Exposing Ethan (Cassidy Kincaid Mystery Book 4)

by Amy Waeschle

  Where would Bo propose his favor? In the bar? In the alley? Maybe they wouldn’t even get inside.

  How would Bo suggest it? She remembered the predatory look in his eyes the night before. What if this was all a setup and Quinn was in danger? A shiver electrified her spine.

  She checked her phone again. No reply.

  Desperate to do something, anything, she bolted to her feet. But there was nowhere to go.

  The first half-hour passed minute by minute while Cassidy tried to distract herself with thoughts not related to Bo and the setup. She forced herself to think through the steps to a research idea she was pursuing in New Zealand; creating a mental checklist of grants she could apply for, imagining the team of scientists and students she would orchestrate. It worked for a while, and then she was back in this windowless prison, pacing, her fears stacking up in the corners of her mind.

  A knock at the door startled her. “Come in,” she said, taking a step back.

  An agent named Andy poked his head into the room. “Hey, you need anything?”

  Cassidy scanned the room, looking for what might be missing that he could bring her. “Where’s Bruce?”

  “Busy,” he answered smoothly.

  “Do you know how it’s going? At Drift?” she asked.

  The agent shook his head. “They’ll report when they have something.”

  Cassidy nodded.

  “Okay, well, I’ll check back in a bit, or sooner if I have news.” He paused a moment longer, as if he was about to say something, then tucked back behind the door.

  Cassidy moved on in her mind to the paper she was cowriting with Dr. Brian Dobbs in Cambridge about the application of harmonic tremor data to mapping the plumbing of an active hot spot volcano. But her thoughts kept getting interrupted by unwanted flashes—Bo’s body pinning her to the table, Bruce pulling her close on Quinn’s lounge chair, Bo’s arm draped across her shoulder and his startling invitation to take her home, Bruce’s bare torso wrapped in a towel and the visible, pink scar.

  If the agents didn’t catch Bo in the act, what would happen? Or what if they did, but couldn’t turn him into the informant they needed? Would it ever be safe for her to return to San Francisco? Would Quinn be safe here?

  Too much is riding on this, she thought, imagining Special Agent Harris explaining their plan to place her in the Witness Protection Program. She would never see Quinn or Bruce or Emily again.

  “No!” she said, her voice a garbled growl. She shut her eyes. That can’t happen. I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent it.

  Somewhere in the building, a door opened, followed by voices she recognized. Moving quickly to a location out of sight from the doorway, as if needing to hide in this windowless room, she held her breath as the voices grew closer.

  “I told you, I can’t be here!” Bo’s angry voice blared as they approached.

  “Take it easy,” Special Agent Santiago’s steady voice replied. “All we want to do is talk, and if what you’re saying checks out, you’ll be free to go.”

  “If I’m not there tonight, don’t bother because I’ll be as good as dead.”

  “You’re safe now with us,” Special Agent Santiago said.

  “Fuck you,” Bo sneered. “You think that’s supposed to reassure me?”

  They moved closer, nearing her door. She heard the sharp tapping of what she assumed was Special Agent Harris’s pumps. Cassidy shrunk back further.

  “Who set me up?” Bo said. “Quinn?”

  “Offering to wash your dirty money is a federal crime, Bo. He’ll get his day in court, too,” Special Agent Santiago said. “You guys can be roomies. How’s that sound?”

  “Then it was that tease sister of his.”

  Cassidy held in a gasp as they passed by her door.

  “Go ahead and talk smack about whoever you want, but you did this to yourself,” Special Agent Santiago said in a surprisingly calm voice, but the authority behind it seemed to have the desired effect because Bo said nothing more. Moments later, a door closed.

  Cassidy released a trembling sigh and slumped against the wall.

  The wait for information went on for what felt like hours, with Cassidy starting to think she was going to need to carve a hole in the wall with one of the chair legs so she could escape.

  She imagined Special Agent Harris turning up the heat in Bo’s room to make him uncomfortable and more eager to talk. Did they have a room with two-way glass installed so they could observe him like the cops on TV?

  She forced slow, measured breaths into her lungs, her sanity being sucked from her drop by drop.

  A knock, then Bruce slipped into the room, his face tense.

  “What’s wrong?” she said as her heart slammed into her ribs so hard she felt it reverberate up her throat. “Is it Quinn? Is he okay?”

  Bruce nodded. “Quinn’s okay. He did great.”

  She folded forward in relief. “Do you know how hard it’s been just sitting here?” she asked, powerless to stop her anger.

  “You know we wouldn’t have asked you to stay if we didn’t think it was necessary,” he said.

  Cassidy ignored this attempt to placate her. “Where is he?”

  “Being briefed downtown.”

  “Can I go there?” she asked, her voice reaching an octave she didn’t know it could.

  Bruce shook his head. “He’ll be released in the morning, probably. It has to look legit.”

  “Something’s wrong, though, isn’t it?” she asked as her stomach swung free, taking her breath with it.

  He scrubbed his forehead, his face still tense. “Yes,” he said, finally looking at her, his intelligent eyes sharp with concern. “Brad Sawyer is dead.”

  Twenty-One

  Cassidy blinked away her sudden tears. “How?”

  “Drowned.”

  Cassidy tried to breathe but the air was suddenly too thick. She saw Brad floating face down…

  “Coast Guard found his boat two days ago, and a couple of guys out fishing found him this morning.”

  Her mind did somersaults. “Do you think he was killed?”

  Bruce’s mouth twitched. “It’s possible.”

  Cassidy’s knees buckled. “It’s my fault!”

  Bruce covered the distance between them. “We don’t know that.”

  “It’s obvious,” Cassidy said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I got him killed, didn’t I?”

  “It’s possible that he fell overboard,” Bruce said.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “I’m waiting on the autopsy, and for the forensics from the boat, but we may never really know for sure.”

  “If they killed him, Bruce, that means they know we were there.” The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Brad could have published something that drew attention to himself, gave him away. Or maybe his past caught up with him and his death has nothing to do with our meeting.”

  “Or maybe they know what he told us.”

  Bruce cursed softly, rubbing his forehead. “That’s why we have to take precautions, Cassidy, starting now.”

  Cassidy realized that this was the source of his real worry. “What does that mean?”

  “We’re going to move you to a safe place. You’ll have protection.” He must have seen the way Cassidy’s eyes widened because he quickly added, “Only until we have the situation under control.”

  “How long will that take?” she cried.

  Bruce scolded her with his eyes. Cassidy realized she had forgotten about Bo and the interrogation going on down the hall.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Cassidy groaned.

  “Cassidy, it’s for your protection. We don’t know if this presents a threat for you or not.”

  “So, I get locked away while these assholes run free? How is that fair?”

  “It’s not, but it’s what I need to do to keep you safe.” His firm voice might have been a brick wall.

 
“What about Quinn? Do you think he’s in danger, too?”

  “He’ll be in custody all night, so he’s safe for now. After that, we may assign him a protection unit.”

  “Like bodyguards?” she asked, suddenly awed by the swiftness and power by which the task force operated.

  “In a way, yes, but in the background. They’ll keep watch on his place, and Drift.”

  “Whereas I get the safe room with locks on all the doors?”

  Bruce huffed out a sigh. “First of all, we need to separate you two, so yeah, that’s partly why, but Quinn isn’t directly connected to Brad, at least that’s what we’ve concluded. Having him go about his normal routine might be the best thing, with the support of our team.”

  “Will I at least get to see him before I’m shut away?”

  “No,” he said, his eyes looking pained. “I’m sorry.”

  Her thoughts glided back in time to the meeting in Birch Bay and the sound of Brad’s boat accelerating from the dock. Had he fallen overboard, or had someone pushed him? If he was murdered, it was because of me. Why couldn’t she have left it alone?

  Bruce took hold of her shoulders. “Once we get Bo to cooperate, the case is going to open up.”

  Cassidy tried to invite the warmth of his touch into her body, but it refused, and she looked away.

  A knock at the door startled them both. Bruce released her just as the door opened and Special Agent Harris leaned into the room. “Keolani,” she said in a brisk voice, her eyes sharp as diamonds. “We’re conferencing in room A. We have an urgent situation at the port.”

  “What’s happened?” Bruce asked. “Did he break?”

  Special Agent Harris’s expression revealed nothing, but she flicked a warning glance in Cassidy’s direction.

  Cassidy watched the transformation in Bruce; his spine straightened, and he practically snapped his heels together in obedience.

  “Be right there,” he said.

  Special Agent Harris slipped from the room, her heels drumming the hallway.

  “Someone will be here soon to take you,” Bruce said, turning back to her. “I’ll arrange to get your laptop, some clothes. Anything else?”

  “My contacts solution and glasses,” Cassidy said, thinking fast.

  Bruce hesitated, as if unsure how to say goodbye, then pulled her into his arms. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” she said, gripping him tightly.

  “I know it’s hard to trust us, but try, okay? This is what we do.”

  Cassidy didn’t reply, instead memorized the feel of his soft t-shirt against her cheek, and his citrusy scent.

  He kissed the top of her head, and Cassidy felt the shock wave of emotion crash through her.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

  Left alone once more, Cassidy walked to the opposite corner for a bottle of water and sipped it gratefully, though it did nothing to settle her anxious mind. Outside her room, feet passed by, doors opened and closed, voices spoke in low tones. Something was happening. It was like a swarm of bees fleeing the hive in pursuit of an aggressor.

  She dug out the burner cell phone and typed a message to Quinn: Text me when you’re free

  He replied almost immediately, as if his phone was in his hand. Might be a while. You OK?

  The relief of being able to reach him lasted only a moment. Was it safe to talk or should she keep things neutral? Yes, but I have to work remotely for a while.

  Sure, ditch me.

  Cassidy laughed, which melted the tension from her shoulders. You started it

  You’re probably ready for a break from me anyway

  Yeah, you hog all the coffee

  Are you working tonight?

  No, I’m covered, TG.

  She read between the lines—that Quinn was worn out after today—and she didn’t blame him. Will you be home? Can we talk?

  A knock on the door startled Cassidy, and she tucked the phone away just as a tall man with short-cropped hair and a chiseled face stepped into the room.

  “Dr. Kincaid?” he said in a deep, commanding voice.

  Cassidy resisted the instinct to back away.

  “I’m Officer Hutton. We’re ready for you.”

  Cassidy went to the window again, peeking through the blinds but the view of the neighboring apartment tower hadn’t changed, nor had the ten-story drop to the downtown streets. Everything in her new prison was white: white walls, white light fixtures, white Formica counter, white cabinets, white windowpanes, white comforter on the bed, white bedside table lamp, white shower curtain, though the floors were a faded, dull wood.

  Before leaving the FBI task force headquarters, Officer Hutton had removed the SIM card of her cell phone. “Keep it turned off,” he said. At least she still had the burner.

  After he left her in the apartment, she had waited through an agonizing two hours for him to return with a bag containing her essentials. She could tell by the way it was organized that Quinn hadn’t been the one to pack it and blushed at the thought of Officer Hutton grabbing intimate things like underwear and her toothbrush. At least he hadn’t forgotten her contacts solution and glasses.

  Once Officer Hutton had performed a series of tasks on her laptop — “for security”— and showed her the freezer full of frozen entrees. He explained that they would do their best to keep her updated, then left.

  She dug up the burner phone to shoot a message to Quinn. Had they taken his phone? Was he locked in some cell? There was also nothing from Bruce but based on the gleam in Special Agent Harris’s eyes, Cassidy had a feeling something big was happening. What had they learned from Bo? It’s urgent, Special Agent Harris had said.

  She tried to hang onto Bruce’s promise that the case would open up and this would all end soon. But what if something went wrong? What if this was the first step to her being transferred into the Witness Protection Program and she never saw Quinn again?

  What if she never saw Bruce again? The terrifying possibilities spun round and round in her head, turning her insides to rocks.

  She peeked into the freezer more than once, but nothing appealed to her. She might as well eat a cardboard box. There was, of course, no alcohol on the premises—she’d spent a good ten minutes looking. The practical side of her brain appreciated this but the desperate, hungry pit inside her did not. She had to pace the floor for several minutes, breathing, telling herself she was much better off without such a temptation.

  After Pete died and she’d nearly put herself in a coma, Jay had surprised her with his kindness, but also warned her. As a therapist I would never tell you what to do, but as a person I’m so worried. Taking Xanax with alcohol is dangerous, and I’m very scared for you.

  She remembered her reply: I’m scared too.

  With his help, she had learned better ways of coping. It had hurt like hell, but she had grown stronger. Slowly, the grief of losing Pete had shifted. She was no longer as afraid of it, though it still took her out at the knees sometimes. She still missed him so badly it hurt, every single day.

  The craving to drown her anxieties wasn’t new, though it was depressing that it had resurfaced. Haven’t I suffered enough? she thought, clenching her fingers into fists. Her conclusion after her devastating flashback in the Mission a week ago returned: that she would never be well, that she would forever be alone.

  She tried to distract herself with a shower, using one of her t-shirts as a towel because the bathroom was bare, then picked at a frozen pizza and forced down several glasses of water, but her mind and internal organs were locked in some kind of battle. Her mind told her to trust Bruce, but her innards sloshed and flipped as if they were alive.

  After making a feeble attempt to read the edited proposal for a return trip to Mt. Etna in Sicily, she gave up and instead surfed for a movie or documentary.

  Halfway through The Irishman, however, she realized her mistake. The storyline brought up too many parallels with current events, bringing on i
mages of gunfights and backstabbing gangsters and piles of money. She wondered if Bruce and the team were out there, possibly at that very moment, bringing down these types of people.

  Her screen lit up with a text: How are you holding up?

  Bruce. Her limbs melted into the couch with relief. Okay. What’s happening?

  Can’t say. Talk tomorrow?

  Cassidy gazed at the ceiling for a moment before replying. Will I be able to get out of here tomorrow?

  I hope so. Hang in there.

  Promise me you’ll be safe.

  Always

  She scrolled through her messages to make sure she hadn’t missed one from Quinn, then clicked through to National Geographic where she selected a travel documentary about Italy. Sometime later she woke in darkness, with her laptop screen dark and the refrigerator rattling.

  Wiping the dried drool from her cheek, she rose and climbed into the bed, but the scratchy sheets grated on her skin and the room felt stuffy. She was used to sleeping with windows open and real air filling her lungs. She tossed and turned—a struggle that would have felt almost comforting in its predictability. What did the next day have in store for her? More waiting inside these walls, most likely. At 4:13 a.m. she gave up, sliding on her glasses to check her phone. No news from Bruce, and nothing from Quinn. Had they released him yet? If they had, did he sneak off to see his novia?

  She rose and made herself a cup of instant coffee, then sipped it standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through emails on her laptop. One from Rodney caught her attention, and she clicked it open to read the list of nonprofit organizations supported by her father as well as any business connections to Seattle. She typed a quick thank you reply then moved to the couch. Her frazzled mind grabbed hold of this new project like a lifeline, quickly shutting out everything else.

  The list held eighteen names. Some she recognized, like the Special Olympics and Boise State, her dad’s alma matter, but others drew blanks. She opened her web browser and began the hunt, cross-referencing from the list. Her father had supported several private charities: one that helped support education in Sierra Leone, another that built schools in rural Baja California, another called DoSomething.org which helps teens connect with causes that they believe in.