by Amy Waeschle
“C’mon, Benita,” Cassidy said, interrupting the stare-down between her and the officer. “I think we’ve done all we can here.”
Benita turned and gave Cassidy a look, and it was so loaded—victory, aggression, power—that Cassidy actually felt it connect with something inside herself. It was a look she would fear if she didn’t know that this was part of the thrill for someone like Benita—creating drama as a tool to get things done. She tried to hold on to it, to feed off it for strength.
“Talk to your officers. Tell them about the reward. Our group leaves tomorrow.”
The officer’s eyes flicked from Benita, to Cassidy, and back, as if unsure if he should be relieved or disappointed that his sparring partner was leaving.
Cassidy headed for the door, trying her best not to show the officer her back. When she and Benita were outside, she breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
“My haircut wasn’t until next week,” they heard the officer bark to the woman in Spanish.
“Lo siento,” she said.
Cassidy and Benita moved down the street at a brisk pace. “Did you get it?” Benita asked under her breath.
“Yep,” Cassidy said, tapping the back waistband of her shorts.
“Any idea how to unlock it?” she asked.
“No,” Cassidy moaned. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Don’t worry, there are ways we can get into it.”
Cassidy looked warily at her friend. “You’re scary, you know that?”
Benita laughed.
Twelve
“Ugh,” Cassidy moaned from her perch at the poolside bar. “This is impossible!”
After returning from the police station, she and Benita had changed into swimsuits—Benita wrapping her tiny frame in a gauzy pareo—and headed for the poolside bar. Libby had loaned Cassidy her phone charger, which she plugged into the wall under the thatched roof bar where she and Benita were huddled. Taylor and Libby were seated at the edge of the tranquil blue water, beers in hand, while Marissa had a massage. Jillian was in a heated discussion on her phone in the shade at the far end of the pool deck. Earlier, Cassidy learned that Jillian had discovered that her husband was sleeping with their au pair.
Benita took another sip of her mojito. “Does Reeve have any hobbies?”
“Besides surfing, girls, and getting high?” Cassidy asked.
Benita waited.
“Sorry,” she said. “Okay,” she continued, more to herself than to Benita. She tried to think.
“What are the things that are really important to him?” Benita said.
Cassidy held the phone, waiting for her minute of lockout to end. They had tried everything: Reeve’s birthday, his high school graduation date, and easy ones like “1-2-3-4” and “5-5-5-5” and the numerical code for his name. But none of these had worked. Cassidy had been at it for almost two hours.
“Did he have any pets growing up?”
“No,” Cassidy said. “His mom is allergic.”
Benita thought about this. “How about later, when he was on his own?”
Cassidy shook her head. “Not that I know of.” Reeve could barely take care of himself, let alone a pet. “He used to be a big college basketball fan,” Cassidy said, feeling like she was grasping at straws.
“Okay, which team?”
“University of Washington.”
“Hmm, let’s see if we can find some numbers.” She picked up her phone and started typing.
“Favorite player?”
Cassidy thought about this but had no idea. Reeve had attended University of Washington for a few years. Maybe there was a player he liked while he was a student? She typed a message to Rebecca, and her reply came almost immediately: Isaiah Thomas. She showed her phone to Benita, who went back to work researching. Her eyes scanned several pages of text.
“Try 0-2-2-8,” Benita finally said.
“What’s that?” Cassidy said.
“His jersey number, which was two, and his all-time high score.”
Cassidy typed it. “Nope.”
“Okay. Try 2-7-8-9. That’s his birthday.”
Cassidy typed the numbers and bingo! Cassidy whooped. “You’re a freaking genius,” she said. Then, the wave of relief ebbed, followed by dread. This was Reeve’s life she was barging into. His private life would be exposed. “What should I look for?” she asked Benita with a sigh.
“Go to his photos,” she said, leaning over her shoulder.
Cassidy opened the photo album. The last picture taken showed the same pose as his screen lock. He stood on a beach with his arm around a beautiful young woman with coffee-colored skin. Her thick, wavy hair fell past her shoulders, her shining, almond-shaped eyes set off by long lashes. Her smile stretched her young lips into a soft curve.
“Who’s that?” Benita asked, sucking on a piece of ice.
“No idea.”
“His girlfriend?” Benita gave her a look.
Cassidy stared at the photo, which had been taken in the pale light of dawn. Reeve looked not happy, exactly, but calm, his smile bigger than his signature sideways grin. The beach they were standing on seemed familiar. “This is in San Juan,” she said slowly. “Look at the statue in the background.”
“You’re right,” Benita said, pointing to the tiny white pillar just visible in the background, high on a hillside. “I remember seeing that when we came into the bay.”
“Is there a date?” Benita said.
Cassidy’s heart did a little flip as she read the top: November 4, 6:32 a.m. “It fits,” she said.
“Check his messages,” Benita said.
Cassidy opened his WhatsApp. His chat history was full of messages from people with names like Wilfredo, Leo, and Carlos. She read a note he had sent to Rebecca on October 22nd, but it was short and to the point: Everything’s beaut, sis! Pura Vida! He had placed a phone call that lasted five seconds to a number on the same date that he disappeared: November 4.
“It’s going to take me some time to go through this. See if I can figure out if it means anything.”
“If what means anything?” Bruce said.
Cassidy jumped. “Holy moly, where did you come from?” she said.
Bruce grinned. “Did you think I’d miss the chance to enjoy a little R and R with you lovely people?” The bartender appeared, and Bruce ordered a beer. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to crash your party. I just wanted to drop off your flash drives with all the photos.” He pulled out the tiny devices and handed Cassidy and Benita theirs. “I also wanted to remind you of your sunset tour of Mirador del Cristo, including the turtle release at La Flor.”
“What turtle release?” Benita asked.
“There’s a sea turtle refuge just south of town. Taylor set it up.”
Benita rolled her eyes. “They better serve cocktails.”
Bruce nodded at the phone in Cassidy’s hands. “You having trouble?”
“No,” Cassidy replied with a sigh. “This is Reeve’s phone.”
Bruce’s eyebrows arched up. “How did you get your hands on that?”
Cassidy and Benita exchanged a look.
“Seems we weighed on the conscience of one of the officers. They picked up Reeve’s phone while searching for evidence of an unrelated crime. The woman there usually takes unclaimed phones and gives them to her son to resell, but I guess she was feeling helpful today.” Benita shrugged.
“Lucky for you,” Bruce said. His beer arrived and he took a long sip. “Anything interesting?” he added, giving the phone a glance.
“Not really. He sent some texts the morning he disappeared. One phone call. And this,” Cassidy showed him the home screen photo.
“Who’s that?” Bruce asked, taking a long pull from his beer.
“No idea,” Cassidy said.
“Huh,” Bruce said.
“It doesn’t make sense. He hits the beach at sunrise and immediately hooks up with a girl?” Cassidy said. She thought for a moment, then turned to Bruc
e, who was gazing out over the pool. “Tell me again the sequence of events. You guys came into port just like we did, after surfing. Did he go ashore with the group?”
“Yep, he drove the launch and dropped us off.”
“He didn’t come ashore?”
Bruce shook his head. “He had stuff to do on the boat.” Bruce shrugged. “Nothing odd about that. It was his job.”
“Did you see him on land at all during your trip? Did he stay at a hotel?”
Bruce laughed. “He stayed on the boat. Hotels aren’t cheap, and I certainly didn’t pay for a room for him.”
Cassidy frowned at the photo of Reeve holding the girl. “So he came ashore the next morning, but not to pick you guys up,” she reasoned. “For some other purpose.” She paused. “To meet this girl?”
“Could she have been a chica?” Benita asked. “Everything’s done online these days. There are websites. He could have gone to one, picked her, and then met her at a designated time and place.”
Cassidy shuddered. “Maybe?” She remembered the shaggy-looking man from across the hall in Reeve’s apartment. Sometimes we party with the girls. She tried to imagine Reeve clicking an image on a website, then taking that person to a hotel room. “But why at dawn and not the night before? Why take a picture of her?”
“She’s a looker. Maybe he wanted to share it with all his buddies. That’s a thing, by the way. It’s like a trophy. He could have posted it on Snapchat or Instagram.” Benita paused. “Though usually the girl is wearing less clothing.”
“Ugh.” Cassidy’s stomach churned at the thought of something so demeaning. Was Reeve that kind of person? He had always been so passionate about things like fairness and freedom and even entertained conspiracy theories about the U.S. government meddling in places where they shouldn’t. He was the kind of person who believed the myth about the first moon landing being a hoax. That was where Cassidy would step in with evidence to the contrary, and their debates would get heated.
Why would Reeve hire a prostitute and then want to boast about it? And what about the girlfriend back in Tamarindo he was so crazy about? “Why is she smiling?” Cassidy asked, staring at the woman’s face.
“She’s about to get paid,” Benita said in a low voice. “What’s this number, the pimp?” Benita asked, pointing to the WhatsApp call history.
Cassidy forced herself to think like an investigator. “Maybe.”
“Did he call it before or after the photo was taken?”
Cassidy checked the record. “Two minutes after.”
Benita sat in thought for a moment. “Huh. It doesn’t really match up.” She shook her head. “Try calling it.”
“The number?”
Benita shrugged. “Why not?”
“With my phone or his?”
“Try his.”
Cassidy looked to Bruce for input. “Definitely his,” he said. He had a strange look on his face.
“What?” Cassidy asked.
“Just . . . ” He sighed. “Be careful, okay? Nicaragua can be a sort of . . . a free economy, if you know what I mean.” He took in Cassidy’s look of confusion. “Calling that number might set off a shit storm. And forget about the police being helpful in this. They’re part of that free economy too.”
“I wondered about that,” Benita said. “The officer sure had a nice watch. And the woman’s purse looked like an Adolfo Dominguez. I figured it was a knock-off, but maybe not.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said, her gut flipping over. “So should I call?”
Benita shrugged. “It’s his phone, so it’s not like whoever answers will know it’s you.”
“Right.” Cassidy took a deep breath then tapped the call button. She put the phone to her ear. The number rang and rang.
“No answer?” Benita said.
Cassidy ended the call and sighed.
“You said he had a history of drug use. Could it have been a dealer?” Benita asked.
Cassidy swallowed a lump of anguish. She knew Benita could be right. “That’s a thing too, isn’t it? Get high before you have sex.” She closed her eyes. “I’m not cut out for this,” she said, putting the phone down.
“Maybe take a break for a bit,” Benita said, ordering her another drink. “Go for a dip in the pool. Get a massage. Put it out of your mind for a while. I’ll take a look at it in the meantime. Go on.” She unwrapped her pareo and draped it over the back of a lounge chair, then jumped into the pool.
“Do you know where the Uno gas station is?” Cassidy asked Bruce, ignoring Benita’s advice.
Bruce thought for a moment. “Yep, just on the edge of the downtown.”
“That’s where they found the phone.”
“You want to go there,” Bruce said, after a long sip from his beer.
Cassidy put the phone face down on the bar. “Maybe someone knows something,” she said, sipping from the fresh drink Benita had ordered her. “Around the same time that Reeve disappeared, a person was stabbed there.”
“Not Reeve, though.”
Cassidy shook her head.
“You’re worried he was involved?”
Cassidy nodded. “I mean, back in Tamarindo he assaulted a taxi driver. What if something like that happened here? Only it didn’t end in him paying a fine.”
Bruce tapped the bar top with his middle finger, then glanced at her. “Reeve didn’t come across as violent.”
“No weird behavior? He wasn’t twitchy? Or spacey? Quick to fly off the handle?”
“No,” Bruce said.
“You didn’t notice anything missing?”
“No,” Bruce said again, frowning. “He seemed like a good kid. A quick learner. Did everything I asked and then some.”
Cassidy sighed. “I have to go down there.” She looked at her watch but realized the lowering sun could have told her the time instead.
“I’ll go with you,” Bruce said, draining his beer.
A wave of gratitude washed over Cassidy. She knew the group was going on their tour soon, and she would never dream of asking Benita to miss any more of her vacation. “Thank you.”
“I can give you a lift whenever you’re ready.”
Cassidy took another sip of her drink for courage. “I’ll just go change. Meet you out front in five minutes.”
On the way to her room, she typed a message to Rebecca on her phone:
Heading to the place where police found R’s phone.
Cassidy slid the phone into her pocket and entered the room. She hadn’t bothered to unpack her things into the drawers. With such a meager wardrobe, why bother? After returning from the police station, she had left her cutoffs and tank top on the bed and her second set of clothes in the mesh bag. So why were they now stacked on top of the bag? She looked around for signs that the maid had been in the room, but the beds and carpet looked exactly the same as when they had checked in. I must have taken out my clothes and just don’t remember, she thought.
Benita arrived, her wet hair slicked back and her pareo tucked tightly around her torso. “Hey,” she said, sounding breathless. “Get this.” She was holding Reeve’s phone.
“I got into Reeve’s banking app,” she said.
“What? How?”
“It wasn’t hard. He saved his password.”
“Oh.” Cassidy’s stomach rolled into a tight knot. Were the two of them breaking laws?
“Anyways, Reeve made a payment to something called Tikvah International.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know yet. But he made it the day they left Costa Rica.”
“Huh,” Cassidy said, still not sure she understood where this was going. “How much?”
“Two thousand dollars,” Benita replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Two thousand?” Cassidy echoed. She thought of his dingy flat. “How does a broke videographer find that kind of money?”
“Maybe he’s not that broke.” Benita shook her head. “I’ll look into it more. Bruce told
me you’re going to where the phone was found?”
“Yeah.”
Benita grimaced. “Well, here,” she said, handing over Reeve’s phone. “Maybe you want to show the picture to—someone who might know who the girl is.”
“Right,” Cassidy said, sliding the phone into her pocket.
Cassidy headed for the hotel lobby. Once at the front door, she had an inspiration and took out her phone. She opened WhatsApp and tapped out a new message to Mel: Reeve’s phone was found in a dumpster where a stabbing had taken place.
He wrote back right away: And the police were generous enough to part with it?
She typed: Not sure generous is the right word. Do you know of something called Tikvah International?
Never heard of it, he replied.
Well, she thought. It was worth a shot.
What’s your plan now?
Visit the site of the stabbing
Please tell me you’re not going alone
I’m not
OK. Be careful
Cassidy gripped the phone and shook off her creeping anxiety. I don’t want to do this, but I owe it to Reeve to see it through, she thought.
Thirteen
Cassidy found Bruce waiting astride a moped.
“What is this?” she asked, unable to hold back her amusement at seeing his tall frame folded up on such a small vehicle—painted canary yellow at that. She had expected a car.
“It’s the most genius mode of transport ever made, is what this is,” he replied, unfazed. “Hop on,” he added, and turned the ignition key.
Cassidy awkwardly slid one leg over the seat behind Bruce. There was nowhere to put her hands except around his waist. When Bruce pulled out of the hotel parking entrance, she had no choice but to hang on tight.
They traveled down a narrow street to a park facing a peach-colored Catholic church, turned north, passing taco shacks, minimarts, T-shirt shops, and blocks of apartments. The streets felt hushed in that post-siesta way but Cassidy knew that within the hour, the restaurants and bars would be full to bursting with tourists on the prowl. They reached an intersection with what she assumed was the main road into town. Across the street stood a row of low buildings: a Falafel restaurant, a bus stop, and a whitewashed building with the name “Chabad House” painted in blue lettering.
