“But I see you’ve been busy.” She glanced at the kittens. “Did they follow you home?”
Oh gawd, he’d forgotten the kittens. “Fished them out of the bay yesterday.”
Cate’s smile vanished. “Someone threw them in?”
“Yeah. Good chance it was Leeland Ross.”
She grimaced.
“You know him?”
“Only by reputation. You went in, didn’t you?”
“There wasn’t much choice.”
She laughed. “They are cute, and, anyway, I found the little bottle you’d left on the counter, so I filled it and fed them this morning.”
He kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”
Cubiak ate quickly and between bites told her about Sneider.
“That’s a name from the past. I saw him once, I’m sure, at Ruby’s. I was just a kid and he came by after grandfather died to offer his condolences to the family. They’d been good friends when they were younger, but by the time I started spending my summers up here my grandfather hadn’t spoken to him in years. I remember Ruby being upset by the visit and Dutch having to calm her down.”
“Ruby didn’t like him?”
Cate stirred milk into her coffee. “They’d had a falling out but I don’t know over what. Funny, though, I remember not liking him either. It wasn’t just because of Ruby’s reaction. I guess some adults are scary to kids. Bushy eyebrows or whatever.”
“Did you know his son, Andrew?”
Cate cradled her mug in her hands. “Until this morning I didn’t even know Gerald had a son.”
While Cubiak laced up his boots, she talked through her schedule for the day: She was starting the next phase of her photo assignment on Wisconsin historic sites for a special Midwest edition of the National Geographic and planned to shoot The Ridges Sanctuary later that morning. “Weather’s going to start turning and I need to get the outdoor shots in while I can. I was hoping you could join me for lunch.”
Cubiak was printing a sign about free kittens when his laptop dinged, announcing an e-mail. It was a message from the state crime lab informing him that the evidence team was on its way to Ellison Bay.
“Sorry, but I can’t. It’s going to be a busy day,” he said to Cate.
The lineup of staff vehicles in the parking lot for the Door County Justice Center told Cubiak that Rowe had rallied the force. Even his very pregnant assistant, Lisa, was at her desk.
“What are you doing here? You should be at home, resting,” Cubiak said. He’d watched Lisa move through the stages of pregnancy—the early excitement and anxiety, the exhaustion, the calm energy. He remembered when Lauren was pregnant with Alexis and was still remorseful over how much of that he’d missed because of work.
Lisa gave him a tolerant smile. “I’m fine and I want to be doing something. May as well wait here as at home. It’s only five minutes to the hospital. I’ll be okay.” She glanced at the hand-scrawled poster he held. “Free kittens?”
Cubiak shrugged. “If you get a minute, maybe you could make a few copies and put them up around the station, okay? But don’t exert yourself.”
She laughed and pushed to her feet, heading to the copier.
In his office there was a message from the state police following up on the APB Rowe had submitted the night before: no sign yet of Sneider’s car.
Earlier that year, Lisa had cataloged Door County’s arrest history for the previous five decades. Cubiak skimmed the summary: Drunk driving. Domestic violence. Drug possession. Child abuse. Murder. Assault and Battery. Robbery. Arson. But not a single abduction in the previous fifty years.
Nearly half the people who worked for the department were reserve deputies, telecommunications specialists, or personnel connected with the jail and courts. Other officers handled drugs and road traffic. One deputy dealt with juvenile offenders. The sheriff was left with a handful of investigators and deputies to take on the Sneider case.
These men and women had just come through a busier than usual summer with a flurry of break-ins at a couple of the larger resorts. But the perps had been caught, and he knew his team was anticipating some downtime as the tourist season abated. For their sake, he hoped they’d clear up the Sneider situation quickly.
At 8 a.m., Cubiak met with his team in the incident room. Coffee and doughnuts in hand, they looked at him with open curiosity. What was going on? Why had they been called in?
Cubiak stuck the photo of the missing man to the evidence board.
“Gerald Sneider,” he said.
A sound like a gasp went up and the room snapped to attention. They know him, Cubiak realized. They know his reputation in the county and his history with the Packers.
He started all over with the specifics on Sneider’s age and description: Caucasian, six foot three, 210 pounds. No known physical scars. Missing. Possible abduction.
Cubiak took them through the sequence of events from the previous night. “We don’t know if the note found in the kitchen referred to Sneider, but if it does and state lines were crossed, this may be a job for the feds. For now, it’s in our hands. I realize this is not the type of situation we ordinarily come up against, but there’s basic investigative work to be done and that’s where we start.”
Cubiak handed out assignments. A senior deputy was charged with gathering information on Sneider’s history with the Packers. “Not just the PR stuff but the backroom deals. Anything that may have left someone with a bad taste in the mouth.”
A team of two investigators was to canvas the town of Ellison Bay and the area around the estate. “See if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary. Check to see if Sneider had any run-ins or longstanding feuds with his neighbors—someone unhappy about property line disputes, or zoning issues. A man with that much money to toss around can step on a lot of toes without even trying. Keep it low key. At this stage, the man is missing. No more. We’re not trying to rattle anyone, yet.”
Another deputy was to start checking on Andrew’s alibis from the time the game ended to the time he was stopped for speeding, while another was to look into his affairs. “Andrew presents himself as the loyal son, concerned about his father’s welfare, but we need to know the true nature of their relationship and whether Andrew is solvent or in debt up to his ears. More often than not, the perp is found close to home.
“Deputy Rowe will question the secretary and I’ll talk to the cook and housekeeper. In all instances, we’re looking for means and motive.”
Cubiak was about to ask for questions when there was a knock on the door and Lisa popped her head in. Her eyes were wide and her expression somber. “Sir, Sheriff, sorry but there’s an urgent call for you,” she said. She held up a piece of paper.
What now? Cubiak thought. Had Andrew disappeared as well? He looked at the note. FBI, it said, written in red.
“Wait here,” Cubiak told his staff. He followed Lisa as far as his office and waited for her to put the call through.
The voice on the line was brisk. “This is Special Agent Quigley Moore from the Green Bay satellite office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation calling to inform you that we have a situation that we need to discuss.”
“The disappearance and possible kidnapping of Gerald Sneider,” Cubiak said.
Moore hesitated. “How’d you know?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“There was a message delivered to the Green Bay Packers office.”
“And one here at Sneider’s home.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. We’ll talk more then,” Moore said and hung up.
In the conference room, Cubiak reported back to his team. “Under normal protocol, the feds don’t come in unless and until we request their assistance. So something’s up. Until we’re told anything different, we continue doing our jobs. Anything at all, get back to me with it.”
A little more than an hour after the call, Lisa buzzed the sheriff. “Visitors, sir, in the lobby.”
Cubiak had expected Moore to
arrive alone. But when he reached the lobby he found a man and a woman standing side by side in front of one of the Free Kittens notices that Lisa had taped to the wall.
The visitors were a matched set, both tall and with the kind of posture that made Cubiak’s shoulders hurt.
As they turned toward the sheriff, the man erased the bemused look from his face and held out his hand. “Sheriff, Special Agent Quigley Moore and my assistant agent Gwen Harrison.”
Moore had steady green eyes and the kind of chiseled features long associated with Hollywood icons. Harrison was what the guys in Cubiak’s old neighborhood would call a stunner, but he suspected that for a woman to get that far in the agency meant that behind the looks there were brains to match.
The federal agents were a no-nonsense pair. Moore’s close-cropped hair was brushed back; his trousers were dark and neatly creased and the cuffs broke on the laces of spit-polished wingtips. Harrison’s hair was blonde and slicked into a bun. Her suit jacket was the same dark color as his; her pencil skirt barely covered the knees. And her shoes had that hard shine that comes from good leather with heels low enough to be sensible and high enough to be sexy. Looking at the two, Cubiak wondered if he shouldn’t have worn something other than jeans and his faded navy blue sweater that day.
The two held up their credentials but the sheriff didn’t need to see their ID to know they were from the FBI; the perfume of calm confidence that they exuded marked them as federal agents.
“We’re here to assist in the search for Gerald Sneider,” Harrison said, giving him a firm handshake.
Cubiak liked women with a good grip, but that morning he was too focused on the notion of two federal agents on his turf to appreciate it. What makes you think I need your help? the sheriff wanted to say. Instead, he kept them waiting a minute more than necessary before he turned and led them to his office, where he snapped the door shut, pointed them to the chairs facing his desk, and took his place behind it.
“Aren’t you supposed to wait for me to call you?” he said once they were settled in.
Watching Moore survey his messy desk with disapproval, Cubiak resisted the urge to sweep the clutter and empty coffee cups into the trash.
“Under usual circumstances, yes, but this case is a bit different,” Moore said in a tone that managed to be both collegial and condescending. “In fact we’ve been waiting for something like this to happen. You may be aware that over the past several months, there’ve been threats made against both the Packers and Lambeau Field, all part of a larger pattern focused on the NFL, specifically several Midwest teams. The threats target players, management, and high-profile supporters. People like Gerald Sneider. Homeland Security has been tracking this for months.”
As if a secret signal had been sent to her, Harrison took up the story. “Late last evening, Packers headquarters received a message that could be construed as a ransom note. ‘Pay or he dies.’ Since Gerald Sneider’s name was on the note, the general manager called the Green Bay police chief, who immediately contacted our local office.”
Cubiak interrupted. “Was the note addressed to Sneider?”
“To be precise, it’s a matter of semantics,” Moore said. He gave Cubiak a copy of the message. Gerald Sneider, Pay or he dies.
“This could be a message addressed to Sneider.”
“Yes.”
“Meaning pay up or some unknown person dies.”
“Unlikely, but yes.”
Cubiak smiled. “I like to be precise as well,” he said, straightening a stack of reports. “A similar note was left at Sneider’s home in Ellison Bay, although without his name on it.” He filled the agents in on the events of the previous evening.
“You left this deputy Rowe with Andrew?” Moore said.
Cubiak nodded. “There’s another deputy on his way up now to relieve him.”
“Good.” Moore fiddled with his phone and then looked up. “You understand that while officially Gerald Sneider is considered missing, we are operating on the plausible assumption that he has been kidnapped.”
“Fair enough, but that still doesn’t explain your presence here. We don’t know if he’s been taken over state lines. I’m waiting for confirmation,” Cubiak stated.
Harrison pulled an envelope from her brief case. “This photo taken at 5:12 p.m. yesterday afternoon at the last toll booth in Illinois shows Gerald in his car sitting in the front passenger seat.” She laid a black-and-white print on his desk, proof not only about Sneider’s whereabouts but that the FBI had more muscle than a county sheriff. “We can’t make out who’s driving but it’s clear that Sneider’s not alone.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s been abducted or taken across state lines. There’s still another exit in Illinois.”
“If this is a terrorist operation, it doesn’t matter where he’s being held.”
“And you think it is?”
Moore gestured to his assistant and let her pick up from there.
“Most likely,” Harrison said. “Either domestic or foreign, we don’t know yet. Point is, we don’t want to alarm the public. Word will get out about Sneider being missing soon enough, but we need to keep it at that for now.”
“How much does Andrew know?”
“About the possible terror threat? Hopefully nothing.”
Harrison looked at her watch. “Perhaps you can fill us in on the situation at this end.” The impatience in her voice was hard to miss.
Cubiak ran through the previous night’s events and the morning’s briefing.
“Plenty left to do, then,” Moore said and smiled at the sheriff, letting Cubiak know he hadn’t missed a beat.
Moore looked about his age, Cubiak thought, but had no gray in his ebony hair. Just that morning the sheriff had noticed that the white strands on his head seemed to be multiplying rapidly.
Agent Moore stood. “Let’s cooperate, pool resources. We’ll start by setting up phone lines. You have an incident room we can use.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course.” Cubiak rose to his feet as well. “Just so we’re clear, who’s in charge?”
“You, of course.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll need to meet with your team.” Moore went on as if the previous question hadn’t been asked.
“I told you I’ve already briefed them.”
“Well, we need to do it again to make sure we’re all on the same page. I assume you don’t mind.”
Cubiak did mind. If the terrorist threats against the league were coincidental, then the FBI was basing the investigation on the wrong premise and valuable time would be wasted. But with nothing in hand to counter their argument, he had no choice but to keep his peace.
“I’ve got the state boys up there now checking for prints,” he said.
Moore frowned. “And I bet they came in with their nice bright state police van! You think it’s a good idea to let the public know something’s going on?”
“The note that was left in Sneider’s kitchen said nothing about not notifying the authorities. If need be, we could always say there’d been a burglary at the house.”
Moore shrugged. “I doubt they’ll find anything worthwhile anyway,” he said.
By late morning, the federal agents had taken over the conference room. Moore and Harrison had set up work stations at the far end of the table, and while the two conferred in a quiet back-and-forth exchange of questions and ideas, a team of technicians worked around them installing secure communication lines and computer hookups.
Cubiak was almost at the door when he caught himself. Feeling a bit like a schoolboy who’d been instructed to check in with his teacher at every step, he backtracked through the center to let the feds know he was on his way to Ellison Bay. Moore was on his cell, listening intently, his brow furrowed. He nodded as much to the sheriff as to the phone. Harrison barely looked up from her laptop. Neither of them seemed to care. And neither told Cubiak what they were up to.
Moore looked like t
he type that played by the rules. He probably had to be to get anywhere in the department, which had to be a bureaucratic nightmare. But there were sticklers and there were sticklers, and he suspected that Moore was at the pain-in-the-ass end of the spectrum. He wondered how Harrison dealt with her superior, and how his predominantly male team of deputies would respond to her. A man could be too handsome and a woman too good looking, Cubiak thought.
In the lobby, the sheriff pulled down the Free Kittens sign and tossed it on Lisa’s desk. “I think we can do with a few less of these,” he said, sounding harsher than he wanted to.
AN INVASION OF PRIVACY
In the bright light of day, Cubiak got his first clear look at Gerald Sneider’s sprawling mansion. Four stories high and built of massive brown stones, it had the heft of a fortress and the feel of a castle, with a corner turret and gargoyles jutting from the roofline. What a strange, ugly house to build in the middle of the woods, Cubiak thought.
The sheriff turned his attention to the van that was parked at the bottom of the stairs. The field response team from the Wisconsin crime lab went where needed, and more often than not the Door County sheriff had to wait his turn along with law officials from several other jurisdictions. Not so when a situation involved someone with the stature of Gerald Sneider. That morning his request had leapfrogged to the top of the assignment list.
The sheriff recognized the senior investigator, a man he knew only as Jenkins. “Any luck?” Cubiak asked as the team loaded the last of its equipment into the van.
Jenkins tossed the dregs of his coffee into a bush and shook the sheriff ’s hand. “We got four sets of prints, each of them found pretty consistently throughout the house. We got a match for Andrew and another from the master bedroom that we figure is the father’s. We’ll need elimination prints for the cook and the housekeeper to wrap up.”
“What about the breakfast nook?”
“Wiped clean.”
Cubiak told Jenkins about the ransom note. “I didn’t want to leave it here overnight. It’s waiting for you in Sturgeon Bay. I’ll need the usual rundown: paper, paint, and so on.” He hesitated. “As of this morning, the feds are in on this; they may have already taken it.”
Death in Cold Water Page 4