No Secrets: A Cass Robbins Mystery (A Cassandra Robbins Mystery Book 3), page 1
NO SECRETS
NO SECRETS
A CASSANDRA ROBBINS NOVEL
REITA PENDRY
NO SECRETS
COPYRIGHT © 2024 Reita Pendry
All rights reserved.
Except for purposes of criticism and review, no parts of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed without permission.
ISBN No. 979-8-9872687-1-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Tim Barber
www.dissectdesigns.com
DEDICATION
Mary Gail Gerebenics, 1950 – 2022
David R. Frye, 1945 – 2023
Mary Margaret Myers, 1938 - 2023
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter One
The Charlotte-Douglas International Airport was less a maze than LAX, but fear addled young Cynthia Archer’s brain. She studied the signs directing her to Baggage Claim amidst a cacophony and frenzied movement all around her. She tried to get her bearings. Although she had traveled with her mother often, this was her first time alone. It didn’t help that the arrival gate was a mile from the baggage carousels. She used the moving walkway, wondering why the airport website touted it as a better alternative than just walking. Navigating the sea of travelers cluttering the walkway, and hauling the heavy carry-on, relegated her to the slow right side. If she tried to move with the hands-free travelers, she’d get crushed. Some skinny man with greasy hair, pulled back into a ponytail, kept brushing against her back. She tucked her shoulders tight and ducked her head to avoid contact. Midway down the walkway, she remembered he’d been seated across the aisle from her near the rear of the plane.
From what she’d read of Charlotte, it was a city of nearly a million people. This airport was one of the busiest in the country. The complex of modern glass and steel terminals looked huge from the air. No wonder the trek from the landing gate to the baggage claim area seemed like a marathon.
Finally, she made it to Carousel C and thanked the travel gods when her flight number flashed on the screen. Two rotations of the belt and she was about to panic. Where is my luggage? Ponytail Man stood a few feet away, his gaze shifting back and forth from her to the merry-go-round.
She spotted her heavy suitcase sliding down the shaft, identifiable by the pompom she’d attached to its handle. She parked her carry-on at her feet and moved into position to grab the case when it finally reached her. Ponytail Man scooted close enough to touch her and reached downward.
“I think I was here first,” she said, not looking at him. Maybe this is why mom always used porters when we traveled. Uniformed men and women would squeeze between other travelers scrabbling for their bags, grab a suitcase and get out of the crush of bodies. Thoughts of her mother caused her knees to buckle. Her mother, who urged her to fly across the country to find the man she claimed was Cynthia’s father. Who died assuring her it was the right thing to do. The enormity of Cynthia’s undertaking settled on her. How would she be received by the man, even if she could find him? What if she found him and he thought she was some crackpot, or he thought she was lying? What if he didn’t even remember her mother?
Cynthia’s thoughts circled like carousel which appeared to be delivering everyone’s bags but hers. Just as the bag with the pompom came near, and before she could wrap her hand around its handle, a rough hand reached from behind her and clasped the bag. A man she had never seen dragged it onto the floor. He growled at Ponytail Man, “That’s mine.” She looked up into his face. He was tall and broad, wearing a suit and tie.
He righted the bag on its wheels, pulled up the handle, and said, “I’ll take the bag. Come with me, please. “
“What are you doing with my bag?” The words came out as a squeak. Cynthia tried to breathe, but her heart pounded so hard against her ribs she couldn’t take in air. She trembled all over. The man grasped her elbow and steered her from the carousel to a bench a few feet away. He pulled her carry-on with his other hand.
“Sit down,” he commanded, cocking his head toward the bench. She sat and he stood over her, his body a shield between her and the other passengers. She craned her neck to look at his face.
“Who are you? Why are you taking my bags?” Her voice sounded shrill. He ignored her and scanned the claims area, obviously looking for someone. The light lunch she’d eaten on the plane soured in her stomach. She swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths. To hide her trembling hands, she held them under her knees.
She’d been warned about strange men at airports who preyed on young women traveling alone. Would this man be bold enough to harm her with all these witnesses around? Maybe he meant to abduct her and take her away somewhere. But why? Instinct told her she should scream. Surely one of these many passengers would help her. She was about to call out for help when she spotted Ponytail Man, now leaning against a pillar at the carousel. He stared at her as if trying to communicate. Agitation showed on his face. Moving to hide himself behind a cluster of passengers still waiting for their bags, he gestured to her. She raised an eyebrow at him. With one arm outstretched, pointing, he mouthed, “Run!”
Chapter Two
Before she could respond to the warning, her accoster spoke into a microphone attached to his suit jacket. “Looks like the tip was solid,” he said to someone she couldn’t see. “I have the suspect in custody. I’m bringing her in.”
Cynthia jerked back against the bench. “Suspect?” Blood rushed to her head. She felt faint. “Who are you? Why are you calling me a suspect?”
Gesturing to a near-empty hallway, he said, “No need to cause a scene. My office is just down that corridor. Come with me.”
Maybe it was the notion of leaving the security of the crowded baggage claim area for some unknown location where she’d have no witnesses, but finally the warnings about strangers kicked in. “I need to see your ID.”
He rested the large bag against the edge of the bench and reached into his coat pocket. He extracted a laminated card and held it out. “I’m Agent McSwain.”
She examined the card. “Drug Enforcement? I don’t do drugs. What do you want with me?” She pushed the card back toward him and he pocketed it.
The agent stooped and grasped the handle of the large case again. “I’ll take this. You’re going to follow me.”
She was about to ask another question when a woman wearing a gray suit and low-heeled shoes joined McSwain. He pointed to her and said, “Agent Donaldson.”
McSwain addressed the agent. “Let’s try to do this without a fuss. Just cuff her in front, throw her jacket over the cuffs, and take her arm. Follow me.”
Donaldson pushed the carry-on toward McSwain
Cynthia stood and offered Donaldson her hands. The agent snapped on plastic flex-cuffs, checked they weren’t too tight, rested Cynthia’s jean jacket over the cuffs.
“Walk.” Donaldson held Cynthia ‘s elbow.
She walked with the agent, trying to stop trembling.
McSwain turned into an empty office with a frosted glass door, stashed the bags against one wall, and motioned for Donaldson to help Cynthia onto the small two-seater sofa against the other wall. When she was seated, he stood behind the only desk in the room and placed his phone on the desktop. He pushed a button.
“I’m recording this,” he said to Cynthia.
“You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you do not have an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
He looked up. “Do you understand?”
“I want to call my dad.”
Chapter Three
McSwain’s face scrunched into a frown. “Who might that be?”
As scared as she was, she didn’t want to make this situation worse. She’d seen on television cop shows that they didn’t like it if you asked for a lawyer. Fear won out, and she raised her chin.
“His name is John Robbins,” she said, steadying her voice. “His wife is an attorney. She’ll help me.”
McSwain spoke into the phone. “Suspect has requested counsel. I’m allowing her to make a phone call.”
“My phone is in my carry-on,” Cynthia told him.
He handed her his phone.
“I need a piece of paper from my jacket pocket,” she said. “I wrote down his number.”
McSwain nodded to Donaldson. She lifted the girl’s jacket from the seat beside her, searched the pockets and brought out a small piece of notebook paper. “Is this it?”
“Yes. Can you read me the number?”
The agent read off a 704 area code and the other seven digits.
Cynthia said, “Can you make the call for me?” She held up the phone in her cuffed hands.
Donaldson pressed the numbers and held the phone to Cynthia’s ear. She listened to the ringing and when a man answered, she said, “Is this John Robbins?”
The voice on the other end said, “Yes, who is this?”
“Cynthia Archer. I think I’m your daughter. And I need help.”
Silence.
Cynthia realized both agents were staring at her. “I’m Beth Archer’s daughter.” The words tumbled out. So they wouldn’t think she was lying, she hurried to explain. “My mom died last month. When she knew she only had a few days left, she told me about you and to come find you. I just landed in Charlotte. DEA agents are arresting me. They claim I have drugs.”
Robbins snapped, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But whatever scam you’re running, I’m not biting. Don’t call me again.”
“Please,” Cynthia nearly shouted. “Don’t hang up. You can talk to these agents. They’ll explain.” Her eyes bored into Donaldson, who handed the phone to McSwain. McSwain put the phone on speaker.
“Sir, this is Agent Jack McSwain. This young woman says she’s your daughter. I have no idea if that’s true. But I am arresting her. For drug smuggling. According to her documents, she’s eighteen. She can be interviewed without a parent present. But she’s asked for a lawyer, and she says your wife is a lawyer.”
Robbins said, “I don’t have a daughter. At least not that I know of. I did know a woman named Beth Archer years ago. My wife is a lawyer. Let me speak with her. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, sir. It would help if we could interview Miss Archer as soon as possible.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Robbins said. McSwain laid the phone on the desk.
Cynthia rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes.
Please let them help me, she prayed silently.
Chapter Four
To Cynthia, the dog looked like a small bear. A man in a SWAT-type uniform brought him into the room on a short, thick leash. She didn’t know who was scarier, the man or the dog. She cringed at the sight of them and cowered in the corner of the sofa, lifting her feet off the floor and drawing her knees up. The dog sat without moving until Donaldson rolled Cynthia’s large suitcase in front of him. He paced around it once, then twice, and pawed the floor next to the case.
“Good boy, Bruno,” the handler said. He nodded at the agents and led the dog out of the room.
McSwain turned to Donaldson. “Add that to the probable cause affidavit. And tell our people to get the warrant here yesterday. If the kid’s dad really does bring his wife, she’ll want to see it.”
Donaldson left the room and leaned on a pillar outside, talking on her phone. When she re-entered the room, she gave McSwain a thumbs-up.
For the next few minutes, he busied himself scrolling through his phone, occasionally deleting messages. Donaldson sat on a chair next to the sofa, keeping an eye on Cynthia.
McSwain held his phone out for Donaldson to see. “Read this.”
She read what he pointed out to her and squinted at him. “Do you think it’s Cassandra Robbins from the Asheville case? The one the cartel targeted?”
“Seems to be,” he said. “I heard she saved Poole’s life. Never confirmed it with him.” He retrieved his phone and turned it around so Cynthia could see the screen. “Know this woman?”
A slender woman with curly auburn hair, a white streak on one side, walked toward the camera, talking to whomever was filming the video. She removed sunglasses to reveal hazel eyes. She smiled and waved at the videographer. A mid-sized dog with large ears pranced next to her side and sat down. She rubbed his head, leaned down to hug him.
Cynthia watched the video. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“How about him?” McSwain advanced the video and pointed.
A tall man, looking fit and strong, leaned against a blue and yellow van, Doggone Good stenciled in large yellow letters on its side. His dark hair curled around his shirt collar. His smile revealed perfect teeth.
“No. Is that my dad?”
McSwain turned the phone back to see it. “I googled John Robbins. This one lives in Fairdale, North Carolina. He’s married to Cassandra Robbins. She’s the woman in the picture. She’s a lawyer.”
Cynthia looked down. “I wouldn’t recognize him. I’ve never seen him. Or a picture. All I have is what my mom told me. She only told me because she knew she was dying. She said I have a right to know.”
Donaldson moved her hand in a chopping gesture. McSwain grunted. “No more chatting until a lawyer gets here. Hopefully, Robbins will call back in a minute.”
Chapter Five
John Robbins closed the gate to the dog run, his phone still in one hand. He walked in a daze. Who in the world is this young woman? He remembered Beth Archer, and yes, they’d had a brief relationship. But she never said anything about a child. She left town when they split up and he’d never heard from her again.
She’d had nearly twenty years to tell him if he’d fathered a child. Why now? Was this some kind of scam? He didn’t want to think about the consequences if this girl was telling the truth. Just when he and Cass were settling into their life together. They’d divorced twenty-plus years ago and reunited only last year. Over two decades had passed since the loss of their still-born child. They were dealing with the unresolved grief and the resulting breakup. Healing separately and together. The last thing he wanted was something to interrupt the progress they’d made.
He went into his office and sat down. What am I going to tell Cass? He’d have to tell her the truth. But how? What would she do? He couldn’t hurt her again. That much he knew.
He closed the office door and rested his head in his hands. The other trainers were working with dogs in the exercise area, so they wouldn’t be coming into the office.
He dialed Cass.
“Hey. What’s up?” Her voice sounded warm and cheerful.
He didn’t really know where to begin. Better just get it out there, like pulling a splinter. Quicker was easier. “I need your help.”
