Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set Page 13

  The group of youngsters in front of her disappeared through an open doorway, and Cassidy, feeling exposed, followed them. Inside, a small entryway led to a large open room set up with long tables, where some kind of banquette-style meal was taking place. A few of the guests wore yarmulkes; servers wore a kind of white sleeveless tunic and black pants. A tall man with a frizzy white beard and dressed in a long, black outfit moved about the tables, greeting and nodding to the diners. Even though Cassidy had never actually seen a Rabbi in person, this man had to be one. The vibe was friendly, with a steady hum of conversation and laughter filling the room.

  “Welcome to Chabad House,” a young man with dark hair, large glasses, and a wiry beard said to her at the entryway. The people that had been ahead of her were making their way to a set of open chairs. Cassidy looked behind her through the doorway to the street, but the vehicle with the hood up blocked her view of the men. Was she safe to keep walking? Or should she wait awhile and make sure?

  “Hi,” she replied after turning back to the young man.

  “Please, join us?” he said, and swept his hand back to indicate the room. His accent was slightly off, neither English nor Spanish.

  “Um, no, thank you,” she said, noticing a bar at the far end of the room, the walls painted a soft orange, and the exit to what must be the kitchen. “I was wondering if I could just get a glass of water,” she said, swallowing the dry, salty lump in her throat.

  “Of course,” the man said, and stepped away from his hosting podium. Almost instantly, a woman came from a side entrance with a glass of ice water. She wore a floral-print dress and black flats and was trailed by a toddler with curly black hair that bounced with her trotting steps. She was dragging a ragged stuffed elephant. The woman’s pretty face broke into a generous smile. “Bienvenida,” she said, handing Cassidy the glass.

  The little girl had been muttering something, and the woman scooped her up. Her chubby legs straddled the woman’s hips, her head tucking in against her shoulder. The woman stroked the girl’s head and spoke to her in soft tones.

  “Thank you,” Cassidy said after a long sip. The glass had begun to sweat in her warm grip, so she switched hands, drying the wet one on her damp shorts. “So, what exactly is this place?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

  The woman did not seem surprised at the question. “We are a Jewish emissary.”

  Cassidy must have looked confused, because the woman continued.

  “We have kosher meals, like this.” She paused to indicate the boisterous roomful of diners. “And classes and a synagogue. We also do important community service.”

  Cassidy took another gulp of her water, her eyes taking in the space.

  “Would you like some latkes?” she asked, her eyes hopeful. The toddler began to suck her thumb; as if on cue, the woman immediately began to sway.

  Along the hallway leading to where the woman had emerged, a poster caught Cassidy’s eye. It was partly in shadow, so the details had not been clear at first, but it was another anti-human trafficking poster. Curious, Cassidy stepped closer and read the wording on the bottom.

  Cassidy had a sudden, overpowering sense of vertigo when the meaning became clear. The water slipped from her hands and landed on the concrete floor with a smash.

  “Oh!” the woman said, setting the toddler down and stooping to pick up the glass. The toddler instantly began to whimper.

  Cassidy joined her. “I’m so sorry,” she said, plucking the shards from the puddle.

  “It’s all right,” the woman said in a kind voice, shooting the toddler a nervous look that clearly meant, “stay back.” They collected all of the glass, and the woman stepped from the room to throw them away. When she returned, she was carrying another glass of ice water. Even though Cassidy wasn’t thirsty anymore, she took it.

  The man at the entrance had returned to his post, and more guests filed into the restaurant.

  Cassidy’s fingers touched the logo stamped on the bottom of the poster in blue ink: Tikvah International. “What is this?” she asked the woman, who was swaying in that slow, motherly way with the child on her hip again.

  The woman’s smile shifted to what looked like a grimace, but only for an instant. “That has become our most important purpose here,” she said, lifting her chin with what Cassidy immediately recognized as pride. “Tikvah International is a rescue organization. We take in victims of human trafficking and transfer them to safety.”

  “Victims from here?” Cassidy said.

  “From all over Central America.”

  “How does it work?” Cassidy asked, her pulse racing.

  “We have a hotline,” the woman answered, but her reply seemed evasive somehow, or maybe she simply didn’t know the details. “And we have a network of volunteers who respond.”

  Cassidy thought about this. “My stepbrother, Reeve, made a donation,” she said finally.

  The woman bowed her head. “Thank you for your generosity.”

  Cassidy had used Reeve’s name on purpose, thinking the woman might show some kind of recognition, but this didn’t occur. Cassidy stared at the poster, which showed a young boy dressed in a grubby shirt, turning back from a doorway, his pained eyes crushing her with their desperation. She noted the phone number printed at the bottom. It didn’t match the one she had called earlier, but that didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t a connection. Why would Reeve have donated money to this cause? He had been in San Juan to sell or buy drugs. Had he needed a way to offload some cash? Had he eaten here and been inspired somehow by this very poster to make a donation? That was just the way Reeve’s impulsive brain worked. Or was there something deeper going on, and he really wanted to support Tikvah International’s efforts?

  “Does Tikvah mean something?” she asked.

  “Hope,” the woman replied. She looked so peaceful standing there with the child cuddled close to her body and her life’s purpose laid bare that Cassidy had to look away.

  “Thanks for the water,” Cassidy said, putting down her glass on a nearby table.

  “Come back anytime,” the woman said.

  Cassidy looked both ways before stepping outside, but the arguing men were gone, and the setting sun had turned the streets dark. She hurried along the sidewalk, her mind turning the facts over and over. So, Reeve had paid money to a Jewish rescue organization—why? Could Reeve have been involved in human trafficking somehow, and supporting Tikvah International was some kind of atonement? Cassidy shook her head. No. That was too far-fetched, even for Reeve.

  She thought it through again from the beginning. Reeve made a donation from Costa Rica, and then he boarded the boat. After arriving in San Juan, he went ashore and met up with a mysterious girl. Then he made a phone call to someone whom he likely met in order to sell something. That evening, he called—of all people—Cassidy. And then he disappeared.

  Fifteen

  When Cassidy finally arrived at the beach, she paused, looking both ways before continuing toward a cluster of fishing pangas. In a rush, she paid one of the men waiting by the boats to ferry her, and with a hard push-off from the sand, the man started the motor and they sped away from the shore. Cassidy sat low in the bow watching for anyone who might have tracked her and was now in pursuit, but she noticed no such activity. Soon the hush of cars passing and the music from the bars faded, and it was just the sound of the panga’s engine and the water rushing past.

  As the cluster of anchored boats appeared, Cassidy searched for the Trinity. They passed a giant sailboat, the decks empty of people, the masts with huge sails rolled up tight. Only the mast light and several running lights were illuminated. She imagined what sailing such a ship must feel like—the wind pulling the huge boat along as if by magic. The next boat was actually two rafted together; a party was underway on the bigger one. In their little panga, Cassidy and her driver passed by unnoticed.

  Finally the Trinity appeared. After a week of paddling up to it after surfing, she iden
tified the shape of the bow and the wheelhouse’s silhouette easily. Her chilled body shuddered with relief. Before climbing the ladder up to the deck, she looked around to make sure no one, neither an occupant of one of the neighboring boats nor some pursuer, happened to be watching. Seeing no one, she paid the driver a wad of wet bills from her pocket, and he slipped quietly away.

  She climbed the ladder and slipped over the side. Everything was silent. She looked around. A shiver traveled down her spine. Wasn’t Bruce here? What if he wasn’t?

  A shadow moved, and she spun away, but the shadow caught her. In a flash, she was pinned to the floor by a heavy weight. She thrashed and kicked and was about to scream, but Bruce’s voice stopped her.

  “Cassidy?” Bruce said, his face hovering inches from hers. He jumped off her just as fast as he’d tackled her, and helped her up. “You scared the shit out of me,” he added.

  She rubbed her wrists where his grip had chafed her skin. She slumped onto the bench where she had eaten breakfast just a day before. “Who did you think I was, anyway?”

  Bruce didn’t answer. “Sorry,” he said instead. He stood with his hands on his hips, his face tight with worry. “Where were you? I thought . . . ” He looked away.

  “I went back,” she said.

  “What?”

  “After you left me on the beach, I got on the boat like you said.” She swallowed, gathering her courage. “But then I got off.” She looked at him. Would he understand? “I had to go back.”

  His expression darkened. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  Cassidy sighed. “Something sort of popped into my mind. The deadline for the meeting was approaching, and I just thought, I don’t know, that it was my last chance to find out what happened to him.”

  “And did you?”

  “No,” she said.

  Bruce paced the deck. “You could have gotten yourself killed,” he said.

  Cassidy swallowed hard. Killed? Surely, he was just trying to scare her. “It’s not like I went out there and waved a flag, making myself obvious. Nobody saw me.”

  He turned to face her. “These people don’t play games, Cassidy.”

  “I get it, okay?” she said, her voice rising. “I was careful.”

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “You were lucky.”

  The confrontation hung in the air between them. Finally, Cassidy said, “I’m going to change into dry clothes.”

  Most of her clothing was at the hotel room—but she did find a bikini she had left drying on her bunk and a pair of shorts. And Pete’s hoody. She reached for it, as if for a lifeline, and buried her face in its softness. His scent was gone but her heart responded with a memory: a beach bonfire on the Washington coast after a chilly surf session. How many more memories like that would they have made?

  A lifetime of them.

  Bruce was in the galley, pulling items from the fridge: onions and peppers. Garlic from the hanging basket over the counter. A bag of fresh shrimp, which he placed in the sink. She was relieved to see his stern look gone.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  Even though she hadn’t once thought about food, Cassidy felt a nauseous tickle scratch at her insides. “I think so.” She leaned her hip against the counter. “How can I help?”

  He glanced at her. “Can you peel shrimp?” he asked.

  Cassidy moved quietly to the small sink and began peeling, making a pile of the limp gray crustaceans in a bowl he placed between them. The small task made her feel purposeful, and she gave herself to it. The shrimp’s tiny feet would sometimes peel away perfectly, but usually they broke off and she would have to go back and pluck them from the meat. Her mind drifted back to her visit ashore, how she had waited in the shadows, scrutinizing the activity at the Uno station for anything out of the ordinary. No car came at the arranged time, no shady characters lurked on the corners.

  Bruce added the peeled shrimp from her bowl to the hot frying pan. The meat sizzled and the scent of seasoned onions and garlic wafted past her nose. “So, we’ll head back tomorrow as soon as I can get the ladies out of their big fluffy beds,” he said, his voice light. “And drag Jesus from his family reunion.” She saw through his attempt at humor and realized that he was just as preoccupied as she was.

  Bruce served the food onto two plates, and she followed him to the deck where he placed them on the table. Her stomach responded with a shuddering rumble. He retrieved two beers from the outside fridge and cracked the lids.

  Cassidy took a bite of the fajita and her taste buds nearly popped off her tongue. They chewed in silence for a while. Cassidy took another bite.

  “When did you realize Reeve was an addict?” Bruce asked.

  Cassidy drew a deep breath at the sudden recollection. “When he was thirteen.” Their family had vacationed at a ski resort and had stayed in a condo belonging to a friend of Pamela’s. Reeve had broken into the locked liquor cabinet and was drunk every night. His mom and her dad never found out. Rebecca knew, though. She had known all along. Reeve had experimented with many different types of drugs, from pot to pills.

  “What was his drug of choice?”

  “It started with alcohol, then it was pot for the longest time. All through high school. Then in college he started dealing. You know what’s funny? He seemed to function okay for a while. I mean, he was no star student, and he was always a little unpredictable, but it was like those drugs became a part of his coping mechanism, and they worked. Then I’m pretty sure he tried heroin. He dropped out. And everything sort of snowballed from there. The last time I saw him he threatened me. Pete wasn’t there. I had to call the police.”

  “Who’s Pete?” Bruce asked.

  Cassidy’s mouth was half open. Her sluggish brain tried to scamper back in time. “Uh,” she managed. Bruce was looking at her funny. She closed her eyes and bit back the flood of pain. “Pete was my fiancé,” she managed. “He . . . passed away last year,” Cassidy added. They’re only words, Cassidy told herself. She had practiced saying them with her grief counselor in an effort to make them come out easier. It hadn’t worked. She could count on one hand the number of times she had actually spoken the words aloud. Either someone else shared the information, or she avoided having to say it. Evasion was a special skill that she was perfecting to an art.

  “Oh shit,” Bruce said, hanging his head. “I’m sorry.” The sound of the water lapping the boat’s sides and the muted music from the rafted boat party filled the silence between them.

  “How?” he asked. “If you don’t mind telling me,” he added, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling with empathy. “I mean, you . . . he . . . you’re so young,” he said.

  The words tumbled out. “He was in an accident . . . ” She gathered a breath and held it.

  “Shit,” Bruce said again. He grimaced. “I’m so sorry.”

  Cassidy had nothing to say. She put the made-up image of his accident out of her mind with a series of pictures that her grief counselor had helped her create: Pete at the bottom of the ski lift, wearing his puffy blue ski coat and shiny blue ski boots, leaning forward against his skis that were planted in the snow. Pete, hard at work building her a set of raised beds for her lettuce and peas, the late-afternoon sunshine casting long shadows. Pete, sitting across the table from her in their home late at night, rapt with concentration as she shared her latest geologic breakthrough with him. It might be the thing she missed most: being able to share what was in her crowded brain and have him understand, engage, and discuss it with her, even challenge her, and then, him taking her to bed.

  What most people never understood was how hard it was not to talk about Pete. It was especially awkward in the geology department. She was new enough that she had no deep friendships, and she feared that everyone knew her as the “girl whose fiancé crashed his motorcycle.” Every now and then some detail about Pete would slip out, and her colleagues would freeze and look at her with a kind of mild shock, as if she had just mooned them or tol
d a racist joke.

  Cassidy spun the ring on her finger, the gems dull in the darkness. She realized how pathetic she must look: sitting there in her dead lover’s sweatshirt, wearing the ring he had designed for her but would never slide onto her finger as he said “I do.” She drained her beer, her fingers shaking.

  Bruce went to the small bar and poured two glasses of something from a squatty amber bottle, added ice, and returned, placing the glass in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, Cassidy,” Bruce said, catching her eye. He had stopped eating, and Cassidy had too. It had tasted good, but her appetite was gone.

  Cassidy managed a slight nod. She sipped her drink gratefully—some kind of whiskey.

  “So I take it nobody showed up at the gas station?” he asked. She was thankful for the shift in subject, purposeful or not.

  “No,” she said, remembering the hidden spot where she had stood in silence, dripping wet, watching. “But I may have figured out something else,” she added.

  Bruce sipped his drink, watching her curiously.

  “Benita found out that Reeve paid Tikva International the day you guys left Costa Rica.”

  “What’s Tikva International?”

  Cassidy paused, sipped her drink, enjoying the satisfying way it warmed her insides. “Remember that synagogue we passed, Chabad House?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I went in.”

  Bruce frowned. “Why?”

  She told Bruce about the arguing men and how she had been spooked. “I’d seen tourists go in while I was watching the Uno,” she continued, pushing a pepper around on her plate to make patterns in the last of the sauce. “Inside, tourists were having this banquette-style meal. And they were like, ‘Come on in! Have some latkes!’ ”

  Bruce gave her a look. “And did you?”

  “No,” she said. “But there was a poster on the wall. It was one of those you see in bus stations or pubic bathrooms.” Cassidy shuddered, remembering the little boy’s haunting eyes. “It was a campaign against sex trafficking. The logo on the bottom was Tikvah International’s.”