Bloody Point (13 page)

Cassie tilted her head sideways. “You didn’t have a clue?”

Desiree thought for a moment. “There was one thing that
concerned me. I didn’t remember it at first. Two days before he died, I’d heard
Frederick arguing with somebody. It was nighttime and I was on the boat. He’d
gone over to the convenience store, again to buy some cigarettes. I heard a car
door slam, then voices, and as the voices got louder, I realized it was
Frederick and another man. They were arguing.”

Cassie leaned forward. “About what?”

“I couldn’t make out much of it. I heard the word ‘millions’
and I got the impression they were talking about money. And Frederick refused
to talk about it when he got back to the boat.”

“You told the police this?”

Desiree blushed. “No, no I haven’t. It seemed like such a
tiny detail, and frankly, I just wanted to forget everything that happened.”
She sighed. “You know, I spent a year and all of my self-esteem on that man. I
just couldn’t deal with it any more.”

“Sometimes you just have to move on,” Cassie said.

“That’s right. The cops, they all looked at me like I was a prostitute
or something. But you know what? I’m just a lonely, 36-year-old single girl who
wanted to believe someone would choose her. I’m stupid, maybe, but I’m not a
prostitute.”

Later, Cassie pondered their conversation as she got in the
car. She had one more stop to make. Her appointment with Frederick’s wife was
at 2:00 p.m. in Philadelphia.

• • •

 “Frederick was a brilliant man,” Mary Edgerton-Schneider
said. She was sitting in a flowered patio chair at her home in Mainline,
Philadelphia. Cassie sat next to her, a glass of iced tea on the table between
them. “He was brilliant but stupid. He never got the hang of marriage, never
understood what a woman needs.” Mary paused. “At first I tried to make a go of
it, but eventually I realized I had to create my own life.”

“When did things really get bad, if you don’t mind my
asking?” said Cassie.

“He fancied himself an investor. For a smart man, though, he
seemed to have little understanding of money. Some scheme of his went bad. He
would never talk to me about it. That’s when the affairs began. And there were
many of them. Miss … whatever her name is … was only the last in a long line.”

Cassie nodded. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Frederick was trying to escape from life. This girl and the
sailboat was just the latest attempt.”

“I find it strange you didn’t know about it.”

She shrugged. “We kept our finances completely separate. I
rarely saw him.” She looked at Cassie, her eyes soft. “You’re so young. I want
you to know I never meant it to be this way. I don’t think Frederick did
either. I think we both wanted a close marriage. Unfortunately, that didn’t
happen for us. Maybe it was him, maybe it was me. I just don’t know.”

“I understand.” Cassie shifted in her chair. “Where do you
suppose Frederick got the money for the boat?”

“That, my dear, is an excellent question. He was always lousy
with money. When I discovered he’d bought a boat, I was shocked. For a man who
frequently didn’t have enough money to pay his bills, it was an extravagance.”

Cassie nodded. “Let me ask you a rather personal question.
Could someone have threatened to reveal the affair Frederick was having to you?
Could that have been a reason for extortion?”

Mary smiled and shook her head. “Too much had already
happened between us for that to be a factor. He never talked about his
dalliances, but I’m sure he knew I was aware of them. Frederick stopped being a
husband long ago.”

Cassie chewed the inside of her cheek. “When did Frederick
buy the boat?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Could we find out?”

Mary stood up. “Why, yes, I guess so.”

“Could we find out when he bought it and how he paid for it?”

“I suppose the broker would know.”

“Yes, I’m sure he would. Would you mind calling him now?”

On her way back down to Maryland on Interstate 95, Cassie
mused over the new information she’d gleaned. Frederick Schneider was a very
average-looking, portly man; an engineer who couldn’t handle money and was
nearly broke; a married man who’d kept a mistress. He’d bought the boat last
May, they’d discovered. And he’d paid $80,000 in cash. Where did he get that
money, and why was he being extorted?

†

Bloody Point

Chapter 13

T
HE next day when Cassie
walked in the newsroom, everyone was clustered around the television that hung
high on the wall in a corner. “What’s up?” she whispered to a reporter.

“The President is coming on,” he responded.

Once again, a terrorist group had struck an American target
overseas. Would the UN do anything about it, or would the member nations just
continue to point the finger at the Americans? Cassie was sick of the constant
negative press directed against the U.S.

She moved to her desk and tried hard to concentrate on
preparing for the local beach festival coming up the next weekend, but she
couldn’t focus, and finally she logged off her computer and grabbed her purse.
Walking briskly through the newsroom, she almost ran into Len.

“Hey! Where you off to so fast?” he asked.

She had to think fast. “Severna Park.”

He squinted at her. “Be careful.”

“Right.”

Cassie was not quite through the door when the newsroom
receptionist paged her. “Cassie McKenna, line 2, please.”

Wondering who could be calling, Cassie grabbed a nearby phone
receiver and punched line 2. “Hello?”

“Cassie, it’s Craig. I need to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

• • •

Cassie drove to the Annapolis Mall where she and Craig had
agreed to meet. As she pulled into the parking lot, a storm was brewing, with
thick, dark clouds clustering off to the west. She hurried inside and made her
way to the food court, which was teeming with families and teens out of school.
Scanning the crowd, Cassie spotted Craig sitting at a table off by himself,
drinking a cup of coffee.

Craig stood when he saw her. “What can I get you?” he asked.
“Coffee? A sandwich?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Let’s go outside,” he said and he picked up his cup and led
her to his Bureau car, a slick black Ford Explorer. She climbed in as a bolt of
lightning pierced the western sky and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Craig started the car and pulled around to the back of the
mall, where they would not be noticed. The first drops of rain hit the
windshield as he turned off the engine.

Cassie could read the tension in his face. “What’s up?”

“We’ve found his laptop.”

“Jake’s? Where? How?”

“A kid bought it in a pawnshop in southeast D.C. He’s pretty
sharp. He hacked into it, saw some Bureau documents, and turned it in.”

“Wow.”

“He could have dumped it, sold it, used it himself, but he
did the right thing. God bless him. A bunch of us are pitching in to buy him a
new one.”

“Have you gotten into his files? What have you found?”

The sinews in Craig’s jaw flexed. “Jake was on to something,
no doubt about it. The guy Schneider, who was killed at Sullivan’s Wharf? He
was an engineer for Tracor Enterprises. They make components for missile
guidance systems. And the owner of the boat that started the Goose Creek Marina
fire? That guy works for Tracor, too.”

Cassie’s stomach clenched. “So what’s the connection?”

“They both had access to top secret technology.”

“Was the other guy being extorted? Like Schneider?”

“We don’t know yet. He’s not exactly being cooperative.”

Cassie’s mind was turning over the puzzle in her head.

Craig ran his hand through his hair. Serious rain was falling
now, running in sheets down the windshield. “Jake’s got encrypted files that we
really want to see. DiCarlo is talking about giving the computer to the lab to
get some help with the password. That could take forever.”

“Why not just ask Jake?”

Craig stared straight ahead. Cassie saw him frown slightly.
Then he glanced over at her. “Jake … he doesn’t remember much. And when I tried
talking to him, he just got frustrated.”

“You don’t have to bother him.” Cassie pulled a small
notebook out of the pocket of her khakis, along with a pen, and wrote three
possible passwords: “Scooter,” “Toots,” and “4610”. Then she tore the sheet out
and handed it to Craig. “With Jake it was always about two things: his kids or
football. Scooter is his pet name for his son, Toots is his daughter.”

“And what’s ‘4610’?”

“The Bears won the ‘86 Super Bowl. They beat the Patriots 46
to 10.”

Craig laughed softly. “They’re going to think I’m a genius.”
His face grew serious. “Cassie, you need to be careful. Your name, address, and
phone number, even your cell phone number, were on his computer. Even your
dad’s number.”

“That’s okay. My address has changed, my phone has changed.
I’m not worried.”

“I am. Secondly, you need to back off whatever you’re doing
under the pretense of your job. This is a serious threat. And it’s too
dangerous for you to play with.”

Anger flared up and she felt her face redden. “Craig
Campbell. Six months ago I was just like you. Don’t treat me like a little girl
who needs protection.”

“Six months ago you had the resources of the Bureau for
backup and a gun. Today you’ve got a photographer and a notebook. That’s the
difference.”

She fumed. He had a point. “Okay, I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“If the person who assaulted Jake was part of an extortion
ring, why would he pawn the laptop? This sounds more like a druggie crime.”

“I agree. There are some other things that don’t match up.”

“Yes, like, why wasn’t Jake killed?”

Craig grimaced. “We think the kids interrupted that.”

“What?”

“That cut on his neck? We think he was in the process of
getting his throat slashed. Like Schneider.”

Cassie flinched. She looked away, suddenly sick.

Craig shook his head. “We haven’t figured it all out yet. But
now that we have his laptop, we’re going to check out every name in there,
every lead. Unfortunately, fingerprint-wise, it’s clean. The only prints are
from the kid and the pawn broker.”

“And how about the pawnbroker’s records? Who turned it in?”

“Some guy with a stolen drivers license. But we’re continuing
to follow that angle.”

A loud crack split the silence, and Cassie jumped. The storm
was right overhead. The ornamental trees at the borders of the mall were
whipping in the wind. The driving rain pelted the asphalt and drummed on the
roof of the Explorer. She shivered involuntarily. “When’s the last time you
talked to Jake?”

“I call every couple of days.”

“What is he saying?”

“Lately he hasn’t wanted to talk to me.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. His nurses say he’s okay, the agent looking out
for him insists everything is fine, but I don’t know. I don’t understand why he
won’t talk to me.” Craig tightened his jaw.

For a few moments they allowed the silence between them to
grow. Both were lost in their thoughts.

Finally Cassie spoke. “Jake volunteered once to show me where
Mike had the accident. I didn’t take him up on it … I didn’t want to see it.
Now, though …” her throat closed up and she couldn’t say more.

“You’d like to?”

She nodded.

“You want me to take you there?”

“No, just tell me where it is. I’ll go by myself.”

“Cassie, I’m not sure …”

“Please. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He wrote the location down on a piece of paper, and she stuck
it in her pocket. At that point, she knew she should tell him about her visit
to Schneider’s mistress and his wife, but something held her back. What was it stubbornness?
Pride?

Cassie struggled with a vague sense of guilt. “How about if I
go through Jake’s computer with you? Maybe something will register with me,”
she offered.

“No, absolutely not. Nobody even knows we’re talking,” Craig
responded.

Cassie grimaced. There was nothing she could do about it. She
was locked out. “I guess I’d better go,” she said.

Craig drove her around the mall and let her out where she had
parked the Cabrio. After Craig left, Cassie sat in her car for a long time.
Some threads were beginning to appear, but how were they woven together? Where
did the threads intersect?

A thought popped into her head, unbidden, like an unwelcome
guest at the door. Her aunt said that all of life had a pattern and a purpose.
“There are no coincidences with God,” she claimed. “Everything that comes into
your life is filtered through His hand.”

Yeah, right. Cassie twisted the ignition key and blazed out
of the parking lot.

† † †

On Wednesday she returned to her office. Both Len and her
editor were thrilled with the write-up on the Solomon’s Skipjack Appreciation
Days. Public response had also been good.

Grateful as she was for their appreciation, her mind was
focused somewhere else. The event she had chosen this week was the Art on the
Dock festival in Annapolis. In the afternoon, Cassie had an appointment with
the director at a bagel nook at City Dock. At 3 o’clock, she packed a notebook
in her bag and headed out of the door for the interview.

Jason Wheeler was young, blond, and handsome, Cassie thought
as she sat across the table from him, but he acted flighty. The newest director
of the Art on the Dock festival drank tea with milk in it, and insisted on jam
with his croissant. Cassie ordered her coffee black and her bagel plain. She
wasn’t in the mood for frills.

“So, the festival will be a fund-raiser this year?” she
asked.

“Yes, for AIDS research. The arts community has been
devastated by this disease. For too long the government has failed to fund
research. There is just no reason, in this day and age, for anyone to suffer
from AIDS. It’s just ridiculous. Why do artistic people have to suffer all the
time?”

Cassie held her pen poised above the paper, and wondered if
it was too late to pick a different festival. “How many artists do you expect
to participate?” she asked, struggling to manage a neutral voice.

“Sixty, including a performance artist named Speedo.”

“What’s he going to do?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“Well, he’s going to cover himself with paint and perform a
modern dance routine on a huge sheet of paper. It’s going to be wonderful … the
combination of forms of expression. I just can’t wait.”

“Me neither,” said Cassie, under her breath. Clearing her
throat, she continued. “What other kinds of art will be on display?”

“Sculpture, watercolors, oils, pen and ink, jewelry,
calligraphy, silhouettes, chalk … you name it. It’s a juried show, the largest
in the Bay area, and we are just so pleased to be able to showcase all this
talent.”

“I suppose there will be a lot of boating-related work.”

“Oh, I’m sure. You just can’t avoid it here in Annapolis. But
there will be a variety, I assure you, not just the schlock sailboat pictures.
How many ways can you paint Thomas Point Light, anyway?”

“Well thank you, Mr. Wheeler, for your time. I’m looking
forward to covering your show.”

“Well thank you, Ms. …”

“McKenna.”

“… yes, Ms. McKenna. Let me know if I can help you out in any
other way.”

How about telling me who attacked Jake Tucker
, she
thought to herself as she walked to her car.
Or who torched the marina, or
who ran my husband off the road?
She’d have to wait for those answers. For
now, she had a festival to cover.

† † †

 “Now grab this, Jake. No, hold on … hold on …”

The effort made the pain in his head feel like a bolt of
lightning striking his skull. He stared at his hand, his eyes watering in
agony. It was his hand, but it was a foreign object, unmoving, unresponsive.
And he wanted to smash it.

“Try again, Jake. You can do it. Let’ s try again.”

The pain, the anger, the fear, a metallic taste, and then,
the familiar blackness.

† † †

 “Art on the Dock.” Sixty artists of all shapes, colors,
ages, and styles were set up in booths along the waterfront in Annapolis on a
beautiful Saturday. With the Maryland State House standing tall in the
background and the Naval Academy nearby, painters, sculptors, pen-and-ink
artists, watercolorists, and one very strange performance artist displayed
their talents and plied their wares at the popular festival. A string quartet
from the local high school added music, and the cheerful sounds of Bach and
Mozart drifted on the breeze. Food vendors filled the air with the smells of
spicy sausages grilled with onions and green peppers, yeasty funnel cakes, and
hot dogs.

Cassie and Brett walked down the dock. She had a cup of
coffee in her hand. He was laden down with his photo gear. Her mind was
somewhere else, and Brett had to keep calling her attention to the interesting
sights they were passing.

“I really want to see Speedo,” she said, “the performance
artist.”

“Now that is a frightening name,” Brett laughed.

“When is he up?”

“In forty-five minutes, up near the dinghy dock.”

“Okay, great,” Cassie said. “In the meantime, let’s wander.”
A woman from Lookout Point who painted lighthouses and sailboats on old windows
gave them an interview, as did a man from Edgewater who carved decoys that were
so lifelike Cassie expected to see them move at any moment. Decoys had become a
popular Bay area art form, and some fetched thousands of dollars.

But Cassie found her lead story midway down the dock at a
booth displaying a collection of pottery. Bowls, vases, pitchers, cups, mugs,
and plates in earthy reds and browns accented with blue and green filled the
tables and shelves. The natural elements of the Bay region — sand, shells,
cattails, and wildflowers — filled, surrounded, and spilled out of the pottery.
The artist had somehow been able to capture the essence of the Bay — the browns
of the earth, the blues of the water, the color of the sky, the whitecaps on
windy days — and Cassie found the display stunningly beautiful.