Exposing Ethan (Cassidy Kincaid Mystery Book 4)

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