Bloody Point (9 page)

What was she going to do now? Her marina was gone. She could
move the boat somewhere else and take up residence again, but was that what she
wanted? What did she really want? With Jake hurt and the possibility of a bad
guy hunting agents, with the murder at one marina and now these two arsons,
fixing the wood on
Time Out
just didn’t have as much appeal. As midnight
approached, Cassie slipped her boat shoes on, grabbed a small flashlight, and
headed for the beach.

The night was still; the wind, which had whipped the fire into
a frenzy, had died down to a gentle breeze. Overhead the stars sparkled like
diamonds on black velvet. The moon was a giant luminescent disk, pure and white
and distinct against the blackness of the night.

Small waves lapped the sand at water’s edge, glistening white
momentarily as they rose and crashed against the shore. Out on the Bay she
could see lights from a few small fishing boats, white lights on the stern, red
or green lights on the bow. Larger lights, from a commercial cargo vessel
heading down toward Norfolk, glided in the middle of the channel, and a red
channel marker flashed on and off.

Cassie walked northward, wet sand moving under her feet, the
smell of salt in her nose, the sound of a distant bell buoy playing in her
ears. Sailing could be challenging but at least there were clear channels to
follow and rules to observe that would get you safely home. Most of the time,
at least. Red and green markers delineated the channel. “Red, right, return”
was the sailor’s rule: keep the red marker on your right when you’re returning
to port. Then you’d stay in the channel and not run aground.

But aground was where she was right now, in life, if not in
sailing. She’d lost her husband, resigned her job. Her partner had been
seriously wounded, now her marina had burned. How many stress points was that?
Enough to justify resigning from life for a while?

She was not a quitter. When her first big case with the FBI
had been a tough one, confounding even the assistant U.S. attorney, she had
remained on the trail, following lead after lead until she’d finally gotten an
accomplice to talk. She busted the case wide open, and even long-time agents
had been surprised at her tenacity.

But now she was stuck. She didn’t know which way to go.
Logically, she knew she couldn’t do anything about her husband; Mike was dead
and that was that. She still had her boat, but the marina was gone. She had no
convenient place to live. And Jake? What about Jake?

It was clear what her dad thought she should do: live with
him for a while, find some nice quiet little job, and just relax for a bit.

She had to respect his advice. Her mother had died when she
was just two, killed in an automobile accident on the Washington beltway. After
that, her dad had moved what remained of their family to the Bay area, and he
set about raising Cassie and her brother on his own, with the help of his
sister, Trudy.

He’d done a good job. Both Cassie and her brother had turned
out okay. And whatever trauma her dad had suffered from the loss of his wife
had distilled into wisdom. Cassie valued his opinion above anyone else’s.

So when he said something she didn’t want to hear, she
couldn’t just blow it off. Jim Davison, the quiet, gentle biologist, was a
force to be reckoned with, from sheer strength of character.

Cassie stopped walking and stared out over the Bay, as if to
wrest the answer to her struggles from the waves, which hid the secrets of the
deep … bluefish, rockfish, flounder, menhaden, perch, silversides, anchovy,
crabs, oysters, clams … innumerable species living in silence underneath the
surface. The Bay had its rhythms, just like life. What was next for her?

• • •

The following morning their breakfast was interrupted by a
knock at the back door. It was Susan Whitaker, one of the bird banders, bringing
some leftover supplies to her father.

“Why, Cassie! It’s wonderful to see you,” the woman said,
standing in the open door. “I don’t know if you remember, but my daughter went
to school with you.”

Whitaker. Whitaker. Cassie struggled to place her.

“Her name was Ellen Jessup. You may remember her. She played
first base on the softball team that went to state.”

“Oh, Ellen! Of course,” Cassie said. “Sorry, the last name
threw me off. How is she? What is she doing now?”

“She lives in Vermont. She’s married and has two children.
And she works part time as a reporter for the newspaper up there.”

“A reporter? Oh, wow, that’s neat.”

“She loves it. She gets to go around asking questions. I told
her it suits her because she’s always been nosy!” Mrs. Whitaker laughed.
“Whatever. You just want your children to be happy, you know? Well, I’d best be
off! See you tomorrow, Jim!”

Cassie and her father bid her goodbye and watched as she got
into her car and drove off. And a new thought turned over in Cassie’s head.

• • •

 “I’m just asking you, Dad, to make a phone call. Remind Len
Boyette about me, and ask him if he’ll see me.” Cassie stood in her father’s
kitchen with her hands on her hips.

“Look,” Jim responded, “if you want to stay in law
enforcement, do it. The University of Maryland-Eastern Shore is looking for a
director of campus security. I’ll put in a good word for you.

“A campus cop? Dad, I don’t want to spend my time enforcing
student-parking rules. Come on!”

“It would give you a break, Cass, a break from all the stress.
You could live with your aunt.”

“Dad, I love her, you know that. But no, I’m not going to be
a campus cop, even the director of campus cops. Call Len for me, please.
Please, Dad.” She paced away. “Listen. Something’s going on. Somebody set the
marina on fire. Why? We’ve had two murders, an attempted murder of an agent,
and two fires. What’s happening? Jake obviously thought something was
connecting these crimes, and I’ve got to find out. I can’t just sit back and
hope that the police and the fire marshal can put the whole puzzle together.
Maybe, all of this is somehow connected to Mike’s death. Please, Dad. Please.
Just make the call.”

Jim sighed. After a long moment, he reached for the phone.
Within a few minutes, Cassie had an appointment set for the next day.

†

Bloody Point

Chapter 9

W
HEN Len Boyette was
seventeen years old he was a state high school wrestling champion. Still a
burly man, he stood about five feet eight inches tall and what hair he had left
was flecked with gray. He had a no-nonsense air about him. Having spent the
last two decades editing newspaper writing, he also had a tendency to edit his
speech, his thinking, and his compassion. Two messy divorces had helped with
that.

Khakis and a white shirt made up his uniform, and comfortable
shoes, usually Rockports if he could get them. His sleeves were rolled up and
on his wrist he wore a gold Seiko watch that he’d bought on his second
honeymoon in the Caribbean, the honeymoon, that is, for his second marriage.
The marriage had lasted six months. The watch was a better deal.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Cassie said, sitting in a
chair in his office. As the editor-in-chief of
The Bay Area Beacon,
the
largest local paper in the region, Len was a force to be reckoned with. “I need
a reason to be going around asking questions. All I’m asking is that you hire
me as a reporter, that you give me press credentials that will justify my
presence. That’s it.”

Len sat on the corner of his desk and stared at her. She felt
like he could see right through her. “What you’re asking me to do is perpetrate
a ruse on the community. Tell everyone you’re a reporter when you’re not.
You’re also asking me to put the daughter of a good friend of mine in danger. I
don’t know that I can do that.”

Cassie leaned forward. “Look, I can take care of myself. And,
I can write. My undergraduate degree is in English. I’ll be a reporter if you
want me to be a reporter. It’s just that I might ask a few questions that don’t
get written up.” She stood up and paced away from Len. His office was lined
with framed front pages of the paper, which had been in existence for more than
100 years. All of the great public events of her lifetime, and more, were documented
there.

On the wall to the right was the newspaper’s mission
statement. And to the left, was a framed copy of a photo: an American flag made
of pictures of elementary school-aged children dressed in red, white, and blue
with their hands on their hearts, presumably saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

“Look,” she said, “my friend knew something that almost got
him killed. What was it? My husband did get killed. If I’m going to find out
why, I need your help. I need those creds. Will you give them to me?”

Len exhaled loudly, frowning. “You carry a gun?”

“Are you kidding? In Maryland?”

“Oh, yeah. Only the crooks can carry guns in this state. I
forgot.” Len gestured for her to sit down, then retreated to the chair behind
his desk. He sat down with a thud, and stroked his chin. “If my news crew finds
out that you’re not a journalist they will be mad. But if they find out you
used to be an FBI agent, they’ll wring my neck! I’ll have a revolt on my hands.
They don’t trust the Feds anyway. If they find you were one …”

“They don’t need to find out,” Cassie said quickly. “I won’t
mention it.”

“You absolutely cannot work the crime beat. If Shonika
Blackwell thinks you’re horning in on her territory, she’ll eat you alive. When
she’s finished, she’ll come after me.” He took a deep breath and stared off to
the side toward the window, which overlooked the street. “We have a good staff
here, a nice staff. Pretty much, we all get along. I don’t want to mess that
up.”

“I understand.”

There was more silence and then a heavy sigh. “All right,” he
said, after an eternity. “Here’s what I’ll offer you: I’ll hire you as a
reporter.”

Cassie smiled with relief.

“You’ll get the press pass. You can go anywhere in the Bay
country and ask any questions you want. But …” he gestured with his finger,
“you’ll work a specific assignment: I want you to cover some of the little
festivals that go on in the Bay region for the rest of the summer. I want you
to actually write about them. A story every week. And it had better be good ‘cause
we don’t have time to rewrite lousy stuff.

“I’ll pay you fifteen bucks an hour, that’s it. No expenses,
no car. And, in September we’ll re-evaluate.”

He’d yielded far more easily than she’d expected. “Yes! I’ll
do it. Thank you!”

Len shook his head. “I hope you like crabs. How many dozen
can you eat in a summer?”

Cassie grinned. “One more than you.”

• • •

Len assigned Sally Randolph, a reporter twice Cassie’s age,
to orient her to the newsroom. Cassie instantly felt comfortable with her. “You
can use this,” she said, pointing to a small gray desk in a tiny cubicle. It’s
the one we use for summer interns. Len fired ours last week, so it’s open.”

Cassie raised her eyebrows.

“We all thought he was really dedicated,” Sally explained,
“but it turns out he was just using the computer late at night to visit porn
sites.”

“Terrific.”

“Len gets intense sometimes but he’s very loyal to his staff
members. It takes a lot to get fired.” Sally pushed the button and the computer
came to life.

While Sally logged her in, Cassie looked around the newsroom.
There were about thirty desks, all in cubicles with low walls. The place buzzed
with activity. Computer keys clicked, some folks talked on phones, others were
clustered in small groups, engaged in animated discussion.

The photographers’ desks were in the back; she knew that from
the equipment bags. Another group of computer operators was near them, but
Cassie couldn’t tell what they were doing.

“Okay, here you go,” Sally said, stepping back. “Sit down.
I’ll walk you through it.”

Within a short time, Cassie had learned the basics. The
newspaper used a word processing system designed specifically for publishing.
The stories were all kept on a central server, in “baskets.” Certain key
entries would format her work automatically. And she had access to the
Internet. If she wrote something at home, she could e-mail it to herself at
work.

All of this was good.

“You got it?”

“Yes, Sally, thank you.”

Sally gave her a tour of the building and walked her through
the press pass process. Then Cassie went back to her workstation. She logged on
to the Internet and researched the local Chesapeake Bay activities. She was
amazed at how many there were: seafood festivals, firemen’s carnivals, Skipjack
activities, boat building workshops, plus many events organized and sponsored
by the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. She would have plenty to choose from.

Someone entered her peripheral vision as she was reading.
Cassie looked up to see Len Boyette standing over her. “You gonna be okay?” he
asked.

“Yeah, fine. I can do this!”

He grunted. “Alright. Just take care of yourself. I don’t
want to have to explain myself to your father.” He turned to leave, but Cassie
called after him.

“Hey, Len, where’s the police reporter?”

He motioned toward a young black woman. “Shonika is over
there. And Curt, but he’s out right now. Don’t bug ‘em.”

“Thanks. I won’t.”

He started to leave again, then turned and pointed his finger
at her. “You come in every day. If you’re not going to come in, you call, okay?
I don’t want you disappearing and nobody knowing it.”

Cassie smiled at his protectiveness. “Yes sir. Got it. No
problem.”

• • •

Shonika Blackwell was almost thirty and hadn’t yet found a
man worth settling down with. She had a reputation for being as hardnosed as
the cops she covered. Her only regret was that she was considered only
as
hardnosed, not more.

Heeding Len’s warning, Cassie approached her with caution.
Even from across the room she’d caught on to the young woman’s acerbic nature.
“Hi,” said Cassie. “Shonika is it? I’m Cassie.”

The young reporter looked at her as if to say,
so what?

“I understand you’re on the police beat.”

“That’s right. Homeboys, scumbags, and crooked cops, that’s
my specialty. We got your basic drunks, your basic perverts, your basic
thieves, and your basic killers. All doing their best to keep me busy.”

“How ‘bout your basic arsonists?” Cassie asked.

“What’re you talking about?”

“The Goose Creek Marina. What’s the word on that?”

“Man, that Paul Loughlin, he’s got lips as tight as Daisy
Duke’s shorts. He’s not giving me anything on that. Nothing at all. What do you
know about it?”

“I had a boat there.”

“Is that right? Did you lose it?”

“No, I was fortunate.”

“I tell you, there’s a lot of insurance money gonna get paid
out.” Shonika tapped her pen on her desk. “What makes you think it was arson?”

“Just a hunch. Remember the sloop that burned a month ago?”

“Arson?”

Cassie nodded imperceptibly.

“Hmmm. Interesting. Well, I just may have to look into that.”

“If you do, it would probably be best not to mention my name.”

“You got it, honey. Man, I gotta get me a Coke. These people
are driving me crazy.” With that, Shonika got up and left the newsroom. Cassie
watched her go, questions popping up in her mind like targets on a shooting
range.

• • •

The newsroom didn’t really wake up until 10:00 a.m. or later,
but folks were often still putting pages together late at night as the 11:30
p.m. deadline approached. The presses had to roll just before midnight, or the
paper wouldn’t be delivered to the distributors on time, and the carriers
wouldn’t get it to subscribers by 4:30 a.m. as promised.

Cassie was ready to leave at five-thirty in the afternoon. As
she was walking toward the door, Len called her from his office.

“Where are you living?” he asked.

“With my dad, for now. I thought maybe I’d look for some
place around here, though.”

The stocky editor shifted his weight on his feet. “Look, I’ve
got a friend, a rich friend, who’s got an apartment above his boathouse, about
ten minutes from here. I happen to know it’s empty. You interested?”

“I don’t know. How much does fifteen dollars an hour buy?”

“Enough. He’ll rent it to you cheap.”

“Well, sure, then,” Cassie said, grinning. “Thanks.”

† † †

The Cove was a cluster of exclusive homes located off Black
Duck Boulevard not far from Annapolis. The best properties fronted onto the
Bay. Len’s friend, a local banker, had built a huge contemporary home of wood
and glass looking out over a harbor full of bobbing boats, just down from the
Eastport Yacht Club and the U.S. Naval Academy.

The boathouse was big enough for two boats plus equipment. It
was made of cedar that had weathered to an elegant gray, and it stood some
twenty yards from the house, far enough to afford Cassie the privacy she
wanted. The second-floor apartment was airy and spacious. Light poured through
huge windows on each wall, and a balcony off the great room overlooked the
water. Furnished simply in contemporary casual wood furniture, the apartment
was filled with decoys and wildlife prints. Cassie fell in love with the place
immediately. The view of the Bay and the sky, of sailboats and seagulls was
irresistible; the clanging of a channel buoy and the smell of the salt filled
her with peace. Or something close to peace anyway.

“I expected my son to move back in when he finished college
but he’s gone off to California,” the banker, Mr. Turnage, said almost
apologetically. “So the place is empty.”

And the rent was ridiculously cheap. “I love it,” Cassie
said. She scanned the cove. “Any chance I could drop a mooring and keep my
sailboat out there?”

“What do you have?” Turnage asked.

“An Alberg 30.”

“Why not just tie it up at the dock? We don’t need both sides
clear.”

“That would be awesome,” Cassie said and the deal was struck.

• • •

It didn’t take much to move Cassie in, but her father
insisted on helping. She knew it was as much for him to check out the apartment
as anything and that was okay with her. A few clothes, some books, personal
effects, linens, her laptop, and an inexpensive stereo, these were all she
needed, plus the approval of her father, which he gave her along with a big hug
once he’d satisfied himself that his girl would be safe.

“You’re ridiculous, Dad,” she protested. “I’m a grown woman
who can fight and shoot a gun!” But secretly, his protectiveness felt good.

When the unpacking was done, her dad left, and Cassie sat out
in the big wicker chair on her balcony as twilight descended on the Bay. She
finally allowed her thoughts to wander. Mike was gone. She was alone. Three years
of marriage were floating into her past like an abandoned ship, loose from its
mooring. And the rest of her world was turned upside down.

Mike kills a street thug, Tyson Farnsworth. Then Mike is
apparently killed … Frederick Schneider is murdered in a marina, a boat burns,
and Jake is assaulted. Then her marina goes up in flames. Was there a
connection? Or were these all just random acts of violence in a crazy world?
All these loose ends might not even belong to the same tapestry, but she had to
find out.

Off in the distance a small boat, illuminated only by a tiny
white stern light and a red bow light skimmed silently over the black water of
the Bay. It was too far away for Cassie to hear the motor. She watched the
boat’s progress, her vision blurred momentarily by emotion. She, too, was
alone, skimming over the surface of life, with not much light to see by.

Chilled, she went inside. Grabbing a pen and a piece of
paper, she began writing down questions. She wasn’t ready to sleep until 2:00
a.m.