by Amy Waeschle
“Sorry. Let me know if this is too much.”
“No,” Cassidy said quickly. “It’s okay.” Pete worked on investigative pieces, and had even cracked a few breaking stories. One thing she had learned from him was that the most logical explanation was usually the right one. “It’s possible. Though that means he’s probably . . . ” the word died before she could force it out. A tide of regret poured into her heart.
Benita strummed the ukulele a few times. “Could he just be traveling?”
“He promised my stepsister he’d check in. It’s been two and a half weeks.”
Benita frowned. “What’s your plan?”
“Visit the local police. See if they know anything.”
“Then?”
Cassidy sighed. “Check the bars and the back streets.”
“You packing?” Benita asked, her eyebrows arched.
“No,” Cassidy huffed.
“We’ll get Libby to go along. That girl can kick the shit out of just about anyone. She has this primal yell. Good God, it’ll turn your blood to ice.”
Cassidy fidgeted with her pencil. “You guys don’t have to—”
“Forget it, okay?” Benita lowered the ukulele. “What did I tell you that first day? Us surf sisters have to stick together. And besides, what else are we going to do all day in San Juan? Sit around and drink margaritas? I mean, I’m looking forward to spreading out on a big, fluffy bed, but other than that, San Juan isn’t exactly a dream destination.”
Cassidy ran a hand through her tangled hair. Sitting on her duff drinking margaritas sounded pretty good, actually.
“And besides, you’re picking up the tab, right?”
“Yes,” Cassidy said. “Okay, if you really are sure . . . ”
“Absolutely.”
Eleven
It rained during the night, a hard, powerful burst that tapped the roof of the cabins and bounced off the decks. The sound helped Cassidy sleep better than she had for weeks. In the morning, they surfed a semi-secret spot in front of a dusty patch of desert by themselves for the first hour. After that a mixed group of San Juan tourists and locals out for a surf before going to work thickened the pack. Cassidy searched the lineup for a head that might be Reeve’s but was not surprised when she didn’t see one.
She asked the locals in Spanish if they knew of an American body surfer who may have passed through a few weeks ago. She had grown tired of the looks she had gotten when she first began her search—the fear and sadness. So instead of telling people she was looking for her disappeared brother, she explained that Reeve was an old friend she was trying to connect with. No one had seen him. She heard the same story from the tourists.
When Bruce anchored the Trinity in the calm bay facing San Juan del Sur, Cassidy felt a quiver in her gut. What was she about to learn?
Bruce drove the skiff to the beach, and everyone climbed out. Earlier, Jesus had received a ride from a cousin who whisked him off to a family reunion. “Sometimes I think the only reason he took the job is for the free ride,” Bruce said as his panga disappeared.
The remaining group completed their check-in at the customs office easily, then rejoined outside the building. Each had packed an overnight bag, and the women were huddled around backpacks or small duffels. Cassidy only needed a spare set of clothes, a bikini, and her toiletry kit, which fit into a plastic mesh beach bag she had borrowed from the galley. It looked silly—brightly colored in yellow, orange, and Kelly green—as if this was some kind of cheerful outing. Her stomach twisted with worry.
The women crammed into a minivan taxi, Bruce leaning into the passenger-side window to give the driver instructions before turning to the group.
“I’ve got a few errands to run. I’ll check in with you mermaids later,” he said, and with a tap against the taxi’s hood, he was gone, and their driver was whisking them past beach cafés, nightclubs, a colonial-style church, and shops painted orange, bluebird-blue, pink, and turquoise. The night’s rain had left the cobbled streets looking bare and clean beneath the partly blue sky, and the air smelled sweet and crisp.
The taxi climbed a hill and took several turns. Everywhere bougainvillea tumbled from rooftops and cascaded down the sides of buildings. Their hotel welcomed them with a handsome brick pathway lined with bright flowers. The women hurried inside, their excitement almost palpable.
“I’m so gonna get a massage,” Marissa said.
“Watch out for the happy ending,” Libby replied.
“They do that here?” Marissa said.
“The pool is calling me,” Jillian said behind her giant sunglasses. “And margaritas. I’m going to have one in every flavor.”
They checked in, Cassidy sliding her credit card across the desk and explaining the arrangement, and quickly departed to their rooms. They had paired up in the same arrangement as on the boat, so Benita led the way. After the cramped space of the boat, the spacious, beautifully adorned room took her breath away. Adobe walls with natural wood beams, tiled flooring, huge windows with a sweeping view over the treetops to the distant bay. Cassidy went to the window and tried to pick out the Trinity, but it was lost among the cluster of anchored boats.
“So, what’s your plan?” Benita said after dropping her bag on the closest bed.
Cassidy crossed her arms. “The police station isn’t far from here.” She swallowed a shaky breath. “I’ll start there.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Benita said.
Cassidy glanced at her. “You don’t have to. This is your vacation.”
“It’s just a pool and some watered-down drinks. I’ll catch it next time.”
Cassidy sighed. “You’re sure? I don’t know where this is going to lead us.”
“All the better,” Benita said with a grin. “An adventure. Let’s go.”
The police station was within walking distance, so they arrived after a short walk past brightly colored buildings and a mix of cramped businesses, apartments, and vacation homes.
The door to the baby-blue building stood open. Cassidy took a deep breath and entered.
A woman with a round face and hair dyed the color of straw greeted them in Spanish. Cassidy had already formulated her question and asked if anyone could talk to her about a missing person’s investigation.
The woman pursed her red lips, the top two points coming together in a way that reminded Cassidy of the evil substitute teacher, Miss Switch, in the childhood story.
“Would you like to file a report?” she asked.
“Would that help?” Cassidy asked.
The woman looked at her again, her quick eyes sizing her up.
“He’s been missing for more than two weeks.”
The woman pulled out a small pad of lined paper. She asked a series of questions and jotted down the information: his name, age, height, hair and eye color, where he lived, his occupation, the date he was last seen.
Cassidy wished Bruce had come. He was the last person to see Reeve before he disappeared.
“Any physical characteristics?”
Cassidy’s gut churned. So we can identify a body? she thought. “Not that I know of,” she said.
“Wait here,” the woman replied, and disappeared into the window. There were two rows of spindly chairs. She and Benita chose a pair against the wall and then sat.
“This feels like a waste of time,” Cassidy groaned.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Benita said with a shrug. Outside in the garden, an iguana stepped into the open and snatched a hibiscus flower from a low-hanging shrub. He devoured it in two flicks of his tongue and darted off.
Cassidy sat back and looked at the slow-turning ceiling fan and the layers of scrum visible on the mount. In the corner, a pair of geckos in the far corner rested, no doubt waiting for evening when they could crawl around feasting on bugs.
A man with graying hair and thick eyebrows stepped into the room, holding the pad of paper.
“Please,” he said, then frowned when Benita also r
ose. “Who is this?”
“I’m her lawyer,” Benita said, standing. The look she gave him blared, DO NOT FUCK WITH ME.
“I assure you there is no need for this,” the man said, his expression of kindness slipping a notch.
“Then you won’t mind if I tag along,” she said, her small body unmoving.
The man paused but only for a moment, then he extended his hand to the hallway he had come from. “Please,” he said again, and Cassidy and Benita walked a short distance to an open doorway. Inside, the officer’s desk and chair faced two visitors’ chairs. The officer indicated that they should sit and then seated himself.
“I’m sorry for your trouble,” the officer said.
“Do you have any information about Reeve?” Cassidy was unable to hide her impatience. “And what might have happened to him?”
The man adjusted his posture, leaning forward on his forearms. “We received a call from the embassy,” he said, his grandfatherly eyes connecting with Cassidy. “From your sister, yes?”
“Stepsister,” Cassidy corrected.
“And we have no trace.”
Cassidy grimaced. “I think something happened to him. Something unexpected.”
“Unexpected things are known to happen. You party, you meet a nice woman . . . ” he trailed off and shrugged, as if this was an enviable outcome. Maybe he had even dreamed of it himself. Fall in love and disappear in a haze of passionate lovemaking that lasts for weeks.
“He left something valuable on the boat. But his other possessions are gone.”
Bruce had ushered Benita’s group to their immigration check-in. Would he have done so for Reeve? Probably not. So that meant Reeve would have either handled it himself or skipped it altogether. She thought about asking, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need immigration to confirm that Reeve was in San Juan.
The man was watching her as if able to read her mind.
“Reeve has a history of using drugs,” Cassidy said, knowing that it was important to say this, yet it made her feel she was betraying Reeve somehow. “And I hear that there’s a turf war going on,” she added, picturing the narc boat.
The man’s eyes flashed. “We do not allow the gangs in our town. They are off in the jungle, killing each other.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said. “But this is a resort town. Surely there are drugs, and dealers, and . . . ”
“San Juan is like many resort towns in Nicaragua,” he said.
“So have you looked into this possibility? That he got into trouble with drugs?”
The man opened his hands. “We have looked into every possibility.”
The woman from the front window stepped into the doorway. She asked him something in rapid Spanish. Cassidy didn’t quite catch it, but there was an urgency to her request. The man frowned and turned back to Cassidy and Benita.
“We have used all available channels to find your brother.” He gave them both a soft smile. “I’m sorry.” He showed them to the entryway, nodded a cordial goodbye, and left. A moment later, they heard a motorcycle engine rev up and then fade away as the man drove off.
Cassidy continued walking, ready to leave the building but stopped when the receptionist called out from behind the window. She looked both ways, her made-up eyes trying to tell her something. Cassidy realized that both of her hands were hidden from view.
“My son, he is good with electronics,” she began. “When no one comes to claim these things, sometimes I can give to him. To sell.” Her chin lifted with pride, or maybe it was defiance.
Cassidy was confused. “Does she want a donation, or something?” she said to Benita under her breath.
The woman placed a box on the window ledge and opened the lid.
Cassidy stepped closer to peer inside, her heart doing a pitter-patter-whump into her ears. Inside the box was a collection of phones, a few wallets, keys. She looked at the woman, but she evaded Cassidy’s eyes. Cassidy looked into the box again.
“Does anything look like his?” Benita asked.
Cassidy picked up a worn leather wallet and opened it. The slots for credit cards were all empty. She pulled out a worn card inside advertising plumbing services in Palm Beach, Florida and a rewards card for Sam’s Club. She had no idea if Reeve carried a wallet. There was another wallet, a faux leather one in the shape of a rectangle. She ignored the keys because they didn’t have any way to verify if they were Reeve’s, so the keys wouldn’t help find him. Cassidy’s attention turned to the phones. There were three: an old-fashioned Motorola and two smartphones: an iOS and an Android. She tried the home button on both, but, of course, they were dead.
Cassidy wondered if Rebecca would know anything about Reeve’s phone. The woman looked nervously towards the door.
“Do you know when these were found?”
The woman pulled out a sheet of folded paper from an envelope taped to the lid and read. She pointed to the Motorola. “Octubre veintiuno.” Then, she pointed to the Android. “Cinco de noviembre.” Then, the iPhone. “Siete de noviembre.”
Cassidy did the math and ruled out the Motorolla, both because of the date it was found and its design. Reeve would have a smartphone—if he hadn’t sold it for drugs.
She looked at the remaining two. The Android was in a scuffed, black case. The iPhone’s case was a sunset design: overlapping bright orange, pink and creamy white clouds wrapped around a mountain.
“Where was this one found?” Cassidy asked the woman.
She consulted her list again, and squirmed. She looked again at the door. “There was a stabbing. It was found in the dumpster behind the Uno station.”
Cassidy wanted to drop the phone like it was contagious. “Who was stabbed?”
The woman ignored this question. “This did not belong to the victim.”
Cassidy turned the phone over, then back. “But the victim wasn’t Reeve?”
The woman shook her head.
“I guess it could be his,” Cassidy said. “But I don’t know. If I could turn it on, maybe the home screen would tell me something.” She turned to the woman. “Do you have a cord?”
The woman paused, looked at the door again and took the box away. She returned with a dirty cord and plugged in the phone to an outlet out of view.
In the distance, a motorcycle engine approached. The woman’s eyes widened.
Cassidy looked at the screen, but it was still blank. “Is it working?” she asked.
“Sometimes it takes a minute when it’s really dead,” Benita said.
The motorcycle engine grew louder.
Cassidy pushed the home button, and the screen flashed a low battery signal.
The motorcycle engine sound stopped outside. The woman’s face snapped into a look of terror. She tried to take the phone away.
“Wait!” Cassidy hissed, and pushed the home button again. This time the screen flashed an image: it was a beautiful young woman, standing close to a brown-haired man wearing a sideways grin.
Reeve.
“You are still here?” a voice from behind them said, sounding mildly amused.
Cassidy whirled around, but Benita was way ahead of her.
“We wanted to find out if we can post a reward,” Benita said to the gray-haired officer. “We can make a poster, and you can put them up around town.”
“A reward?” the officer said, his forehead wrinkling with concern.
“Yes,” Cassidy added, “for any information that will tell us what happened to him.”
The officer seemed frozen on his feet. He looked from the woman behind them, who had put away the box and the phone, and back to Cassidy and Benita, his full lips pursing. “Do you have the reward?”
Something flashed in the officer’s eyes. Greed? Fear?
“Yes,” Benita said. “Ten thousand U.S.”
Cassidy gasped but covered it with a fake cough. Ten grand?
The officer shook his head, as if pushing away whatever his eyes had betrayed about his feelings. “I’m af
raid this will only cause problems. We will get hundreds of calls.”
“Maybe we’ll learn something,” Cassidy said, growing to the idea. She heard Rebecca’s voice in her head. You have the money.
“No, this makes only work. For us.” He eyed the woman behind them.
“Isn’t that your job, though?” Benita said, stepping forward. “To do anything possible to find him? He’s an American citizen. You don’t want your town becoming ground zero for an international incident, do you?” She was looking him square in the eyes, her aggressive body language making her appear much larger than she was.
The officer put up his hands. “I have told you we have done everything we can. If you insist on offering a reward, I suggest you use your social media channels. This way, you can manage the information, and the payment.”
“Will you tell your staff about it? Why don’t we go call them right now,” Benita said, motioning for them to continue to the office.
The officer’s smile had completely vanished by now. “My officers would have already reported any information. This will be an insult.”
“Their rights to feel insulted have long since expired. They should feel ashamed! An American disappeared in their town, and nobody knows a thing about it?” she was raising her voice. The officer took a step back, his face paling by the minute.
Cassidy was still standing at the window. She felt a soft tap at her back, and froze.
“You want those TV crews that filmed Survivor here to come back, right? To keep sending their rich friends here to spend money?”
“Of course,” the officer replied.
“Then you better find Reeve,” she said.
The officer threw up his hands. “We are busy with many responses each day. We cannot possibly devote our time to finding just one man. We did everything the embassy asked of us. We have no proof that any foul play is involved. He may already be in another country.”
Cassidy, as casually as she could, reached behind her back. Something hard and compact landed in her palm—the phone. But where could she hide it beneath a bikini top, board shorts, and a T-shirt? Her board shorts had a tiny hip pocket that would hold a few folded colones and lip balm, but not a phone. Slowly, she tucked it into the waistband at her low back and let her arm return to her side.