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Death by the Bay Page 16
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At the split, he followed the signs for Milwaukee. Melk’s Institute for Progressive Medicine was in the rolling countryside about fifteen miles southeast of Green Bay. Around a gentle curve, a sign for the facility appeared in a grove of pine trees. Next Right, it read.
Cubiak exited the highway onto a two-lane blacktop. After several miles he glimpsed the upper floor of a large white building at the top of a heavily wooded rise.
The sheriff was more than thirty miles outside his jurisdiction. He had no legal authority in the area, but there was nothing to prevent him from visiting the facility. He could be a curious onlooker. Or maybe he was a potential patient with a persistent crick in his back that had confounded his family doctor. It was a free country.
A second right-hand turn put him on a stretch of smooth pavement that wound up a slope. Suddenly the road leveled off, and Cubiak arrived at two stone pillars that marked the entrance to IPM. Déjà vu, he thought as he drove onto the grounds. Trees, grass, and flower gardens filled the parklike campus, and wooden benches stood at intervals along paved walking paths that crisscrossed the terrain.
The building he had seen from the road towered over this island of serenity. Three stories high and constructed of pure white stone, the home of Melk’s IPM managed to be simultaneously imposing and welcoming, a symbol of strength and hope in a world besieged by despair. A wide staircase led to the first level, where five Corinthian columns supported the overhanging roof. The columns as well as the cathedral-style doors combined to present a façade that was designed to intimidate as well as to instill confidence. “We know what we’re doing here.”
Not too shabby for the son of a truck driver and a store clerk, Cubiak thought as he followed the arrows to the parking lot. There were few empty spaces. Most of the vehicles were local, but others bore plates from the surrounding states of Illinois, Iowa, and Minnesota. Some were from as far away as Ohio and Montana. There was even a red van from Florida. Business was good. Or health was bad. He wasn’t sure which.
Before he got out of the jeep, Cubiak took off his badge and secured it with his gun in the vehicle. Without them he felt oddly vulnerable, and for a moment, he wondered if it was a sense of helplessness that drew others to this mecca of hope. What power had that despair bestowed on the late Doctor Melk and his colleagues? How isolating were the innocent white walls of the institute?
The afternoon was pleasantly warm, but only a few people were out. Cubiak walked by a middle-aged couple who sat on a bench holding hands as they stared aimlessly into the surrounding greenery. Nearby a young woman pushed a stroller down the path to the rose garden. The toddler in the elaborate carriage slept with a thumb in his mouth. Another child, probably five or six, ran ahead, kicking at the small stones. The sheriff hoped they had accompanied an ailing relative and that one of the children wasn’t here as a patient.
He followed two young women up the stairs. They wore stylish wigs and outfits of sunny yellow and bright pink, colors of optimism, and chatted eagerly about the new therapy they would be receiving that day. Maybe miracles were being performed behind the massive wood doors, but Cubiak was doubtful.
The sheriff didn’t worry that anyone would recognize him. The only IPM physician he had met at the conference was dead. Noreen Klyasheff would be ensconced in an office in the inner sanctum. To anyone he encountered, he was Mister Average Citizen, visiting the institute to gather information for a desperately sick relative—correct that—for a dying relative, should someone ask.
The interior was nothing like any hospital or clinic that Cubiak had ever seen. IPM visitors entered a grand hall lined with rows of comfortable chairs that were arranged like pews in a church. The room was done in shades of white that taken together evoked either the simple purity of heaven or the antiseptic wonder of a medical Eden. Cubiak found it cold and impersonal and at odds with the hope that emanated from the faces of the people who waited to be summoned forth. Into what? he wondered. When Melk established the IPM, had he forsaken his fierce ambition and crude methodology, or had he found a way to incorporate them into the philosophy and practices of the institute?
In an alcove, Cubiak came upon a display rack filled with brochures and testimonials and updates on new treatments for a range of dreaded diseases. He gathered up a handful of materials and hurried toward the exit.
Inside the only sounds were the hushed voices of the patients and the piped-in white noise of a gentle surf. Outside he was greeted by the deafening roar of mowers and blowers. The grounds crew was hard at work. Relieved to be back in the real world, Cubiak smiled as he walked past the workers, but the eight men in blue paid no attention to him.
17
THE FARMER NEXT DOOR
Ten miles east of Green Bay, Cubiak hit fog. Pickups and trucks roared past, their drivers seemingly oblivious to the conditions. The sheriff had never worked traffic, but he had heard enough stories of bodies peeled off windshields and steering wheels to know when to slow down. For half an hour, he drove through alternating patches of heavy mist and shadowy light, but by the time he reached Door County, the battle was over, with fog the victor. He thought of Rowe trapped in a cloud in the middle of the woods, unable to see past a few tree trunks but listening for footsteps and hoping the intruder wasn’t sneaking up behind him.
Anything? the sheriff texted.
A fog horn moaned in response. Then this from the deputy. Zip.
On my way.
Cubiak stared into the void and thought of Florence Fadim at her window. What did she discern in the fog on a day like this? Did the old mirages hold sway, or did new hallucinations take their place? Half a mile from the farm, he almost drove past the turnoff and caught himself in time. The thick fog blurred distances, and he was startled by how quickly the driveway came up. The house wasn’t visible, just the gravel road to it. He kept going toward the abandoned logging lane that led into the woods. It was unlikely that the intruder had avoided the surveillance team, but if someone had gotten through and was in the barn, he wanted to try to surprise them.
But it was Cubiak who got the surprise.
A pickup truck blocked the way to the old narrow road. Nearby, a bulky man in patched overalls and green plaid shirt was hammering together several pieces of lumber into what looked like a makeshift barricade.
“You intend to plant that here?” Cubiak said.
The man started and slapped the hammer into his palm like a weapon. “What’s it to you?” His scowl melted at the sight of Cubiak’s badge. “Name’s Stanley Smolinsky, and my apologizes, Sheriff, but this here is private property, and I’m trying to keep it that way,” he said.
Cubiak recognized the name. Smolinsky was the man who was renting the fallow farm fields from Tom Fadim.
“That’s awfully neighborly of you.”
Smolinsky seemed puzzled, but then he laughed.
“What do you mean neighborly? I ain’t doing this for nobody else. It’s my land.”
“Isn’t this the back road that runs into the Fadim farm?”
“It’s the back road all right, but this ain’t the Fadim farm anymore. Hasn’t been for a few years.”
“Aren’t you the one who’s renting the fields?”
“I used to be. Then Tom said he wanted to sell and I bought. Oh, not everything at once. Just bit by bit. This here pastureland was one of the last parcels that I got from him.”
“How much of the Fadim land do you own?”
“Every square foot except for the farmstead, and that’s only about two acres or so with the house and the old barn and such. But I got right of first refusal on that once the old lady’s gone,” Smolinsky said, a note of pride in his voice.
Why hadn’t Tom Fadim told him all this? Cubiak wondered.
“Did Tom say why he was selling?”
“Well, for one thing, he ain’t been farming for years. Even at that, I’m sure he hated to part with the land. Each time he offered up another parcel, he made it clear that he was only do
ing it because he needed the money for Florence’s care. People around here tend to take their time making decisions about selling land, especially when it’s been in the family for generations, but with Tom, there was always an emergency of one kind or another and a rush to get the deal done.”
Smolinsky stopped talking long enough to drive a nail into a board.
“He has power of attorney, you know, so it’s all on the up-and-up. He told me Florence would rather die than sell, so he had to use his better judgment in terms of her medical situation. Tom asked me to not say anything to anyone, so I didn’t. I guess he didn’t want her to hear about it from one of the local gossips.”
The farmer eyed the sheriff. “Just so we’re clear, it’s true that I wanted the land. But I was willing to wait as long as needed. I wasn’t trying to pull the wool over the old lady’s eyes, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
But had Tom Fadim? Or had he told his grandmother about the transactions, assuming that the information would get lost in the miasma of her confused mind?
“None of that explains what you’re doing here,” Cubiak said, indicating the wood barrier that was under construction.
“This? Like I said, I’m trying to keep private property private. This damn road hadn’t been used in years and was so overgrown I didn’t think anyone even knew it was here. Then a couple months ago that started to change. I keep a pretty close eye on things and could tell by how the grass and weeds were beaten down that someone was coming and going pretty often.”
“You ever see anyone using the road?”
“Nope. But I ain’t got all day to sit and watch neither. Anyways, if you ask me, I think whoever’s going in and out is doing it at night. You think maybe there’s something illegal going on in the woods, or they got some kind of rendezvous in there?”
Cubiak shook his head. “Nothing like that, I’m sure. But do me a favor and hold off on putting up this barrier for another week or so.”
Smolinsky had pulled a long, thick nail from his pocket and stood considering it. “Is that an order?”
“More like a neighborly request.”
“I got my rights, you know.”
“I’m aware of that, but I’ve got my reasons.”
The farmer laughed. “Put that way, anything you want, Sheriff.”
“I wouldn’t be wandering about the woods either, if I were you.”
“Now that sounds like an order.”
“Let’s just say it’s more a suggestion, but a strong one.”
Cubiak helped Smolinsky load the half-completed gate and materials into his pickup.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what this is all about,” the farmer said as he hoisted himself into the cab of the truck.
The sheriff reached through the open door and shook his hand. “There might not be anything at all going on, but if there is you’ll find out soon enough.”
“Okay,” Smolinsky said and slammed the door. The motor was running when he rolled down the window and turned his grizzled face toward the sheriff.
“How’s old Florence doing anyway?”
“Mrs. Fadim? She’s good.”
“Now that’s nice to hear. She’s a feisty one, I’ll give her that. I always liked the old gal. Hope things work out for her.”
With that he drove off.
Cubiak watched the dust settle and the taillights fade in the distance. Had Tom Fadim lied about the disposition of the farm? Or had he simply failed to tell the truth? If he had lied, it could mean he had something to hide. If he had fudged the facts, it could be that he was too proud to admit that he had been forced to sell the land out from under his grandmother and the rest of the family.
It might not even be any of the sheriff’s business, but then again it wouldn’t hurt to know.
He requested another warrant and texted Lisa with instructions to check out Tom Fadim’s financial situation.
Cubiak pulled the jeep far enough up the logging path that it couldn’t be seen from the road and entered the woods on foot. The fog was thinning. In spots it hung like gauze from the branches and parted reluctantly as he made his way through the maze of trees. The forest was silent, closed in on itself. It belonged to no one, least of all to him.
He wondered if the forest animals were watching him. Deer, perhaps, or squirrels. He wondered if years back the cows that pastured here had ever been attacked by wolves. He remembered the poster on the department bulletin board that warned about ticks and wondered if the little bloodsuckers were active this time of day. As a precaution, he stopped and tucked his pant legs into his socks. He wondered if the intruder was trailing him through the mist.
Finally the sheriff reached Rowe. The deputy was camped out behind a copse of stunted firs along the fringe of the forest. Burrs stuck to his sleeves in odd clusters of three and four, and a large silver thermos leaned against the base of a rotting stump.
At the sight of his boss plodding through the brush, Rowe clambered to his feet. He arched his back and shoulders. He was fidgety and tanked on coffee.
“Nothing going on here, sir. Do you really think someone’s going to show up?” he said. The words were polite but the tone conveyed both his boredom and doubt.
“They will. They have to. It’s a matter of time,” Cubiak said.
From where they stood they could make out the back of the barn through the trees. The sheriff gazed at the silo door and the house beyond.
“Give it a couple of hours and then leave. In fact, make a show of giving up. Pull the crew together and all go out at the same time.”
“We’re done? What about the surveillance?” Despite his earlier reluctance, Rowe sounded disappointed.
“I want the intruder to think we’ve given up.”
“You’ve got something in mind, don’t you? A different plan?” The deputy sounded hopeful.
Cubiak rubbed his jaw. He needed a shave. “There’s always a different plan.”
Keeping his promise, Cubiak stopped at home to see Joey. From there he went to the office, where Lisa’s report was waiting.
Tom Fadim was in a financial bind. The CPA with the shoddy office was trapped in a sinkhole of debt that grew deeper by the day. Pretty soon he would be breathing through a straw, Cubiak thought. And then, he would disappear into the muck, sucked in under the heavy weight of money owed.
After what Stanley Smolinsky had told him, the sheriff had given Fadim the benefit of the doubt. But it was clear that he had lied to his neighbor when he sold the land. The money for the farm parcels wasn’t used to pay for Florence’s medical bills or to buy her better care. She was stuck in that chair in front of the grimy window, dependent on the kindness of strangers for a cup of tea and a biscuit, because her grandson had robbed her. Tom Fadim had gambled away his income as well as the assets from his business and his home, and then he had started selling off pieces of the only remaining thing of worth in his control: the family farm. If there was anything decent that could be said on his behalf, it was that he hadn’t put the farmstead itself on the market. At least not yet. But how much longer could he hold on before he sold the house out from under his grandmother and she was left with nowhere to go and no choice but to rely on a system that was increasingly hostile to those like her? How long before this woman who had worked hard her entire life was forced to hold out her hand and beg for crumbs from anyone kind enough to notice her?
“Bastard,” Cubiak said. He tossed the printouts onto his desk and turned toward the window. In the pasture across the road, the Holsteins were lined up along the back fence like a row of dominoes. As he watched, the first cow began to move, and then one by one the others followed suit until the entire herd plodded behind the leader, sure that it would bring them no harm. Mrs. Fadim had the same kind of unquestioning faith in her grandson Tom, the sheriff thought. She had put him in charge, confident that he would keep her safe.
She had entrusted the farm and all her material goods to his care. And why not? He was an acc
ountant. He knew the ins and outs of finance. He was supposed to be a fiscal conservative, a financial expert who understood that a nest egg had to be protected and nurtured. The whole point of having even a modest amount of money was to keep it and not squander it fecklessly.
Tom Fadim was a fraud, a reckless bean counter who had failed his most important client. Worse than that, he had cheated her.
The preliminary report that Lisa had pulled together was chilling. Fadim owed nearly a quarter-million dollars to ten different credit card companies, his house was in receivership, and his small office building had been refinanced three times.
“I’m going into town,” Cubiak said, pulling on his jacket as he passed his assistant’s desk.
“Are you coming back later?”
“Maybe.”
The manager at the Bank of Sturgeon Bay confirmed the details about Fadim’s financial woes.
“Tom’s been a customer here for years, sad to see this happen to him,” the manager said. He toyed with a pen, avoiding direct eye contact with the sheriff. Finally, he looked up. “I had to reject his most recent loan application. One of several, I might add.”
“You think he’s a bad risk?”
“More than that.”
“You’re saying that he’s defaulted on past loans?”
“Tom and I grew up together. We were friends through high school. We played on the same basketball team, dated some of the same girls. Let’s just say I went out on a limb for him, and he left me hanging.”
Cubiak heard the same sad story at the two other local banks.
What the bank officials couldn’t attest to was the reason for Tom Fadim’s sorry state of affairs. He came from a good family, and for years he had run a solid business. There were rumors that after his divorce he started gambling—betting on sports games, trying his hand at poker, and eventually gravitating to the casino outside Green Bay, where he quickly became a regular, one of those unfortunate men who routinely bet large and lost big. The bankers knew about the land that had been sold; they also knew about the rumors of money borrowed from disreputable sources, the kind that charged usurious interest rates and resorted to threats when payments didn’t materialize. They all shook their heads over their childhood friend’s downfall.