Death Stalks Door County (27 page)

Cubiak said nothing.

“You think I'm nuts, don't you? Who's going to invest in such an outlandish scheme? Here, look at this. It's what I give my prospective buyers to underscore the need.”

He tossed Cubiak a red leather binder. Inside, a timeline and clips from the
New York Times
,
Financial Times
, and other world media. Photos of the towers coming down and people in Manhattan gray with dust. Terrorist attacks in London, Bali, Saudi Arabia, Spain, India. In Russia, twelve hundred schoolchildren held hostage by separatist extremists. Suicide bombings. Riots in Paris and China. Rogue countries with nuclear weapons. The Swedish foreign affairs minister stabbed to death in Stockholm. Assassination attempts on both the president and vice president of the United States, the president of France, the queen of the Netherlands, a British MP. Swine flu. Mad cow disease. The Doomsday Clock at five minutes to midnight.

Beck drained the last of the Calvados into his glass. “See what I mean? The post-9/11 world is not a pretty place. Chaos. Death. Disaster. Suddenly my plan doesn't sound quite so outrageous, does it? The people who have the money to afford what I'm offering are legitimately concerned about their safety. They recognize the serious problems facing the world and see that I offer a serious solution.”

“What about the people who live on the peninsula, in all those places you want to bulldoze and build over?”

Waving his drink, Beck sloshed the two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle booze onto his hand. “They'll be fairly compensated, don't worry.”

“What if they refuse to cooperate?”

Beck dried his wet palm on his thigh. “Oh, they will. Some may need a little more persuading than others, but eventually even the most stubborn will come around. Money talks, my friend. Money talks and bullshit walks.”

I'm not your friend, Cubiak thought. “And my role? Where do you see me in this scenario?” he said.

“A man with your credentials? That's easy.” Beck clapped him on the shoulder. “Vice president of security.”

Security honcho, Barry had said. Cubiak set his glass on the floor. “I'd have to hear more,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Quite a project. Becker would be proud.”

“Indeed, he would.” Beck grinned and then grew serious. “Not a word of this, you understand. No one can know anything.”

Too late, Cubiak thought, as he rose to leave.

H
e needed the night air to clear his mind. Jocko hadn't exaggerated. Paradise Harbor would destroy Door County. Beck's proprietary attitude was galling, but seen in the context of family history, it made sense in the warped way the rich and powerful viewed the world. To Beck's way of thinking, he was simply following in the family's footsteps and enlarging them as he went. Land was the key. The plan could be implemented only if Beck held title to thousands of acres of prime Door County real estate.

Jocko said locals wouldn't sell, but they might if a series of murders wiped out the tourist trade and vanquished their livelihoods. Was Beck so determined to have his way that he would kill to make Paradise Harbor a reality? Up until an hour ago Cubiak would have said no. But after the man's performance that evening, he wasn't sure.

At the same time, he realized the scenario could be flipped and the opposite question posed. Did someone think that tarnishing the peninsula's reputation would destroy the harbor plan as well, someone willing to commit murder in order to thwart Beck?

Cubiak had known people to kill for less.

Had he been too quick to eliminate Johnson from his list of suspects? The park superintendent had a lifetime of reasons for hating Beck. Johnson had given his word that the dates on the specimens, which cleared him on the deaths, were tamper proof. But what if he hadn't told the truth?

Perhaps Bathard should be considered a suspect as well. The coroner claimed ignorance about Beck's plans but he could be lying, and Cornelia's illness gave him motive enough to seek revenge on the man.

Jocko and Bathard weren't alone in loathing Beck. Eloise Beck hated her husband for ruining her life and for not loving their son. Amelia Pechta despised Beck simply for who he was, and as a teenager she had learned skills that equipped her to survive or to kill. She hobbled around the bar, but what if the weakness was a feint? Even Halverson's bumbling could be an act.

Had Jocko notified one of them or did he call someone else, someone who didn't register on the radar? The old ferry captain was disabled and didn't look well heeled, but appearances could deceive. Maybe Jocko had squirreled away enough money to pay someone to do the killing for him.

A
n hour after dawn, the grand boats began slipping into the Ephraim harbor. With a steaming cup of black coffee for company, Cubiak paced the dock and watched the windjammers motor in. Sails down and masts gleaming, the magnificent vessels strained against the water like nervous thoroughbreds waiting for the signal to let fly.

The ranger had slept poorly. Beck's assurance that nothing would go wrong had not diminished his concerns. He was sure the killer would strike again but couldn't predict where and when. The regatta was a prime target.

A throng of spectators jostled past Cubiak. And still the boats kept coming. Their combined grandeur reminded him of Paradise Harbor.

It was a plan spawned by arrogance and driven by ugly ambition. Beck said that folks in Door County didn't mess with tradition. Maybe not, Cubiak thought, maybe some like Beck just plotted to destroy it. Cubiak knew he could never be part of the scheme. After the festival, he'd work with Jocko to try and stop Beck, whatever it took.

A sudden light breeze carried snatches of conversation to shore. Cubiak listened to the mostly male voices, laced with bravado. The race kicked off day three of the festival. Boats competed for prize money, bragging rights, and trophies. Thirty vessels, including one flying the flag of Beck Industries, were registered for the event. The route ran north from Ephraim, around the tip of the peninsula through Death's Door, and then down the Lake Michigan side to Baileys Harbor. It was the reverse of the run Ruby had described after dinner on Tuesday. Shading his eyes, Cubiak followed one of the mighty boats as it jockeyed into position at the starting line. He could imagine a young Ruby on the deck, the others as well: Beck, Dutch, Eloise.

Chicago's Bridgeport neighborhood, where Cubiak had grown up, was less than a twenty-minute bike ride from Lake Michigan, but he had never been out on the water until he was an adult and could afford to treat Lauren to a dinner cruise. He'd expected so much from the outing. The view of the city had been stunning, but the boating experience was disappointing. The cruise ship was large and impersonal. From a deck three stories above the water, he looked down and imagined himself on a sailboat, close to the waves and working with the wind.

He envied those readying for the race. And he hoped that Beck was right, that nothing would go wrong.

A
t sunup, Cubiak had rendezvoused with Halverson to assign the sheriff 's deputies to their stations. Those with sea legs were posted on board a half-dozen power craft that would escort the racers through the course. The rest patrolled the peninsula. Given the miles of wooded cliff on the Green Bay side and open shore along the lake, it was hardly a satisfactory arrangement.

“You worry too much,” Halverson said, echoing Beck. To anyone who would listen, the sheriff bragged about the bikers he'd arrested before the start of the festival, implying that he had the situation well under control. Any additional security measures were merely for show.

At seven, the starter's pistol popped. As the boats swept past the starting point, the crowd cheered. Wrapped in a colorful cloud of billowing sails that bit the wind, the vessels flew toward the deep water. For the landlubbers, there was nothing to do but turn around and walk back to town.

Following the waterfront roads, Cubiak tracked the race from the jeep. More often than he liked, his view was blocked by patches of forest, but occasionally he glimpsed the boats and felt his spirits lift at the spectacle.

The lead boat crossed the finish line at 8:20. A new record. Cubiak lingered on the sidelines as the victorious crew hauled down the sails and made their way to shore. They were handsome, rugged, wealthy men, the kind who took winning for granted. Did they even notice him, the working stiff in the brown uniform? The guy who was supposed to keep them safe from harm? Probably not, he thought. People like him were invisible until they were needed. Cubiak tossed his empty coffee cup and reversed out of the lot.

E
arly that afternoon, Cubiak pushed through the door at sheriff 's headquarters. He had come to question Petey Kingovich. From the beginning he thought the man's quick arrest was a convenient ploy to assuage the locals and keep the festival on track. Perhaps there'd been more to it. Maybe Petey knew something about Beck's plans that Beck didn't want blabbed around. Encouraging Halverson to put the younger Kingovich behind bars was a sure way to keep him isolated and out of touch.

Halverson was none too happy to see Cubiak. “I don't have to do this,” he protested as he got to his feet.

“Yes, you do.”

The sheriff kept his own counsel as he led the ranger across the lobby and through a series of heavy metal doors to the jail. A one-way glass wall separated the command center from the two-tiered pod of cells where a dozen inmates in bright orange garb played cards or watched TV in the lower-level common area. “Domestic abuse, drunk and disorderly, theft, you name it,” Halverson said. Kingovich was housed in a separate area for recalcitrant prisoners.

“Visitor, asshole,” Halverson intoned as the cell door swung open. “Twenty minutes,” he said as he swiveled aside and let Cubiak pass.

Petey lay stretched out on the bunk, arms behind his head. A reclining scarecrow, he appeared to be taking a detailed census of indentations in the off-white acoustic ceiling tiles.

Cubiak leaned into his view. “I'm probably the only person within a hundred miles not ready to string you up for the murder of Alice Jones. If you've got more than two brain cells rubbing together inside that thick skull, you'll talk to me.”

He pulled back and let Petey think things over. After a few minutes, the young man sat up and folded his legs yoga style on the thin mattress. Face blank. Eyes flicking contempt and trained on Cubiak.

“You had opportunity, but no motive as far as is obvious. The two usually go together. Maybe you know someone who had them both.”

No reaction.

“The axe yours?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I'll answer for you. ‘Yes, sir. It's mine all right.'”

Petey glared at him.

“How many keys to the shed?” Cubiak waited. When the prisoner didn't respond, he went on. “Shall I continue in both roles?”

Petey's shoulders rose a millimeter.

“One?”

Petey's tongue pried loose from its moorings. “Maybe.”

“That's better. And you had it?”

“I had all the keys.” Petey yawned, open mouthed. “Wouldn't have mattered nohow.”

“Why?”

“Lock's busted.”

“For how long?”

This time the shoulder elevation was slightly more perceptible. “Month. Six weeks. Six years.”

“Leaving the shed open to anyone who wanted access.”

“Sure. No matter. Nothing in there worth taking.”

“You never found anything disturbed.”

“Not really. People'd go looking for oars. Tools sometimes, too. Once in a while a screwdriver's missing. Didn't matter any.”

“There's a shelf full of boxes. What's in them?”

Petey grinned. “Proof we paid our taxes. Shit like that. Junk my mother put aside for posterity. Hell, we even had a box my old man was holding for Dutch.”

“Your father knew Dutch?” The news surprised Cubiak but he kept the question casual, taking things slowly.

“Sure. No big fucking deal. Everybody knew Dutch.”

“How did Dutch's stuff end up in your shed?”

Cubiak lifted a pack of cigarettes toward the ceiling camera and then held it out toward Petey. The inmate snatched a cigarette, jabbed the tip into the proffered match, and inhaled loudly.

“What's to say? He come by one day a couple years back when he was going round talking to people for some book he was writing. Shows us a box of shit he's collected and starts asking about Kangaroo Lake. Looking for picturesque stories on marshes and bird migration. Like we're taking serious notes for decades, ya know? My old man poured a couple of shooters, sat down, and told me to leave. Said he had private business to discuss with Dutch.”

“You didn't hear what your father had to say?”

“Nah. He was just another bag of wind, far as I was concerned.”

“Then what happened?”

“Hour or so later, I seen Dutch leave. He's looking kind of wild, like he'd been kicked in the balls. ‘What did ya tell him?' I asked my old man, but he won't say. Just that he owed Dutch an apology for some kind of job he'd done once. Anyways, Dutch was feeling no pain when he left.”