“Gerald Sneider, yes, I’m aware of the situation but we haven’t assigned the story yet. We’re waiting for further developments,” she said.
“But you have a reporter, a Stephen Ross, who’s up here working on it,” Cubiak said.
“Excuse me, whom did you say?”
Cubiak repeated the name.
“There’s no one by that name in the news department,” the editor said, adding, “but a lot of people work for the paper. If you hold on a minute, I’ll check the directory.”
Cubiak heard the familiar click of her keyboard. A few moments later, the editor came back online.
“Sheriff Cubiak, you’re correct there is a Stephen Ross on staff. But he’s in the obit department,” she said. “He writes death notices.”
As Cubiak lowered the phone, he glanced up to find Gwen Harrison in the doorway. Her eyes were wide and her hands clenched. “Look, about Agent Moore,” she said, but then she paused, uncertain how to continue.
“No need to apologize for your boss. We’re all on edge,” the sheriff said, wondering if that was all she’d come for.
Harrison walked forward and quieted her voice. “Eight o’clock tonight. Andrew just got word.”
Cubiak felt her excitement ripple across the room. “Where?”
“Fourth and Main.”
Cubiak was puzzled. “That’s a very public location.”
“With all the inherent disadvantages, I know, but it gives us more cover as well. The kidnappers have scaled back their demands to one million. Andrew’s to come alone and leave the money in a duffel under the bench by the clock tower. The message was delivered by a kid on a bike who said he was hired off Craigslist, if you can believe that.”
At this point, Cubiak thought, he’d believe anything. The previous demands, first for four hundred thousand and then for four million, had led him to wonder if there was some significance to the number four or if the money was simply to be split four ways. The current ransom demand seemed to deviate from the pattern, though it was for an amount evenly divisible by four.
“How do you know this is genuine? With all the publicity, the note could be from someone else trying to take advantage of the situation.”
“Sneider’s driver’s license was in the envelope, and minutes after the note was dropped off, Andrew got a call from his father. It was very brief, barely a couple of seconds, just long enough for him to say a word or two. Andrew recognized his voice.”
Harrison slipped into the chair facing the desk and crossed her legs. “Also, they want the payoff in Sneider’s ‘GB duffel,’ which Andrew says is an old Packers bag his father’s had for years. Who else would know about that?”
She rested both hands on the desk. “Agent Moore wants you to go up to the estate. You’re to send the bag back with the deputy and then stay with Andrew and make sure he’s on board. We’ll take care of things at this end and let you know when we’re ready for you to drive him down.”
“Why’d they lower the ransom demand?” Cubiak said.
“They want the money in hundreds so it’s probably about the logistics of taking possession.”
“You’ll pay up then?”
With a dancer’s grace Harrison rose to her feet and stood before him erect and alert. “We’ll make them think so.”
Cubiak waited for an explanation but then realized that she was looking at the wall clock. It was four fifteen. “You were right about the call coming today. Congratulations,” he said.
Harrison beamed. Watching her triumphant walk toward the door, the sheriff wondered what it was about strong women that he found so attractive.
When Cubiak was halfway to Ellison Bay he texted Cate that he’d be home late and not to wait up for him. Immediately he regretted sending the message. Would she even be at the house? Did she care? The last two days, she’d stayed at her own place and he didn’t know why. Was it something he’d done, or was it because she was spending time with her ex-husband?
Maybe the feds were right about the kidnappers, Cubiak thought, pushing aside his personal concerns. Although the reduction in the ransom was puzzling, Harrison’s explanation made sense. He tried to imagine a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills and hoped the duffel was large enough to hold it all. By now Cubiak’s resentment against the feds had dwindled away. As the case moved forward, every step was crucial. The payoff had to go smoothly—Sneider’s life might depend on it.
The wind had shifted, bringing in warmer air, and Cubiak drove with his window down, enjoying the occasional whiff of burning leaves. The peninsula had put away the things of summer and embraced the emblems of autumn. Pumpkins and dried stalks of corn festooned the homes and shops along the way. Midway through Sister Bay, he stopped to let a troop of miniature witches and pirates cross the street. They dashed in front of the jeep, twitching with excitement and toting festive bags and plastic buckets in the shapes of pumpkins and skulls. It was Halloween, he remembered.
“Trick or treat,” Cubiak said aloud as the children hopped to safety on the curb.
A plastic skeleton in a shop window made him think of the bones on the beach. By this time tomorrow Rowe would have made his dive looking for the source and the FBI would have rescued Gerald Sneider, nabbed those responsible, and recovered the ransom money. The sheriff would have wrapped up his role and left the feds to the paperwork and the prosecution of the kidnappers. There’d be plenty of time for him to sort through the situation at Baileys Harbor.
The media camped outside the estate had grown to a small mob with rows of vehicles parked along the road in both directions. A few of the reporters had rolled out sleeping bags to mark their turf near the gate. One had even set up a green pup tent. When Cubiak turned in, they swarmed the jeep and begged for news, like kids asking for Halloween treats. The sheriff wished he’d brought a bag of candy for them.
In the main house, Andrew waited in the media room. A movie flashed across the large screen but when Cubiak asked what he was watching, Andrew looked blank. “I don’t know. Something,” he responded.
Andrew had cleaned himself up. He was showered and shaved and dressed in sporty charcoal corduroy pants and a muted yellow turtleneck. A black wool jacket hung on the back of a chair.
Sneider’s canvas Green Bay Packers bag was on the coffee table. Andrew saw the sheriff looking at it. “One of my father’s good luck charms. I found it in an upstairs closet,” he said.
Cubiak rolled the duffel into a grocery bag and gave it to the deputy to take back to sheriff ’s headquarters.
“Aren’t we going now?” Andrew asked.
“We’ve got time.”
Cubiak asked to see the note that had been delivered to the house. Word for word it read just as Harrison had told him.
“The feds said you talked to your father,” the sheriff said.
“Not really ‘talked.’ He was on just long enough to say my name. He sounded different, weak and scared, but I knew it was him,” Andrew explained.
He clicked off the television.
“Where are they getting the money?” he asked. There was more idle curiosity than urgency to the question.
“I don’t know,” the sheriff replied.
“Agent Harrison said I wasn’t to worry, that they would take care of everything.”
Cubiak nodded.
“I wouldn’t mind a drink.”
“Not a good idea,” the sheriff said. “Hungry?”
Andrew shrugged.
In the gourmet kitchen, Cubiak heated a can of tomato soup and fixed grilled cheese sandwiches. Comfort food, he realized, as he set the meal on two TV trays.
Andrew had turned the TV on again and switched the channel to a documentary on blue whales. “They’re big as school buses. Did you know that?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever see one?”
“No.”
“Me neither. You fish?”
“Not much any more. I did a lot when I was a kid.”
“M
e, too. I used to catch bluegill off the dock.”
Small talk filled the void.
Cubiak was cleaning up in the kitchen when Agent Moore called. They ran through the specifics and then the sheriff went to find Andrew.
“Time to go,” he said.
Andrew slipped on his jacket but his nerves failed when he tried to work the zipper. “You’ll be okay,” Cubiak said.
To hide him from the reporters, the sheriff had Andrew lie on the back seat, and then he covered him with a blanket. The last thing they needed was the paparazzi chasing them down the peninsula. Once they were through Ellison Bay, Cubiak turned onto a side road and pulled over on the shoulder. “Coast is clear. You can move up front now,” he told Andrew.
They drove in silence, Cubiak thinking of the many things that could go wrong that evening, Andrew with his head back and his eyes shut.
“You okay?” the sheriff said.
Andrew grunted, then replied, “I’m praying.”
Good idea, Cubiak thought as he steered into the darkness.
Some time later, Andrew emerged from his stupor, and the closer they got to Sturgeon Bay, the more agitated he grew: fidgeting with his fingers, tapping the dashboard, shifting his weight in the seat. They were several miles from town when the red lights on the giant radio broadcast towers appeared against the evening sky. Andrew groaned and folded over into himself. Cubiak could smell the fear rolling off him. “Take it easy,” the sheriff said, even as he tightened his grip on the wheel.
To avoid the media crowd gathered outside the station, Moore and Cubiak had agreed to meet at the sheriff ’s house. The agent was waiting when they pulled in.
“That’s it, just him?” Andrew said, looking around wildly as if expecting to find the cavalry. He fumbled with the door and practically fell on top of Moore. “Where is everyone?” Andrew asked, ignoring the agent’s outstretched hand.
“They’re in town, already in position. We have time,” Moore replied. The duffel was on the ground at his feet. It had plumped out nicely.
While Butch sniffed his shoes, Moore set the bag on the kitchen table. “Go ahead, open it.”
Andrew undid the zipper and peered inside. “So that’s what a million looks like.” He raised the duffel several inches off the table. “It’s heavy.”
“Twenty-two pounds,” Moore said.
Suddenly Andrew dropped the bag and threw up his hands. His face was wet with sweat. “I can’t do it,” he said.
Moore made a show of pulling out a chair and sitting down as if this were just a casual get-together of friends. “Why not?” he asked.
“I . . . I don’t have my car. If they know what I drive, they’ll expect to see it.”
Moore smiled patiently. “It’s Halloween. There are a lot of people out and about, and we’ve made sure the streets in both directions are parked up. If anyone’s watching, they’ll see you walking up the street and figure you had to park a couple blocks away. Ideally you reach the bench at eight, stop to listen to the chimes, put the bag underneath, and then continue on your way.”
“What if I’m early? What then?”
Moore picked up the bag and walked to the other side of the kitchen. “Easy,” he said as he turned and started back toward the chair. “If you get there before the hour, sit down with the duffel in your lap—like this—and wait.” He spoke slowly, demonstrating each step. “The bell tower chimes at eight. Ding, ding, etcetera. When it’s finished, bend over, slide the bag under the bench, and then walk away.”
“That’s it?”
“Right.”
“What if someone tries to grab me?”
“No one’s going to come after you. All they want is the money. Here, try it.”
Moore gave the bag to Andrew and motioned him across the room. “Go on, show me,” he said as if he were coaxing a child. First time through, Moore sounded the chimes as Andrew approached the chair. “Don’t rush. It’s okay if you’re a little late, makes it more credible.” The second time, he made him sit and wait.
“Okay?”
Some of the color had returned to Andrew’s face. “Yeah. Okay,” he said.
“The rest is up to us,” Moore said and clapped Andrew’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered.”
At half past seven, Cubiak pulled into the post office parking lot and stopped in the shadows behind the loading dock. “You know where we’re at?” he asked. In the dim light Andrew nodded.
“You got three blocks to cover. Take your time. Look in the store windows. Play tourist or shopper, whatever. Go around the long way,” he said, pointing toward the park. “I’ll watch until you reach the corner and then I need to get in place.”
Cubiak lifted a brown wig and cowboy hat from the back seat and put them on. “A wannabe Willie Nelson. My disguise,” he explained.
Andrew almost laughed.
When it was time to begin, the sheriff retrieved the duffel and went around to open the passenger door.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” he said as he handed the bag to Andrew. “But don’t worry, everything will be fine. We’ve got this covered.” Cubiak realized that he was echoing Moore. But did the feds really have everything under control? the sheriff wondered. The kidnappers had probably spent days, maybe even weeks, laying out the scenario, and the FBI had had only hours to plan a response.
Andrew walked away like a man petrified with fear. With each stilted step, the cumbersome bag bounced awkwardly against his knee. He kept up like this for a full block. It wasn’t until he rounded the corner onto Main that he started to relax. Cubiak waited until he lost sight of Andrew, and then he took off in the opposite direction, circling toward the bank on the street north of the clock tower. At five minutes before the hour, he entered the glass-walled lobby and assumed his position at the ATM. From there he had a clear view across the alley and through the small park to the corner where the clock tower and the bench were located.
Along Main Street strings of twinkling orange lights softened the darkness and gave the downtown a festive feeling. Thanks to an unexpected warm front that had pushed through in the afternoon, it was a balmy night, and people were out. One woman wore a witch’s hat. Another who was dressed in black leggings and a sweater sported cat ears and a tail. Someone costumed as Darth Vader strode along behind them. Tourists or FBI? Or residents on their way to a party?
Stores and restaurants were still open, and people stopped to look at window displays or wandered in to shop or eat. Kids were downtown as well, trick-or-treating from one shop to another.
Andrew reached the bell tower four minutes early. He was on target, but for a moment he looked around as if lost or confused. “Sit down,” Cubiak muttered under his breath.
Andrew glanced up at the clock and lowered himself to the edge of the bench. Only his back was visible to Cubiak but it seemed clear from the way his shoulders curved forward that he was holding the duffel on his lap as instructed.
At eight, the clock chimed. For several minutes, the soft tones filled the night air. Then they faded to nothing, and in the silence that followed, Andrew bent over as if to retrieve something he’d dropped.
He was taking too long. “Come on,” Cubiak said, urging him to be done with it. Finally, Andrew sat up and slowly rose to his feet. In the light from the streetlamp, Cubiak made out the dark lump beneath the bench. The duffel was in place.
Nothing happened.
Andrew strode to the corner and froze.
“Don’t look,” Cubiak said.
As if he’d heard the sheriff, the Sneider heir crossed the intersection and passed a couple stopped outside an antique store. Soon he was just another shadowy figure walking along the street.
Cubiak checked his watch. Two minutes had elapsed and the bag remained under the bench.
Darth Vader strode purposefully past the tower, his cape billowing in a sudden breeze. Cubiak tensed, waiting for him to snatch the duffel.
Another five minutes dragged b
y. Half a dozen cars had stopped at the intersection, one long enough to drop off a young couple outfitted in hockey uniforms. Still the bag sat unclaimed.
Moore had given orders that they wait as long as needed, but Cubiak was getting restless. What if one of the young trick-or-treaters spied the bag and picked it up? What would the kidnappers do?
The sheriff started to text Moore. Suddenly without warning a flash mob of teenagers in costumes swarmed the corner. Running and riding bikes, they flew in from both sides of Main and the cross street. Waving banners and blowing horns, the crowd swelled to an outrageous number of youth. Almost instantly the intersection churned with chaos.
Cubiak bolted from the lobby and raced toward the throng.
Rap music blasted and the kids danced and gyrated to the beat. Five boys jumped onto the bench and began yelling “Party! Party! Party!” Glass bottles hit the pavement and shattered.
When Cubiak reached the fringe of the frenetic crowd, a whistle blew and the kids scattered. Flying like the wind. As one girl raced past, the sheriff grabbed hold of her cape but the flimsy fabric ripped and he was left holding a long sequined scrap of nylon. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bench for the duffel. The bag was gone.
Moore ran up, redfaced and furious. “The duffel?” he asked.
Cubiak shook his head.
“Fuck!”
Cubiak waited for the outburst to continue. Instead Moore clenched his mouth tight and slowly settled down. When he spoke again, he was calm. “They think they’ve outsmarted us but there’s a tracking device in the bag and my guys are following it now. In the meantime, we’ve collared three of the revelers. We’ll get what we can from them,” he said.
Cubiak was doubtful. The kids were probably ripped on adrenalin, he thought. They wouldn’t know anything.
Death in Cold Water Page 15