirty. “Two hours,” she said as gooseflesh erupted across her skin.
Brad described a picnic area within the park near a playground. “Follow the signs for the boat launch,” he said. “And come alone.”
When Brad ended the call, Cassidy grabbed her backpack and hurried into her flip flops. She still had time to get to Birch Bay and back by five o’clock. It would be tight, but she wasn’t going to miss this.
But when she pulled out her keys, she remembered that she no longer had a car.
However, she had a bigger problem. In her driveway, carrying a bag of takeout food, was Bruce.
Four
“No way in hell!” Bruce shouted, his jaw tight.
Cassidy flinched, but held her ground. “He knows something, Bruce.”
“Then someone from the Bureau will interview him,” Bruce replied, pacing in her kitchen. “Did you not hear me when I warned you to butt out?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” Cassidy said, “but I also heard the part about ‘we’ll see.’”
Bruce groaned. “It’s not like on TV, Cass. Justice takes time. We have to go about it the right way or the case gets thrown out. I can’t let that happen. We’ve worked too hard.”
As a scientist, she understood all this, yet her rational brain had already left the building. “What if he knows who was behind it?”
“Then the Bureau follows the lead.”
“What if he’ll only talk to me? He said ‘come alone.’”
“Are you even listening to yourself right now?” He crossed his arms and glared at her. “It’s not safe, Cassidy.”
“He’s just a journalist, how scary could he be?” Cassidy replied, though secretly, she had wondered this same thing. She had no reason to trust Brad Sawyer. A million bad what-ifs had already spun through her mind, but she kept coming back to one fact: Brad had met with Pete two days before his death.
“How the hell am I supposed to keep you safe when you are constantly putting yourself in danger?” Bruce put his hands on his hips.
“All this time I thought it was an accident,” she shot back, her emotions expanding inside her like air filling a balloon. “And now I know it’s not. Do you know what that feels like? Do you know how hard I’ve worked to accept that he’s gone only to find out someone did this to him? That someone took him away from me?” Her voice broke and she had to clamp her lips shut to keep from saying more.
Bruce stepped closer, his expression at once fierce and compassionate. “I know how hard this must be, but I promise you we’ll do everything we can to bring Pete’s killer to justice.”
“That’s not good enough!” she said as a tear leaked from her eye. She wiped it with her wrist and glared at the ceiling, trying to regain her composure.
“Think of the bigger picture here,” Bruce said calmly, his eyebrows knitting together. “We’re trying to bring down the whole thing, stop these bastards from selling kids like slaves.” He moved closer. “Pete would want that, don’t you think?”
Cassidy squeezed her eyes shut. Yes, Pete would want that, of course he would. “I can’t let this go, Bruce.” She remembered the flashback she’d had in San Francisco, how the smell of frying shrimp had sent her right back to Mel’s treehouse and the fight of her life. Afterwards, she had come to the realization that no matter what she did, the experience would never leave her alone. She would be forever scarred. “I’ve already given up too much.”
Bruce exhaled a tight sigh, shaking his head.
“He could decide to go back into hiding after this. I can’t take that chance.”
Bruce scrubbed his face with his hands, then let his arms drop to his sides. She saw the strain this was putting on him, but no way was she letting it go.
“How will you even get there?” he asked. “You don’t have a car.”
“I’ll rent one.”
Cassidy heard him curse.
A moment passed where she saw a slow grimace take hold of his features. “All right,” he said finally.
Cassidy watched him warily. “You mean, I can go?”
“Yes, damn it. But if I think for one minute that something’s gonna go south, we’re outta there.”
“You mean you’re coming? But he said to come alone.”
He gave her a warning look. “He’ll get over it.”
“What if he won’t talk if you’re there?”
“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”
During the drive, she noticed that Bruce drove exactly seven miles over the speed limit. She also noticed the way he monitored his rearview mirror. But was he always this watchful, or did meeting Brad Sawyer present a special threat? Cassidy sat back and watched the summer-brown landscape pass while the questions rolled around and around in her mind. Finally, they arrived at the entrance to the park.
“I’m going in first,” he said, glancing at her. “And only when I say are you to come out, you got it?”
Cassidy nodded, her muscles coiled so tight she wondered if she would spring from the vehicle like a jack-in-the-box.
The narrow road curved through a wooded area, the giant trees casting broad shadows across the meadows. They broke out of the forest to a wide bay flanked by a rocky beach, the blue water as calm as a lake. After turning alongside, Cassidy spotted the boat launch and neighboring picnic area. “There!” she said, pointing.
Bruce’s eyes were sweeping from the calm bay to the forest. Looking uneasy, he pulled the car into a gravel parking area facing a crowded playground where children were hanging from bars, swinging on the swing set, or climbing the giant spider web while parents spotted them or chatted in clusters from the sidelines. Near a picnic table on the other side stood a young man in a gray hoodie, ball cap, and shorts.
“Stay here,” Bruce said, lowering the windows.
“No,” she said, pushing out of the door. “What if he runs when he sees you?”
“Cassidy!” he barked, but she was already out of the car. She hurried past the noisy playground.
Bruce caught up. “You are going to drive me to drink, you know that?”
Ahead, Cassidy saw the man stiffen.
“Brad?” she asked him as they approached.
“Who’s that?” he said, scowling at Bruce. “I said to come alone.”
“Sorry,” Cassidy said in a rush. “It was the only way.” She glanced sideways at Bruce, whose quick eyes were laser-beamed onto Brad.
“Are you a cop?” Brad said, his eyes flashing.
“FBI,” Bruce said, showing him his badge.
Brad’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing with the FBI?” he asked Cassidy.
Cassidy glanced at Bruce. “It’s a long story.”
Brad looked away. She watched the emotions play out behind his eyes—stay, or flee. He cursed. “Since that night I’ve had to take…certain precautions.”
“Has someone been threatening you?” Bruce asked.
Brad shook his head. “It’s more of a gut feeling.”
“You said something about a story,” Cassidy said.
Brad wiped his hands on his shorts, his gaze roving the surrounding area. He nodded. “Let’s sit down.”
Cassidy sat across from him. Bruce took one last look in all directions, then settled in next to her.
Brad adjusted his ball cap, sliding it up then back down. His smooth, youthful face and athletic physique made her think minor league baseball player. “This is all off the record, okay?”
Cassidy nodded, and out of the corner of her eye saw Bruce do the same.
“Pete had met with someone earlier that night,” Brad said after a long pause in which she saw the fear play across his face. “I don’t know who,” he added quickly, his gaze switching from Cassidy to Bruce.
“What was the story you two were working on?” Cassidy asked.
Brad sighed and focused on a spot on the table where he began to pick at a sliver of wood. “When we met, I was trying to recruit him to work with me at Frontline News.” He brushed the sliver away and sat back, crossing his arms. “It’s an independent media group in the Bay Area. I told him something I was working on and he seemed intrigued. He said it was the kind of story he was dying to crack.”
“Which was?” Cassidy asked.
Brad’s lips drew into a grimace. “Something was happening to the city’s teen runaways. Especially girls.”
A chill went down Cassidy’s spine as a memory clicked into place. She and Pete were walking back from berry picking. Was it something about a doctor?
“He told me about these women he’d seen in Sicily and the angle there with the mafia.” He shook his head. “I think that really got to him.”
Cassidy knew that frustration firsthand. “So, Pete was helping you.”
“You know, that’s just it…we were just talking. After that first time when we met at Lo and Behold, we kept in touch. I was working on a bunch of other stories, but we’d check in once a week or so, share ideas, research…”
“Who was he meeting the night he was killed?” Bruce asked.
Brad’s gaze focused on a point somewhere behind Cassidy. “He came to town to see his publisher. Remember that story about the janitorial company executives forcing their immigrant workers into sex acts in exchange for job security?” He waited for Cassidy to nod—Pete had researched this awful lead for his book. “Apparently, those assholes took the girls to this clinic when they roughed them up too bad to work. Or they got pregnant.”
Cassidy could almost feel Bruce’s hackles rise.
“Are you saying the clinic turns a blind eye?” he asked.
Brad’s expression darkened. “We thought it was more than that.” He adjusted his cap again. “Pete was working on a source who said she’d been there. The cops did a bust on the building she was squatting in. At the time, she said she was so sick from what she later found out was pneumonia that she couldn’t walk. Instead of taking her to jail, the cop took her to this clinic. A week later she’s blowing twenty guys a night.”
“Wait…so young girls go there for medical treatment but end up…what?…being forced into prostitution?” Cassidy asked, her head swimming.
“Looks that way.”
“Where is this clinic? Who runs it?” Bruce asked, his voice tense.
Brad shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Cassidy had the urge to ask Bruce if the task force was aware of the clinic but her instinct told her not to in front of Brad.
“I think it’s an underground setup. Legit during the day but takes in street kids at night.”
“Only some of them don’t come out,” Bruce said, his voice thick.
“Yeah,” Brad said softly.
“So, Pete was going to meet someone involved that night,” Cassidy said, picturing Pete at Quinn’s breakfast bar sipping whiskey, mentally gearing up to meet a source who could potentially bring down the people responsible for this. Her gut dove into her heels as she pictured Pete in the outfit the hospital had given her in a clear plastic bag—the yellow and red plaid dress shirt, Levi’s, worn leather belt, and retired running shoes.
“We had talked that night. He wouldn’t tell me who he was meeting, but he sounded excited. He said he would share when he could.”
That sounded like Pete. Always willing to protect his sources, until the very end.
She inhaled a steadying breath. “Could it have been someone inside the clinic? Someone willing to talk?”
Brad shook his head, regret playing across his features. “No idea.”
“Do you have anything? Notes, or names?”
“Sorry,” Brad said, his eyes diverting from theirs.
“So, you’re not working on it now?”
“After I heard about the accident, I took off, man. No way am I dying for this crap.”
“So, what are you doing up here?” Cassidy asked.
He shrugged. “I freelance, so I can work from anywhere.”
“Nobody’s contacted you about what Pete was working on?”
Brad shook his head. “I write under a different name now.”
The three of them sat for a long moment, the sound of the children on the playground and the soft crush of summer waves filling the silence.
Bruce checked his watch, and Cassidy remembered their flight.
“I just want you to know how sorry I am,” Brad said. “I had no idea that something like this could happen.”
“Did you tell the police about your theory?” Bruce asked.
“Yeah, right.” Brad looked away. “A cop took that girl to that clinic. Don’t you think he knew exactly what would happen to her?”
“So, you’re saying we’ve got dirty cops acting like recruitment officers?”
Brad’s eyes narrowed, as if rising to some kind of challenge. “Maybe, look, I don’t know!” His voice rose. “It’s freaking scary, okay? Everywhere I go I’m looking over my shoulder.”
“But you don’t know anything,” Cassidy said, confused. “If you don’t know who’s behind this, why would they harm you?”
“Because he knows enough,” Bruce interrupted. “We can protect you,” he added cautiously.
“Ha, no thanks,” Brad said, stepping back from the picnic bench. “I’m doing fine on my own. I got a nice little cabin on the beach, a great exchange rate, and the fishing is unreal.”
Bruce plucked a card from his wallet and slid it across the table. “If you change your mind.”
Brad put up his hands up in protest. “I won’t.” He took a step back.
Cassidy watched him stride purposefully toward the boat launch.
“I think we’re gonna miss our flight,” Bruce said, tapping the card on the table.
As they walked back to the car, a boat engine kicked to life, and Cassidy turned to see Brad’s athletic frame behind the console of a white powerboat with maroon stripes. While she watched, it motored away from the dock.
A shiver seized her spine as she reviewed what they’d learned. She recalled the relief on Brad’s face to unload the secrets he’d been keeping. Was he just paranoid? Or was someone still waiting for their chance to eliminate him the same way they had Pete?
Five
The next morning, Cassidy paced the length of Quinn’s living room, her coffee cup warming her hands. She had arrived at Quinn’s the night before after barely making their flight.
A flutter of nerves scratched at her insides. She reminded herself that Bruce would be with her during the interview. That their friendship had survived her impulsive rush to meet Brad Sawyer filled her with gratitude, but also made her feel anxious. At what point would he realize that she wasn’t worth the trouble?
“Maybe he wrote the name in his notes. Have you looked?” Quinn asked from inside the kitchen. The night before, she hadn’t bothered waiting up for him—a wise choice because he hadn’t come home until three a.m. Cassidy suspected a woman was involved but didn’t pry. She remembered Emily’s comment: your brother will be a player until the end of time.
Over breakfast, Cassidy had shared her conversation with Brad Sawyer and her upcoming interview with the FBI.
“Yeah, but Pete wasn’t exactly the most organized person. Do you know how many of his notebooks I’ve gone through?” She sipped her coffee, remembering the box of notebooks in her office and her attempts to decipher Pete’s scrawl.
“How about in any of his files? Want me to search for you?”
Cassidy remembered the thumb drive they’d saved containing Pete’s folders—hundreds of them—before donating his laptop. But the thumb d
rive also stored his pictures, and Cassidy had so far not been brave enough to go through them. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea. But we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“I could search for keywords, like ‘clinic’ or ‘runaway.’ I might get lucky.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said. “I’ll have to find it first. I think it’s in the box with the rest of his work things at home.”
“Too bad you didn’t bring it,” he said, looking disappointed.
“There wasn’t time. We barely made our flight as it is.”
“Will the FBI investigate?”
Cassidy paused to gaze out of the sliding glass window to the gray morning haze and the narrow side street below. “It sort of depends. If there’s proof that Lars and Pete were killed by the same person, then yes, because it crosses state lines. And if it’s true that whoever killed them is connected to the human trafficking case, then it’ll likely get bundled together with those efforts.”
“That doesn’t sound very promising.”
“I know,” Cassidy said as a heavy feeling settled into her stomach.
“After this interview…” he paused, and Cassidy turned to look at him, reading the worry in his gaze. “You’ll be free to go home, right?”
Cassidy checked the time and realized she needed to get ready. “I hope so,” she replied, carrying her empty cup to the sink.
Quinn scrubbed his unshaven jaw. “Okay,” he said. “Just…text me when you’re done. I have this fear of you going in there and never coming out.”
An hour later she was sliding into Bruce’s black SUV. “Are you going to blindfold me?” she teased.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that.”
They drove away from the beach, passing a bookstore, a natural foods grocery, and a coffee shop with a line of decaffeinated customers snaking around the block. Bruce skirted Golden Gate Park, then headed north.
“This is an active investigation, Cassidy, so we will ask you to take an oath.”
“I thought you said this wasn’t going to be formal,” she replied as the web of nerves in her chest tightened.
“It’s much less formal than a grand jury, yeah, but I want you to understand how serious this is.”