Bloody Point (12 page)

Cassie hedged. “I just know.”

Campbell picked up a splinter from the dock and tossed it in
the water. The two stayed silent for a minute or two, sadness forming a gulf.
Craig finally breached it. “What are you doing with your time, Cassie?”

She tossed her head. “I’m working.”

“Where?”

“At a newspaper,
The Bay Area Beacon
.” Immediately she
regretted saying it.

“Really?”

“When the Bureau wouldn’t let me come back I had to do
something.”

Campbell looked at her, squinting in the bright sun.
“Reporters often have an inside track on stuff going on. They can go around
asking questions and using sources just like law enforcement.”

Cassie refused to take the bait. “I can write, so I took the
job. That’s all. I did it in college.”

Campbell picked up something else from the dock and threw it
in the water. He looked at Cassie knowingly. “You’re playing a dangerous game.
If somebody connects you with Jake and Mike and you go around sticking your
nose in places you shouldn’t, whatever he was on to could get you in trouble.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“What’s the status of your appeal with the Bureau?”

“That’ll take forever, you know that.”

Campbell shoved his hands in his pockets. He clearly didn’t
know what to say. “You should leave this to us.”

“I want the guy who got Mike and Jake.”

“Everybody does.”

“I can’t just sit by.”

Campbell shook his head in exasperation.

Cassie grimaced. “Foster said I blinked. He said he wouldn’t
take me back because I gave up because Mike died. That’s my current reputation
at the Bureau, Craig. I can’t take pressure. I give up when things get tough.”
She gestured angrily. “I will not let that stand.”

“What does it matter what they think? You know who you are.”

“I’m not a coward, Craig. I’m not.” She gazed out onto the
water. Then she looked back at Craig, her eyes searching his.

“You’re a strong lady, Cassie. The people who know you know
that.”

Her stomach quivered. She looked away. Should she give him
the lead she’d brought? “I do have something for you,” she said, finally.

Craig raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“I talked to somebody who saw Jake’s SUV leaving the parking
lot that night.”

“Who?”

Wordlessly, Cassie reached in her pocket and pulled out a
slip of paper with Pat’s name and number on it and handed it to him.

Craig took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“She didn’t see the driver. Still, she’s a witness.”

“Good, thanks.” He put the paper in his pocket, then
hesitated.

“I guess I’d better go.”

They began the long walk up the dock toward the shore without
talking. When they got to the parking lot, Craig suddenly gave her a hug. “You
take care of yourself,” he said softly. “We don’t need you
and
Jake down
for the count.”

She stiffened. “I’ll be fine.”

Cassie watched him drive off, fingering her necklace. It was
like seeing the last ship home leaving port, or the last guest at a funeral
leave. He was her last, her only, connection with the Bureau and with Jake.
Jake, who was having seizures now! Out there somewhere, by himself.

Her stomach was in a knot. She unlocked her car and got in.
Starting the engine, she pulled her Cabrio out of the parking lot, onto the
state road, and right into the oncoming path of a black Mercedes. The other
driver laid on his horn, and jerked into the other lane. Fear flashed through
Cassie.
How stupid
, she berated herself.
Why don’t you just get
yourself killed?
And for one brief moment, it seemed like an option.

†

Bloody Point

Chapter 12

A
FTER her meeting with
Craig, Cassie debated momentarily. What should she do next? What could she do
to help Jake? Finally, she turned north and drove toward Baltimore. She rang
the doorbell to Tamara Tucker’s house. Jake’s ex-wife looked shocked when she
opened the door.

“Tam?” Cassie said. “Can we talk?”

There was a long hesitation.

“Please? Just for a minute?”

The door swung open and Cassie walked into Jake’s old house.
Everything looked the same, except that his shoes were gone from the place by
the door where he always left them, and his baseball cap was gone, and the
smell of his aftershave was gone.

Cassie and Tamara sat in the kitchen. The kids, Jake’s kids, were
playing in the basement. Cassie could hear their excited voices over the blare
of the television. Tam looked pale and even thinner than Cassie had remembered
her being. She nervously twisted a napkin, her reddish brown hair falling
around her face.

“Why did you tell your friend, Frederick Schneider’s
girlfriend, to call Jake?” Cassie asked.

Tam swallowed and looked down. “Despite the problems Jake and
I had, I knew that he would help her. He’s all about work, and I knew he’d dive
right into a case like that. I felt sorry for her, being involved with that
man, then him getting killed practically in front of her.”

Cassie nodded. “I’d like to talk to her. Will you give me her
name?”

Tam looked away.

“Please, Tam. I just want to help find the person who hurt
Jake.”

Wordlessly, Tam got up, retrieved a card file, removed a card,
and handed it to Cassie. Cassie copied down the information, and returned the
card.

“I’d like you to go before the kids see you,” Tam said. “It
would only upset them.”

Cassie nodded. She stood up and moved toward the front door.
Her heart was heavy.
Divorces break a lot of relationships
, she thought.
She would have loved to see the kids, to hold them and let them know their
daddy loved them. Before she left, she turned back to Tam. “Would you like to
know how Jake is?“

Tam shook her head slightly.

Cassie took a breath. “He doesn’t hate you, Tam. He blames
himself mostly,” but Jake’s ex-wife didn’t respond. The gulf between them was
too wide.

Driving back to Annapolis, Cassie pondered the visit. She’d
accomplished her goal but sadness filled her. How did Jake and Tam’s marriage
fall apart? How did these lovers become enemies? Difficult questions, and maybe
no real answers.

Later that night, Cassie got a call from Craig Campbell.
“You’ve been to see Tam,” he said.

“Wow! That was quick. Do you have the house bugged?” It
irritated her that he knew about that.

“Tam had called me with a question before you arrived. I
called her back with the answer and she mentioned you had been there.”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Cassie demanded.

There was a long pause. “I just don’t want to see you getting
hurt.”

“I’m fine, Campbell!” she snapped, and that was the end of
the conversation.

† † †

For the Solomon’s Island Skipjack Appreciation Days, Cassie
and Brett drove down together in her car. The weather was typical for Bay
country in the summer, hazy, hot, and humid, and the crowds were plentiful.
They soon found themselves working like a practiced team, backing each other up
and pointing out story possibilities. They got interviews with old timers and
little kids, working in a quote or two from oystermen who still plied the Bay,
and got pictures of weathered faces, old boats, and crisply dressed Navy men.

Boarding a skipjack, Cassie noted again their broad decks and
low, sweeping booms. Knowing how tempestuous the Bay could be, her respect was
renewed for the sturdy oystermen. Working the Bay in 40-degree weather,
dredging under sail, could not be easy. A sudden shift of the wind and you
could find yourself in the cold water, swept overboard by the boom. Just minutes
in the water at that time of the year could mean death. Cassie also knew that,
strangely, many of the oystermen couldn’t swim.

Working with Brett was almost fun, as close to fun as she
could imagine these days. They were starting to “read” each other, Cassie
noted. She wondered why he was still single, and if he planned to stay at the
paper for long. When he suggested they stop off at Holly Point Harbor for a
quick bite to eat on the way home, she readily agreed. She wouldn’t mind some
more conversation. Maybe Brett knew something that would be useful.

“So, where’d you learn to write?” he asked as they settled in
at an outdoor table overlooking the harbor.

She smiled. “Oh, I don’t know,” she responded. “I went to the
University of Maryland and majored in English. That might have had something to
do with it.”

He laughed.

“What about you? How’d you end up as a photographer?”

“Flunked out of everything else,” he said.

Cassie grinned. “No, seriously.”

“Seriously. I went to college to play golf. That was it. I hated
studying. Saw no point to English or history. I just wanted to play golf.” He
shrugged. “My dad was a photographer, though, for the
Atlanta Journal
and I had picked up a lot from him. Back in high school, I shot pictures for
the school paper and yearbook. So when a tournament was being played near my
school, I volunteered to shoot some photos for our campus newspaper. I thought
it was a great way to get in free, and get up close. I got a great shot of
Tiger making a hole-in-one. Not only did the newspaper use it, the AP picked it
up and, as they say, the rest is history.”

Cassie raised her eyebrows. “Not bad.”

“I like working as a photographer because it still gives me
plenty of time for golf.”

It was his turn to ask a question. “What I can’t figure out is
how come you’re still single?”

“Oh, I was married. But my husband died.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

She waved him off. “No, no. Don’t worry about it. He died …
some time ago, in a car accident.”
Months, it was months ago
, she chided
herself. She wondered why she’d hedged on that.

Brett fell silent, and Cassie knew he was trying to figure
out what to say. She felt sorry for him. Not many folks their age were
confronted with her situation.

Over his shoulder, Cassie could see a crabber headed out to
the Bay in his long, low-slung boat. It had a small pilothouse, just enough to
shield the man from the weather a little, and low sides so he could pull up the
traps, empty them, and place them again in the Bay.

Crabbers laid their traps all around the shallow water. They
were marked with small buoys, often just two-liter soda bottles painted some
color. The traps with their buoy lines were a major pain for sailors. They
worked hard to avoid them. If a line wrapped itself around the prop, you could
be in big trouble. More than once, Cass had had to dive into murky water to cut
the prop loose. A few times doing that had taught her to keep a sharp eye out
for them.

There were all kinds of traps in life, traps and
entanglements.

They were saved from their awkward silence when the waitress
delivered their food. Cassie had ordered chicken salad with melted provolone
cheese on a croissant. Brett had decided to try the restaurant’s seafood
Alfredo. Fifteen minutes later, Cass noticed he’d mainly been pushing it around
on his plate and she asked him if it tasted bad.

“No,” he said, sheepishly, “I’m just … not hungry.”

He looked at her and when she saw the softness in his eyes,
she recognized it, and she froze inside. Love was not an option, not for her,
anyway, not now.

Turning the conversation to a safer topic, Cassie got him
talking about their editor, Len Boyette, and some of the reporters. The
newsroom was a good place to work, according to Brett. The organization took
care of its own. Len had once worked for
The Washington Post
and had
downsized his career when he became tired of the hustle and bustle of the
Capital. The news team worked together pretty well, despite the potentially
aggravating mix of older, experienced reporters and young hotheads.

While Cassie ate, she studied Brett covertly. He was a nice
guy, an attractive guy, and under different circumstances she might have
pursued a relationship. She could tell he was interested in her. But not now. A
little conversation was all she’d wanted.

They finished their meal and left the restaurant. As they
drove north toward home, both were quiet, speaking only occasionally and
briefly.

On a dark stretch of road, Brett leaned forward in the
passenger seat and remarked, “Man, that guy’s headlights are bright.”

Cassie adjusted the rear view mirror. When she did, her heart
thumped. The car behind them had a mis-aimed blue halogen right headlight.

† † †

Cassie sat at her desk at the newspaper the next day, Sunday,
writing her story while she pushed intrusive thoughts about the car with the
halogen headlight out of her mind. Her dad had called and invited her to
church, but she declined. Instead, she called Tam’s friend, Desiree Dubois.
After her story was in, she was going on a road trip.

Finishing her story, she left a note for her editor, shut
down her computer, and left another note for Len. “I’ll be out tomorrow. The
story’s done. See you Tuesday, late.”

Then she went home, packed a few things in a bag, and headed
north, to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

• • •

The trip up Route 83 north of Baltimore took Cassie through
some beautiful rolling hill country. The heavy rains they’d received in the
spring had left the hills green and lush. Here and there fine-bodied horses
were peacefully grazing. Mike had loved to ride. He had grown up in Oklahoma on
enough land that he’d had horses all his life. He’d taught Cassie to ride
Western, like he did, and they’d gone trail riding in the mountains frequently.
Once when she’d visited his family in Oklahoma, she’d tried barrel riding. She
remembered Mike’s broad grin as he watched her successfully stay on the
charging quarter horse. She remembered how proud he was of her.

Her dad always said he and her mom hadn’t been married long
enough before she died to have anything but good memories. That’s the same way
it was with her and Mike. In a way, it was a disadvantage. Who would ever
measure up to him?

The sun was dropping toward the horizon as she crossed the
bridge over the wide, rocky Susquehanna River. The dome of the Pennsylvania
capitol building, so like the one in Washington, presided regally over the
city. Cassie exited the highway, found her hotel, pulled into the parking lot,
grabbed her overnight bag, and checked in.

† † †

Desiree Dubois, the late Frederick Schneider’s mistress,
worked as an assistant to a Pennsylvania state senator. Her office was in the capitol
building, but she’d suggested Cassie meet her Monday morning at the Senate
Grill some two blocks away.

“I’m not proud of this episode in my life,” she began. She
was tall, and blond, and thin. Dressed in a black business suit, she played
nervously with her earrings. “Despite my name, I am no floozy. My mother was a
misdirected romantic, that’s all.”

Cassie nodded in affirmation. She wanted this girl to talk.
“So what happened?”

“I met Frederick when I went with my boss to a conference on
the Bay. Frederick was one of the presenters. I was alone, of course, and one
night as I sat in the bar, he slid into the seat next to me and offered to buy
me a drink.

“How desperate was I, anyway?” She shook her head. “I mean,
that line’s not even original. Anyway, one thing led to another. We began
meeting in Harrisburg, or sometimes in Maryland. I didn’t have sex with him for
months, I swear. He said he was really unhappy in his marriage. I felt so sorry
for him. It was as if he was carrying some inner burden he couldn’t lay down.

“After about six months, he told me he was going to leave his
wife, and he asked me if I would marry him. I was thrilled. I was so tired of
being alone! I told him yes, and the next time I saw him, he’d bought the boat.
He knew it was something I’d always wanted.” Desiree stirred her iced tea with
the straw, then sipped it. Cassie figured she was stalling, and she was.

“So what happened then?” Cassie prompted her.

“For the next three months, everything was great. Every time
I could get away, which was most weekends, we’d meet at the boat and have the
best time. We cruised up and down the upper Bay area, down to Baltimore and
Annapolis, and it was everything I’d ever dreamed of.

“Then one night we were at that marina, Sullivan’s Wharf.
Frederick said he was going to get some cigarettes. I fell asleep and when I
woke up, Frederick wasn’t back. The companionway was open, so I popped my head
above deck, and looked around. I slipped some clothes on, and my deck shoes,
and walked ashore. Then I saw something, in the weeds, and I could tell right
away, even from a distance, that it was Frederick.”

“How’d you know?”

“I don’t know … woman’s intuition, I guess.” Desiree dabbed a
tear away from her right eye. “His throat was slashed and there was blood
everywhere. I dialed 9-1-1 on my cell phone, but it was already too late.”

“That must have been a terrible shock.”

“Oh, it was, it was.”

“Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Frederick was a loner. I don’t think he had any friends,
much less any enemies. I never met his wife, but from the things he said about
her, there wasn’t much of a relationship. She didn’t sound like the type who could
do something like this. But somebody got to him. He’d been under a lot of
pressure lately, I could tell. I had no idea, until I found that letter, that
somebody was threatening him.”