Death by the Bay

by Patricia Skalka

  At the historic downtown diner, Cubiak joined a table of the regulars. When he sat down, the eight men looked up from their half-eaten burgers and plates of liver and onions and fried perch and greeted him warmly. Then he mentioned Tom Fadim’s name, and they lowered their gaze. After a moment, the man at the head of the table spoke for all of them. “Tom’s messed up bad. He’s put the touch on me more than once, the other guys too. We go back a long way, and I tried to keep the faith with him, but after a while I knew I could kiss the money good-bye. It’s too bad but him and me aren’t friends no more.”

  When the spokesman finished, his companions bobbed their heads in agreement.

  In her lucid moments, Florence must have known something of her grandson’s problems; her reference to staying away from the table had nothing to do with gluttony as Cubiak had first surmised. She had been referring to the blackjack table where he incurred most of his losses. But how much of the time was she lucid, and how many lies had Tom told her? the sheriff wondered.

  From the restaurant, Cubiak headed up the peninsula. It was a beautiful evening but all he could think of was Florence Fadim sitting at her window. The elderly woman believed she owned both the farmstead and the surrounding fields, some three hundred acres in all. The family farm had once been a prosperous concern, but now it was little more than a memory that fell like a shadow across the vacant buildings, the overgrown pasture, and the lush, sprawling fields. She took pride in the heritage of the land that had come down through generations of her late husband’s hardworking ancestors and been entrusted to her. She believed that Stanley Smolinsky rented the fields. She didn’t know that Tom had sold the property to the neighboring farmer. She didn’t realize that because of her grandson’s misdeeds, she was fast running out of options.

  How low would a man go to save his own skin? Cubiak wondered as he drove north.

  On a hunch, he called Justin St. James, a former reporter for the Door County Herald. Several years ago Cubiak had given the fledgling journalist an exclusive about a local philanthropist whose misdeed left three innocent boys dead. The story catapulted St. James to the big time and the two had stayed in touch. Without mentioning specific details, Cubiak filled him in on what Melk and Sage had been up to and asked if he thought there was enough material for a book.

  “Are you kidding? Publishers love stories about medical scandals. The more appalling the better. With documentation, the author can write his own ticket,” he said.

  Maybe that was Kiel’s game plan. She would write an exposé about the nefarious physicians. And maybe her partner in crime wasn’t the financially solvent executive assistant Noreen Klyasheff but her own father, a man desperate for money.

  18

  THE INTRUDERS

  At a few minutes past eight that evening, Cubiak picked up Bathard. The elderly doctor had jettisoned his cane and looked jaunty as he made his way to the jeep. As requested, he wore a black raincoat. He also carried his black medical bag.

  “I may as well try to check Florence’s vitals as long as we’re out there,” he said by way of explanation. “If she’ll let me,” he added, as Cubiak opened the passenger door.

  If Bathard was surprised to see Rowe in the rear, he didn’t let on.

  “Michael,” he said, nodding to his fellow passenger. “I see you are comporting yourself admirably these days. You are in good health, I hope.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rowe said and grinned. This was the physician who had stuck a needle into his backside more times than he cared to remember when he was growing up. “Just fine, Doc, thanks.”

  Their easy chatter made Cubiak nostalgic for his former partner Malcolm and the Chicago friends he had left behind when he moved to Door County. He had lived on the peninsula for more than a decade, but there were few people he could talk to with that kind of familiarity. A large percentage of the locals were from families that had been in Door County for generations, and to them he was still a newcomer. Cate shared in the old-timers’ legacy by virtue of the many summers she had spent here as a child, the niece of the well-loved sheriff Dutch Schumacher and her claim to The Wood, the estate her wealthy grandfather had built in the previous century. Some of her heritage would pass naturally to Joey, and for that Cubiak was grateful.

  Bathard cleared his throat, a signal that he was waiting for the sheriff to explain what the evening held in store.

  They were headed to the Fadim farm. That much, he had told them both earlier. He had even called it by that name, which he knew was false.

  “You’ve both seen the collage on the barn wall. There’s a good possibility that whoever is responsible for it will want to retrieve the material and do it soon. I’m counting on the intruder to return this evening. Chances are they’ve got the farmstead under watch, and if so, they will see me and Bathard arrive and enter the house together.”

  “What about me?” Rowe said.

  “I’ll drop you off a quarter mile down the road. From there, you’ll walk toward the farm. Stay away from the road and circle up through the woods behind the barn. I want you in the trees but someplace where you can get to the barn fast.”

  “I got a good idea where that’d be,” the deputy said.

  “Once you’re in position, text me.”

  Cubiak touched Bathard’s arm. “That’s when you come in.”

  “Meaning what? Am I to participate in a covert operation?” He was teasing but there was a hint of excitement in his voice.

  “Something like that. After I hear from Mike, you’ll leave the house wearing my hat and jacket and drive off in the jeep. We’re about the same height and weight, so anyone watching will think that I’ve left and that you’re still in the house with Mrs. Fadim.”

  “Which means they won’t come in.”

  “Exactly. Once you’re gone, I’ll turn off her phone, so there’s no chance that she’ll get or make any calls while this is going on. She’s not always lucid, but we can’t take a chance that she knows more than she’s let on. I don’t want her inadvertently spoiling things.”

  “Then what?” Rowe said.

  “While Bathard is heading out the front door and driving away, I’ll sneak into the barn.”

  “To wait for the intruder.”

  “That’s it. If I’m right, the trespasser will think the coast is clear and take a chance on getting in under cover of night. Meanwhile you’ll be in the woods, ready to come in if I need you.”

  Bathard turned toward the sheriff. “Where am I supposed to go with the jeep? You don’t want me to drive all the way back to town, do you?”

  “Stanley Smolinsky owns the farm just to the east. You can pull in there and park behind the house. I talked to him earlier and he’s expecting you.”

  Mrs. Fadim was dozing in her chair when Cubiak and Bathard walked into the living room.

  “What a pleasant surprise. You’re just in time for tea,” she said.

  She had a tenuous hold on time, and with the curtains closed, she apparently thought that they had stopped by for a late afternoon visit.

  Cubiak took his cue and retired to the kitchen. By now he knew the ritual. Her favorite teapot with the matching cups, the platter of cookies, even the tray she preferred. He set everything out, and as he waited for the water to boil, he disabled the wall phone.

  From the other room, he heard Bathard talking to the elderly woman. The doctor sounded cheerful going through his list of questions. How long had it been since he had taken a blood pressure reading? Or checked a patient’s pulse? Cubiak wondered.

  When the sheriff reappeared with the refreshments, Bathard was holding his finger out in front of Mrs. Fadim’s face and asking her to follow the movement with her eyes.

  “Excellent,” he said, and she beamed.

  They were finishing the tea when the sheriff felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. It was a text from Rowe. All set.

  After Cubiak carried the tray back to the kitchen, he and Bathard spent another ten minutes saying good-bye
to Mrs. Fadim. She clutched their hands and begged them to stay.

  “Just a bit longer, gentlemen. Surely you can spare me a little more time,” she said.

  Against Cubiak’s better judgment, they lingered. Knowing the full extent of her circumstances, he found it hard to leave her. The dreadful reality that Tom Fadim had fashioned would collapse on her soon enough. If dallying for a few extra moments would lighten her load even briefly, then he would take the chance.

  Finally, in a gallant gesture, Bathard lifted Florence’s veined hand to his lips and bowed. It was a finale enough for her. Delighted, she waved the two men out of the room.

  In the hall they stood out of her line of sight and prepared. Cubiak handed his jacket to Bathard. As the coroner put it on, the sheriff slipped into the doctor’s dark coat.

  Under cover of night they left. Bathard walked to the jeep, while Cubiak ducked low and slipped along the front of the house. By the time the coroner pulled away, the sheriff was hidden in the thicket of trees along the side. The pine scent teared his eyes, and the soft needles whisked his face and hands. He imagined droplets of resin dotting Bathard’s coat like sequins. Nothing to be done about that now. From the rear porch he paused to look across the yard at the barn. There was no cover in the open space between the house and the dim hulk, but during the times he had spent in Mrs. Fadim’s kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, he had studied the yard and knew its obstacles well. Guided by instinct and memory, he made his way to the rear of the barn without incident. Once there, he let his hands play lightly over the rough surface until he reached the double doors. In quick order, he loosened the wire and slipped inside.

  The dank aroma of the interior was familiar, but the cold surprised him. There was more dust than he remembered, and he swallowed a cough as he tried to get his bearings. He didn’t dare use a light. The last time he was in the barn, the middle aisle was clear. Rowe and the surveillance team hadn’t seen anyone enter the building, but there was no guarantee that the intruder hadn’t snuck in and booby-trapped the path. As he moved forward, he held out one arm and swung it back and forth as he slowly crept through the dark interior. Finally, his fingers grazed against the rough wood of the far wall.

  The soft thump of his hand against the wood was no louder than the skitter of a mouse, but had it been enough to alert someone hiding in the dark to his presence? He held his breath and listened. Outside, a soft wind had come up, but the silence inside the barn seemed deep and eternal. He waited several seconds. Then he exhaled and felt for the cut-out door. When he found it, he pushed it open and stepped through. At the last moment he remembered to duck but he still grazed the top of his head against the rough frame.

  The room was void of light. Even allowing for his eyes to adjust, he couldn’t see anything. It was cold like the rest of the barn, and the smell of coffee had dissipated. Only the familiar faint smell of hay remained.

  Relying on luck and memory, Cubiak stole to the corner where the bales had been haphazardly piled. Careful not to dislodge them, he slipped behind the artificial hedge and lowered himself to the wooden floor. There wasn’t enough room to stretch out his legs, so he sat with his back to the wall, his feet flat, and his knees bent. He had silenced his phone before he left the house, but once settled, he dared a quick check of the time. It was 9:17. He snugged the black raincoat around his chest and waited.

  The sheriff was certain that Linda Kiel had created the collage. She had had three months to study the files from the Northern Hospital for the Insane and to figure out, even superficially, what Melk had been doing. She had to retrieve the material from the barn because she needed it for the book he was convinced she planned to write. Not one that sings the praises of Melk and the IPM but one that portrays the physician as a monster and broadcasts his unscrupulous and heartless methods to the world. How many people in addition to George Wilcox had she reached through her ads? She had her family’s story to tell about Margaret. Perhaps all she needed was another five or six to round out the tale. She had plenty of graphic material to supplement the details: Melk’s charts and research notes and the old photos, the letters and the faded black-and-white images of the children whose parents had been promised cures and instead been left with nothing but guilt, shame, and anger. Even a hack would be able to cobble together a decent book out of all that incendiary material, but Cubiak had read enough of Kiel’s work to know she was capable of better. On one deft stop in Cleona, the struggling journalist had stumbled onto fodder for a best seller and the path to literary stardom.

  Cubiak flexed his fingers. His hands were numb and his feet had lost feeling as well. He tipped forward and shifted to his knees, careful not to dislodge the top layer of bales. Using the wall for support, he stood. As quietly as he could, he moved his arms and marched in place until his extremities tingled in protest. He had to stay limber. What good was he if he couldn’t move when Kiel arrived?

  Hours passed. He struggled to stay awake and alert. He had deliberately not brought any coffee because he knew the aroma would give him away. Cate had got him drinking tea, but Earl Grey, his favorite, wouldn’t have worked either. She had a shelf full of teas. If he had been thinking ahead, he would have asked her to recommend one that would go undetected and brewed enough to fill a travel mug. Hot tea would do double duty; it would keep him focused and warm.

  A rumble of thunder rattled the windows, and a sudden gust of wind whistled around the corner of the barn. Within minutes, rain and hail pelted the walls with the fury of a giant hurtling rocks against the building. Cubiak wondered how Rowe was doing and if the shift in weather would lure Kiel to the farm or keep her away.

  The sheriff hadn’t done this kind of surveillance in years and was beginning to regret the plan. He and Rowe couldn’t stay in place indefinitely. Cubiak was about to check the time again when a solitary click penetrated the noise of the storm. He listened hard. The sound could have been made by a loose wire slapping against the building, but given the wind, it would keep repeating. And it did not. The sound could also have been made by a lock snapping open. Cubiak shifted into a kneeling position. Moments passed and he heard a different noise. It was close and familiar. It was the scrape of wood against wood as the cut-out door was pushed open.

  A bright white light flashed around the room and hit the wall several inches above the sheriff’s head. Then it swung around, bouncing from floor to rooftop and then from one side to the other. Finally, the light landed on the collage and stopped.

  Hurried footsteps moved through the dark. Too many footsteps, Cubiak thought. He stayed low, still not willing to show himself. Something wasn’t right.

  A hushed conversation broke the silence. Cubiak strained to identify the voices, but he was too far away.

  One thing was clear: two people had entered the room. The sheriff assumed one was Linda Kiel, but who was the other?

  Cubiak peered over the top of the bales and watched the intruders. The two were a matched set: both of them average height, slender, and dressed in black, like midnight raiders. They wore gloves and had pulled their hoods up over their heads, hiding their hair and keeping their features in shadow.

  The duo stood with their backs toward him, murmuring and gesticulating at the collage as they conferred. Their headlamps followed their gestures, moving in a wild profusion that created an odd strobe-light effect.

  When they finished their secretive exchange, they moved to opposite ends of the display and settled into the task at hand. Using short metal files, they pried the tacks from the rough boards and dismantled the collage piece by piece, pulling off the bits of string and lifting the sheets of paper from the wall. At first, they worked slowly, but as they grew accustomed to the routine, their pace quickened. Although they were careful not to tear any of the photos and documents, they paid little attention to them and dropped them in loose piles on the floor.

  They cleared away the two end sections in about ten minutes and moved in toward the middle. The sheriff ha
d to act soon. Having expected Linda Kiel to come on her own, he hadn’t anticipated having to deal with two people.

  The low, crude door was the only way out of the room. That meant Cubiak needed to get between the intruders and the exit before they spotted him. To nab both of the interlopers, he had to wait until they reached the center of the collage and were standing alongside each other. Otherwise, he would be able to grab only one while the other did an end run and sprinted away out of his reach.

  The hard, uneven floor pressed uncomfortably against Cubiak’s knees, and the tight hiding spot clamped his arms against his torso. The storm had died down, and he wasn’t sure if he could move into position without alerting the two to his presence.

  Just as they reached the middle of the montage and stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, the squall started up again. Rain slammed the roof and south wall with a staccato fury. The noise was loud enough to mask any subtle sounds Cubiak would make. Gingerly, he pushed up from the floor and rubbed his sore knees and tingling arms. As he did so, he watched the two for any sign that they were aware of his movements, but they remained oblivious.

  The sheriff was eager to grab the trespassers, but he forced himself to wait. The fragile documents littered the floor. A scuffle would damage the material irreparably. The two had come to retrieve the documents; there had to be a next step.