Death in Cold Water Read Free Page B

side of the road, illuminating the mist with a ghostly bluish-gray hue and then fading as the jeep rolled past. They were north of town where the peninsula jutted out toward Green Bay, and Cubiak knew instinctively that they were heading to the water.
    Suddenly the headlights flashed across the façade of a monstrously large building that loomed up through the veil of fog.
    Andrew grabbed the back of Rowe’s seat. “Here. Stop.”
    Rowe hit the brakes and cut the engine.
    In the silence, Cubiak heard the familiar bang of waves crashing on a rocky shore. He stepped away from the jeep and looked around, but in the eerie darkness he saw nothing. Had he imagined the gigantic house?
    â€œNo lights?” he said.
    â€œFather prefers the dark.” Andrew pushed another button on the remote and a row of decorative flower lamps glowed, revealing a wide flight of marble stairs not twenty feet away.
    Cubiak and Rowe followed Andrew up the steps to a massive oak door.
    I nside, Andrew disarmed the security system and turned on the lights, giving the sheriff and his deputy their first glimpse at Sneider’s grand home.
    â€œIt’s not to everyone’s taste,” Andrew said apologetically as he waved at the interior.
    Standing in the foyer, Rowe gawked at the stream of water bubbling from a wall fountain that hung on a richly veined slab of marble. “No shit,” he said and tried to smother his comment with a cough.
    Cubiak frowned at his deputy. “We’re not here on an architectural tour,” he said. Then he asked Andrew, “Where would you normally expect to find your father this time of night?”
    â€œUpstairs in his room.”
    â€œStart there, then. Check all the rooms on the second floor. My deputy will come with you.” Cubiak gave Rowe another kinder look that said: don’t let him out of your sight. “I’ll take the downstairs.”
    A thick, green and russet Oriental runner ran down a hall lined with gilded mirrors. To the right an archway opened to a living room stuffed with ornate Louis XIV furniture that appeared more decorative than functional. Heavy draperies framed the oversize windows, paintings that looked authentic to the sheriff ’s uninformed eye filled the ecru walls, and a crystal chandelier the size of a newborn elephant hung from the ceiling. In the dining room, Cubiak counted sixteen chairs around a gleaming Queen Anne table over which dangled another sizable chandelier. He was no expert on fine crystal and china but guessed that the two glass-fronted cabinets held Wedgewood and the kind of dinnerware only the upper crust knew by name.
    Despite their studied perfection, the two rooms seemed steeped in a sad emptiness. Perhaps once they’d been host to lavish parties and festive celebrations, but the glory days were behind them. Cubiak wondered if the elderly widower even bothered with them now.
    Life is unfair, Cubiak’s father used to say. It’s the one thing he got right, the sheriff thought as he moved through the house. So many had so little and so few had so much.
    His mother would have given anything for such a house, but Cubiak was unimpressed—until he stepped into the library. He could have camped out for months in that room, which looked like something lifted from a British manor house. The library had a massive fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along three walls. He ran a hand along the spines of the leather-bound books—books on philosophy, religion, and history and all the classics. But no current fiction. No magazines or newspapers. He tapped the glass-topped desk, bare except for an old-fashioned pen stand and black rotary telephone.
    The tenor of the house changed when he reached the rear addition. Here he found Sneider’s office. The room was small compared to the others but still large enough for a working desk and a conference table with four upright chairs. Next to it was the media