Exposing Ethan (Cassidy Kincaid Mystery Book 4) Page 6

  “No, who is he?”

  Quinn grimaced. “He and his buddies have started hanging out here lately.”

  “And you don’t approve? He was a little bit on the macho side, but he tipped well.”

  Quinn’s face darkened. “That’s the problem. Their money seems to grow on trees. That one,” he paused to nod at the man Cassidy had spoken to, “offered to buy Drift a few months ago.”

  Cassidy leaned past Quinn to take in the man, now standing with a group of young Asian men accompanied by several women, all dressed in a variation of the short skirt, high heel and low-cut top ensemble. Cassidy could practically smell their perfume.

  “And you told him to pound sand?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Basically.”

  Cassidy watched the man wrap his arm around his date, a slender woman with long black hair and a long gold necklace that shone in the light. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Cassidy watched her prim cheeks redden, but she let him pull her closer.

  “The one that talked to you, his name is Bo. I’ve seen him out in the lineup at Ocean Beach.”

  “He surfs?”

  “Yeah, he and his gang of lookalikes. I think they work at the Port.”

  Jer arrived with a margarita for Quinn, then spun away. Quinn seemed lost in thought for a long moment before wrapping his fingers around the glass and bringing it to his lips.

  Cassidy sipped the last of her drink. “Well, I think I’d better call it a night.”

  Quinn sucked in one of the ice cubes from his drink and chewed it thoughtfully. “Right. You gotta rest up for your surf date with Bruce.”

  “It is not a date,” she said, her voice more forceful than she intended.

  “I’d come watch you guys but, well…”

  “Don’t say it,” Cassidy groaned, wondering which of the two women who had made him laugh was going to end up inviting him home.

  “Besides, you’ll have Bruce to show you the ropes,” he said with a sly smile as he raised his glass to his lips.

  Cassidy ignored the way this made the anticipation in her gut intensify. It was just Bruce, after all. He cared about her, and she cared about him, just like good friends do, end of story.

  Eight

  Weak, early sunlight washed over the quiet street as Cassidy hurried down to meet Bruce, her surfboard tucked under her arm. Bruce helped her attach her board to the top of his SUV, their fingers communicating in the darkness. She tossed her bag in the backseat, discovering to her delight that a cup of coffee waited for her in the console.

  “Thank you,” she said after he slid into the driver’s seat.

  “There’s a café on 9th that makes the best French roast. I always stop if I’m heading to Ocean Beach. They have scones, too.”

  Cassidy peeked inside a brown paper bag to find two blueberry scones. “Wow. You can take me surfing anytime.”

  Stopping at the intersection, Bruce turned away to check for cross traffic, but not before she caught the way his face tightened.

  Uh oh. Had she said something wrong?

  “I was able to pull Pete’s accident report yesterday,” he said as they headed north toward Golden Gate Park.

  She blinked at the passing businesses, all closed: the surf shop, the drug store, the neighborhood grocery, and recalled the papers she had never had the nerve to give more than a cursory glance.

  “There’s not much there. Local law enforcement responded, and they’re not as thorough as State Patrol.”

  “Did the police take pictures of the marks on the road?” she asked as her mind spun too fast. Why had he looked at her like that? came first, followed by: would he find a link to Lars’ murder?

  “That’s the thing. It was the middle of the night, remember?”

  “But I saw them. I was there the day after it happened.”

  “Here’s something I learned from State Patrol on another case a few years ago. Skid marks actually show up better the next day.”

  Cassidy turned away in anguish. “You’re saying they don’t show in Pete’s report.”

  “I can see them, but they’re very faint. And they were taken in the very early hours of the morning, so the light isn’t great.”

  “What about Lars?”

  Bruce entered Golden Gate Park, the urban landscape replaced by tall trees, grassy slopes, and walking paths. She sipped her coffee. Yes, it was good. She smiled at the idea of him in Quinn’s neighborhood, waiting in line for just this particular brew.

  “State Patrol handled that one, so yeah, we have good photos.”

  Cassidy held in a breath. “Do they match?”

  Bruce continued through a stop sign, then seemed to take his time answering. “It’s suspicious, but it’s not enough to connect them.”

  Cassidy slumped against the seat.

  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t build a case,” he said. “It just means we need to dig deeper.”

  “Somehow I’m not reassured.”

  “I requested records from other regions, to see if maybe there’s more.”

  “You mean, like, other unsolved crashes?” Was this how Saxon and his gang disposed of people? Running them off the road? She suppressed a shiver.

  “Yes. More accidents like this would make a more compelling case. And it means more opportunities for us to see where they may have made a mistake.”

  Cassidy sipped her coffee, thinking. They were nearing the Presidio, which meant she would be surfing soon. Maybe it would help put her thoughts in place—Bruce’s look, the weird energy brewing in her chest, the idea of Bruce unlocking Pete’s secrets.

  A few minutes later, Bruce pulled into the parking lot and Cassidy stepped into the chilly dawn air. The steady hum of traffic on the bridge drew her gaze upward. From such a low angle, the Golden Gate looked even bigger, its pillars massive, the brick-red towers reaching into the pale blue sky like mountains.

  “You can see the special fence they built so jumpers don’t land on surfers,” Bruce said, pointing with his coffee cup at the metal barrier, just visible in the early light.

  Cassidy cringed. “Have you ever seen someone jump?” she asked.

  “No, but I have a buddy who kayaks here regularly. He rescued a guy once.”

  “And he lived?” Cassidy replied, trying to imagine pulling a suicide victim from the frigid water then paddling him to safety.

  “Yep.”

  The thought of jumping off that edge and falling so far only to hit cold, swift-moving waters made her shiver. Then a thought much more sinister entered her mind: pushing someone off the bridge would be another easy way to make a murder look accidental. “Ugh,” she groaned in anguish. Why the hell am I thinking about something so awful?

  Cassidy watched an incoming ridge of swell rise up from beyond the first bridge pillar, the offshore breeze peeling back its frothy lip.

  “The paddle out is the trickiest part,” Bruce said, pointing to the giant cluster of boulders lining the shore below the parking lot. “Well, that…and the takeoff.”

  A crack like a gunshot sounded as the wave broke. Several surfers were paddling out, their small black shapes advancing like prone soldiers. A series of cars glided into the parking lot, one a sleek, black truck, blaring music through the open windows. Moments later three young men stepped out, talking loudly.

  Next to her, Bruce cursed softly.

  “What?” Cassidy asked.

  “Nothing,” Bruce replied, shaking his head.

  Ten minutes later Cassidy was picking her way over the slick rocks, making sure to keep an eye on the surging surf. “Time your jump for when the wave retreats, so you can ride the backwash, then paddle like hell,” he said over the sound of the crashing waves. Ahead of them, a surfer leaped forward, executing the maneuver in textbook form.

  “Like that,” Bruce said, sliding over a rock. “If you miss and get washed back in, grab onto a rock.”

  “Right,” Cassidy said, her gut quivering with nerves.

/>   With the next wave, Bruce plunged in. Cassidy watched his swift departure from shore. She double checked her leash, the zipper on her wetsuit, then positioned herself on the top of a boulder as the frigid water swirled around her. On the next surge of water, she jumped.

  A powerful current tugged her backward, but she dug hard strokes, setting her gaze on the bridge base. Focusing every muscle on streamlining her body and powering her pace, she broke away from the shore. With her first duck dive under a tumbling pile of whitewash, she got a face full of icy water. Emerging with a gasp, she shook the saltwater clear of her eyes and continued, paddling over a series of unbroken waves to the outside.

  Once in the lineup, she sat next to Bruce and caught her breath. To their left, a half-dozen surfers were loosely clustered, all eyes focused on the incoming sets.

  She gazed up to the bridge deck, half-expecting to see someone climbing over the rails. The rising sun cast bright rays over the water, illuminating its gray-green hue and the white frothy boils from the current. She swirled her legs to keep from being dragged south, but soon she and Bruce both went prone to paddle back into position.

  A set marched their way and all of the surfers waiting paddled toward it, as if drawn by a magnet. Cassidy became separated from Bruce, rising up and over the first wave next to the surfer she’d seen jump from the shore before them. They both crashed over the lip to the sound of it crackling shut. Another wave, this one bigger, loomed ahead. Cassidy dug in harder, dreading what would happen if she was caught inside at a place like Fort Point. At the last minute, the surfer to her left halted his paddling, spun and as the wave coiled, paddled forward in a burst of kicks and strokes. Cassidy flew over the lip, losing sight of him as the wave thundered shut. Another surfer to her left picked off the third wave, and then Cassidy was alone with a final set wave bearing down on her.

  She checked left, right, but she was the only one close enough to nab it. She gulped a fast breath, paddled to meet it, then before she lost her nerve, spun and stroked hard into the drop.

  A thrilling beat passed where her board skimmed down a steep incline, dropping down, down, down, then the slope eased and she angled back to the center of the face. The breaking lip chased her, roaring in her ears. At that moment, she imagined Pete looking over his shoulder at her from the lineup, watching her disappear. Surfing a place like this would have been high on his list, despite his lack of surfing ability. Pete was always up for any kind of adventure; he longed for those experiences that so totally consumed him, even if it meant putting himself in danger.

  Damn you, she thought as the wave’s shoulder softened and she carved over it, flopping down on the deck of her board to paddle back out. Damn you for risking your life for some stupid story.

  Had surviving the avalanche contributed to him feeling invincible?

  You promised you would never leave me, she thought as unwanted emotion twisted her insides into knots.

  Back in the lineup, a group of three surfers clustered close together. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their loud laughter and jeering made her want to steer clear of them. Bruce arrived after taking a wave.

  “Get a good one?” he asked, pushing upright.

  “Yeah,” she said, pushing away Pete’s surprise visit. “You?”

  He seemed to be keeping an eye on the pack of three surfers. “Yeah, though some asshole tried to drop in on me.”

  “Am I going to have to worry about you getting beat up?”

  “Please,” he scoffed, finally breaking his gaze from the trio. “I do the educating around here.”

  “Is that what it’s called?” she asked, grateful for the comic relief.

  He splashed her, then nodded at the horizon. “Outside,” he said, lowering onto his board.

  Cassidy sighted the dark lines marching toward them. “I want the first one,” she said, and scrambled to follow him.

  Within a few hours, the wave fattened with the rising tide and most of the surfers paddled in. She and Bruce kept tabs on each other, but Bruce seemed distracted. Did it have to do with the rowdy trio? Or was it the weird energy she had felt from him during the drive?

  Cassidy put herself in position for a wave to ride in. One other surfer remained; the last of the trio Bruce had been slyly watching.

  They sat side by side in silence, Cassidy keeping her eyes on the horizon. Maybe Bruce’s preoccupation stemmed from a run-in with these three in the past. She had been surprised to learn that occasionally, certain ethnic groups hazed him—telling him he wasn’t a “real” Asian or “to go back to the rock.”

  “You’re a pretty good surfer,” the remaining surfer said. “For a girl.”

  Her hackles sprang to life under her wetsuit. “Excuse me?”

  A round face with almond-shaped eyes crinkled in laughter. “Gotcha. You should have seen the look on your face though.”

  She frowned as the recognition took hold. “Wait. You were at Drift last night.”

  “I thought that was you,” he said with a sharp nod. “I’m Bo.”

  Cassidy returned the greeting.

  The current had pushed them too far inside so they both lay prone to reclaim their position.

  They reached the outside and sat up. Cassidy tucked her hands into her armpits and squinted at the horizon but saw no promising blips that indicated a rideable wave.

  “How come Quinn isn’t here?” Bo peered behind her, as if they might spot him paddling out or lingering nearby.

  Because he didn’t get home till two a.m. she thought. “He’s chicken,” she said instead, surprising herself. Why would she share something that could be used against her brother?

  “Ah, so he’s smart. This place can eat you alive.”

  “Today doesn’t seem so bad,” she said.

  “That’s because you can surf. We get beginners out here. It can get ugly.”

  Sighting a ridge of swell on the horizon, she got down to paddle for it. “Well, see you,” she added over her shoulder.

  At the wave’s takeoff, she spun and paddled one, two, three and soared down the face. The higher tide made the wave softer, more sluggish, but it was still fun. As she carved her last turn, out of the corner of her eye she saw Bo drop in on the wave behind hers.

  After navigating the tricky exit, she climbed the rest of the way to the concrete platform parking lot, her frigid feet too cold to feel the sharp pebbles and grit. Bruce stood at the tailgate of his SUV, his waist wrapped in a towel while five feet away, a pair of tourists gawked.

  Cassidy averted her eyes and busied herself with strapping her board to the roof. Opening the passenger side door, she then used it as a shield to peel her wetsuit down both arms then her torso, leaning against the side of the SUV to tug the last of it off. Shivering in her bikini, she reached for her towel. Across from her, Bruce stood on the running board, his naked torso visible as he lashed the final strap holding down their surfboards. She had forgotten how cut his chest and arms were. She also noticed a small pink pucker halfway down his rib cage. A scar?

  He leaned in to grab his pile of clothes, his gaze meeting hers. Realizing she had been staring, she busied herself with folding up her wetsuit, her cheeks suddenly hot.

  “I think I’ll finish changing in the restroom,” he said.

  “Aw, and spoil the fun for your friends?” she asked, nodding at a young couple posing for a selfie with Bruce’s SUV in the background.

  “Nothing to see here,” he joked, then disappeared down the row of cars.

  Cassidy quickly pulled on her t-shirt, then snuck her wet bikini top from underneath it, then repeated the quickie move with her shorts, using the towel around her waist like a skirt. The only problem was getting her bra on without being obvious about it, or having it get twisted up on her damp skin. She looked around, hoping to see the tourists moving on, but to her dismay, they were still posing. I guess I’ll just skip it for now. She carried her wet items and towel to the back.

  “You going t
o be at Drift again tonight?” a voice behind her asked.

  Cassidy spun around to see Bo, dripping wet, his black wetsuit peeled to his waist, low enough to reveal the V-line of his abs. Sheesh, why is everyone so eager to show off their skin today? she wondered.

  “No,” she said, wary of revealing any more information, though he seemed harmless, despite Quinn’s warning.

  “Maybe you and Quinn would like to meet up sometime, then.” He cocked his head and paused, almost as if he was thinking about something. “I made him an offer a few months back, and now he won’t talk to me.”

  “He’ll never sell Drift.”

  “I got that, but I have an opportunity that may interest him.”

  “I don’t know anything about running a bar.”

  “No need,” he said, giving her a slow appraisal. “I’ll do all the talking.”

  Cassidy folded her damp towel, even though she didn’t need to. “What kind of opportunity?”

  “I’ve got some friends in the industry—wholesale produce, linens. Bet I can save him some money.”

  Cassidy considered this. Likely, Quinn had his own connections.

  “Give me your number,” he said. “I’ll text you mine. Surf’s supposed to be good again tomorrow, too, by the way. Will you be here?”

  “Maybe,” she said. Moments later she was handing over her number scribbled on a scrap of paper she found in Bruce’s car.

  “Cassidy, that’s original,” he said. The look he gave her was part curiosity, part something that made her painfully aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Well, see you,” he added, then walked toward a shiny, black truck three sizes too big for city life. She remembered Quinn’s observation that Bo and his friends never seemed to run out of money. Was it because of his job at the port? Or was he some kind of trust funder? Or maybe his family’s business was big in this town, and he lived off the spoils.

  She felt Bruce by her side.