Riptide

by Debbi Mack

  Mulrooney sighed. “There’s another thing.”

  No. Not another thing.

  “My sources tell me hairs were found on the clothing. Coarse, dark hairs.” He looked at Jamila and sighed. “You can bet they’ll do DNA testing on those.”

  I shook my head, as if it could wipe everything away. “They could’ve gotten those off her comb.” Seemed like a reasonable explanation. To me, anyhow. Would it just sound like an excuse to someone else?

  Mulrooney gazed at me with a thoughtful expression. “There’s more to this than simply the evidence. We’re dealing with a highly influential Eastern Shore family.”

  My jaw dropped. “What’s that have to do with anything?” Like I didn’t know.

  Mulrooney grunted. “Marshall Bower and his son, Junior, carry a lot of political clout. Now, assuming the DNA evidence implicates you”—he nodded toward Jamila—“they’ll probably take this to a grand jury and seek an indictment for first-degree murder.”

  He paused and looked down. “Given what I’ve said—not to mention certain other circumstances—it’s best we avoid that.”

  “What other circumstances?” I asked.

  Mulrooney said nothing. I looked at Jamila. She wouldn’t look back.

  Was it because Jamila was black?

  “Can’t we move this case somewhere less …” I fumbled for the word. “Prejudicial?”

  “I could ask the court. As you know, a change in venue would be at the court’s discretion. No guarantees.” Mulrooney stared fixedly at his desk. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you realize it is my job to prepare you for the worst.”

  I sighed. Jamila sat up straight. “So … what would my options be?” she said, looking braced for impact.

  Mulrooney leaned on his forearms, hands clasped as if in supplication. “Of course, I’ll do everything I can to dismiss any of their evidence or buy us time. I’ll request the venue change. However, assuming the worst, the only sure way to avoid an indictment and trial is through a plea bargain. Most likely a plea to involuntary manslaughter based on diminished capacity.”

  I jumped up. “No. Way.”

  The elderly lawyer’s gaze drifted my way. “I believe that’s the client’s decision.”

  “Jamila wants to be a judge. She’s wanted that ever since law school. As long as I’ve known her. Do you realize what a guilty plea would do to her career?”

  Mulrooney nodded, looking sad. “Yes.”

  “Then you have to know that’s unacceptable.”

  I looked at Jamila for confirmation. She looked thunderstruck. “Surely,” she said, in a near whisper. “It won’t have to come to that.”

  “Let us hope not. However, you need to be ready for the possibility.” Mulrooney’s look bore into me. “The only other possibility is to come up with another suspect. I’ve made it clear to Conroy that he needs to treat this case as his first priority. We need to dig up something that’ll blow their case out of the water.”

  I nodded, thinking, I’ll be damned if I rely on Conroy for that.

  *****

  Before we left, Mulrooney advised Jamila to lay low and avoid talking to anyone else about the case without counsel present. “Let your attorneys handle everything,” he said. Jamila concurred, but seemed to respond on autopilot.

  As we drove back to the motel, I warned Jamila about the media’s awareness of her situation. She only nodded and stared straight ahead.

  “Jamila.” I paused, considering my next words. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  She sighed. “Nothing important.”

  I wished I could believe her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  After dropping Jamila at the motel, I had to act. But where to start? The eyewitness. What was his name? Mulrooney hadn’t said, and I’d neglected to ask. I called Mulrooney and left a message. Now what? Start with Billy Ray’s friends. They knew about the confrontation. They also could’ve stolen the knife and clothes. They’d be the logical ones to frame Jamila. But who were they? And assuming I could track them down, what would I do? Torture them into confessing? Right.

  Time was my enemy. The preliminary hearing was in two weeks. And Jamila’s presentation was in three days. So I had only so much time to … what exactly? Exonerate Jamila? Do damage control?

  I took a moment to think and try to pick a sensible course. Maybe I should start with the name I did know—Marshall Bower. Perhaps there was something to be learned from Billy Ray’s stepfather, the man with all the local pull.

  Sam McRae, girl of action, decided to find an Internet café. I figured it would take me all of five minutes to look him up.

  The “café” turned out to be one lonely terminal tucked in the corner of a forlorn shop that sold cheap T-shirts in one of the strip malls a couple of miles north on Coastal Highway. They charged an outrageous $20 for ten minutes. I figured I’d rather cough up the cash than run back to the condo, fetch Jamila’s laptop and hunt around looking for free Wi-Fi.

  As the connection—dial up, no less!—crept to life, I checked my watch. Almost 10:30. Okay, I had time. Still it was mere hours away from my meeting with Jinx. It felt like waiting to have a tooth pulled.

  When the home page finally downloaded, I checked my favorite directory. Three listings for a Marshall Bower in Maryland. None of them in the area.

  “Shit.” Unlisted, no doubt. Given his apparent stature in the community, I guessed it was his way of avoiding contact with the hoi polloi.

  I Googled the name, throwing in the terms “Eastern Shore” and “Ocean City.” Results! Among the top hits was a blog post about Bower Farms, Inc. Bower, who reportedly owned amusement rides, arcades, a few hotels, and other real estate holdings, had diversified last year into the poultry business—big business on the Eastern Shore. His outfit was small compared to the heavy hitters like Perdue and Tyson, but according to the post dated two months ago, the company was making aggressive inroads into the industry. Enough to where it put the local farm and migrant worker protection groups on alert. The blog had been created by just such a group. The Farmworker Protection League, aka FPL. Interesting.

  With another glance at my watch, I quickly Googled Bower Farms, Inc., for its address and phone number. A few more clicks and I had it mapped and printed on a dusty, but functioning ink jet printer.

  With minutes to spare, I checked the blog for contact information. No phone number, just a gmail address. I went into my email and quickly shot off a message, expressing an interest in talking to someone at FPL about Bower Farms, and Marshall Bower and family, in particular. If Bower had the kind of clout that could end up railroading my best friend into pleading guilty to something she didn’t do, I intended to find the guy’s Achilles’ heel.

  In the meantime, I’d learn what I could on my own.

  With address and map in hand, I went off in search of Bower Farms.

  *****

  Thirty minutes later, I was cooling my heels in the reception area decorated in soothing shades of red, yellow, black, and white. Soothing, that is, if you enjoy that particular riot of colors. Bower, for reasons known only to him and against all better judgment, had chosen to emphasize his loyalty to Maryland by doing up his office in the colors of the state’s flag. A bit jarring to the eye and unlikely to win any awards from Interior Design Magazine.

  Bower’s receptionist, Gwen, a woman who looked to be in her early sixties with blonde hair piled high in a do that was (in an odd coincidence of sorts) fashionable during the early ’60s, had told me Mr. Bower had a full schedule and was on a conference call at that time, but he might be able to “squeeze” me in if I waited. While waiting to be squeezed, I selected a magazine from the array on the ebony coffee table. Poultry Today. And the latest issue, too. How lucky can a girl get?

  I was perusing one of the front-section department items (“Chicken Feed”—a gossip column for poultry farmers, if you can believe that), when I overheard
Gwen say, “Oh, yes. All right.” She paused and nodded with vigor, perhaps attempting to make the movement visible through the phone. “I understand. Yes. Okay. I’ll tell her.”

  She placed the receiver in the cradle as gently as a jeweler placing a Faberge egg in a packing carton.

  I leaned forward and bared my teeth in what I hoped resembled a winning smile. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. Tell me what?”

  Gwen’s gaze flicked briefly to the desk blotter, then the wall over my shoulder, as if she were searching for the answer somewhere in the gaudy room.

  “Let me guess. Mr. Bower won’t be able to squeeze me in?”

  “I … I’m afraid not.” Gwen gave me a beseeching look.

  “Perhaps I could schedule another time to meet him?”

  “Well …” Her face contorted and she bit her lip. This was not looking good. “That may be complicated.”

  I took a deep breath. “Why is that?”

  “Mr. Bower says he wants to have his lawyer present if he talks to you. I’d need to coordinate his schedule, as well.” She sounded as perplexed as she looked. I felt almost the same. Almost.

  I closed the magazine and, grinning with all I had, rose and said, “Tell you what. I’ll call you later to set something up, okay? By the way, this is really great reading. Do you mind if I take it with me?”

  *****

  As I left Bower Farms’ paean to all things Maryland, I reached a stunningly obvious conclusion: this is a small community. People talk to each other. They already know who I am and what I’m doing. It’s going to be really hard to get any useful information from anyone. That’s why Conroy was hired. Duh!

  By heading directly for Marshall Bower, I had in effect thrown myself at a brick wall. Of course, I hadn’t thought that a man who wasn’t accused of anything would lawyer up. What was that all about?

  When I returned to the motel, I found a note from Jamila saying she’d gone to the beach to relax and try to forget. After a quick call to her cell phone (which she’d turned off or wasn’t answering), I left a message about needing to use her laptop to do some research. Not waiting for a yea or nay on this issue, I took the laptop to the nearest coffee shop with Wi-Fi. I tried looking into Billy Ray Wesley’s background, seeking anything that would point to another person or thing I could investigate about the man. Scanning the local news items, I ran across a really interesting tidbit.

  About four months ago, the local paper had announced that Billy Ray was engaged to a Danielle Beranski. Danni, I thought. The quiet one who had hung back while the others followed their leader to the car after that first encounter.

  The engagement must have been called off, since Danni was “no longer his girl,” as I recalled. So, what was she doing hanging out with the guy? Maybe they’d decided to part as friends. Or maybe there was more to Danni than met the eye. Either way, she seemed like an excellent source of dirt on good old Billy Ray.

  I looked up D. Beranski and found a local address and phone. After pinpointing her location on a map, I called the number (using *67 to shield my own) and got voice mail delivered in the shy girl’s distinctly faltering tone. I disconnected without leaving a message and shut down the computer.

  Surely, it wouldn’t be stepping on Ellis Conroy’s toes to have a short talk with Danni Beranski.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Danni Beranski lived in an old Victorian in Berlin (pronounced BER-lin, emphasis on the first syllable, unlike the German namesake), a small town only a few minutes drive from Ocean City. Its gingerbread brown with yellow trim had faded a bit with time and weather, but a realtor could still call it “quaint,” as opposed to a “fabulous fixer-upper.”

  Climbing the creaky porch steps, I rang the doorbell and practiced smiling.

  Eventually, a blonde woman in jeans and an oversized T-shirt opened up. She could have been Danni’s mother, although she looked young for that.

  “Hi. Is Danni here?”

  She looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “And who are you?”

  “I … met Danni recently. There was something we discussed and I was hoping to continue that discussion.”

  Still looking uncertain, she said, “Okay. Your name?”

  “Sam McRae.”

  “Wait here, please,” she said, as she turned and half closed the door on me. So far, so good.

  When Danni opened the door, her eyes widened a moment. “Oh, hi,” she said.

  “Hi, Danni. I know we didn’t meet under the best circumstances, but I hoped we could talk a little about your ex-boyfriend.” The dead one. “Would that be okay?”

  “Sure.” Danni stepped outside and shut the door behind her. She gestured toward a porch swing and a sturdy rocking chair.

  I sat in the rocker and took in the view of small-town America. The air was perfumed with a heady floral scent.

  “This seems like a nice place to live,” I lied through my teeth. The thought of living in a place so small everyone knew everyone else’s business gave me the creeps.

  “It’s okay.” Danni perched on the swing and twisted a strand of hair.

  “Was that your mother I just met?”

  “Oh, no. That’s Jill. I rent one of her rooms.”

  “Just so you know, I’m helping my friend, Jamila, defend against any charges that she killed Billy Ray.”

  She nodded, looking off into the middle distance.

  “I understand that you were once engaged to Billy Ray. Can I ask what happened?”

  “He …” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “It just didn’t work out.”

  “Did he call it off?”

  “No. I did.” She spoke with more conviction than I’d heard up to that point.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why?”

  She shook her head, mute. For a moment, I thought she was refusing to answer.

  Finally, she said, “Things with him were too weird ….”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was into things that I didn’t want to get involved with.”

  I nodded. Now, we were getting somewhere.

  “What things?”

  “Business stuff. I’m not sure exactly, but I think a lot of it wasn’t on the up and up.”

  Now, we were really getting somewhere.

  “Could any of those things have involved people who might want to kill him?”

  Her expression distorted, and I thought she was going to cry, but instead she laughed. “Plenty of people might have wanted to kill him.”

  “Anyone specific?” I had to restrain myself from grabbing and shaking her.

  “Not really.”

  “He seemed to have a lot of friends. You, for instance, remained friends?”

  “Friends? Ha! People just used him. Why not? He was being groomed to take over his stepdaddy’s business. Funny how many friends you make when you go from rags to riches.”

  If I hadn’t been careful, my jaw might have dropped into my lap. “So, he wasn’t always rich?”

  “No.” Her mouth pursed with distaste. “His mother was trailer trash who married Marshall Bower for his money. Everyone knows it.”

  “So everyone sucked up to him. Is that how it was?”

  “Oh, yeah. And talk about a dysfunctional family.” She raised her hands and slid off the porch swing onto her feet. “It was a horrible situation, and I didn’t want to marry into that. On top of everything else …”

  She stopped and looked at me. “Anything else you want to know?”

  I pondered the question. What about Junior?

  “You said Billy Ray was being groomed to take over the business. Why not Marshall Jr.?”

  She chuckled. “Junior? Billy Ray can be a class-A jerk, but he has basic common sense. Junior doesn’t have the business savvy Billy Ray does. Or did.”

  “So if Bower didn’t trust Junior with the business, I take it Billy Ray was his only alternative?”
/>
  “We-e-ll.” She stretched the word out. “There was Marsha, but she flew the coop ages ago.”

  “Marsha?”

  “His daughter. She never got along with her dad, so she up and split. Hasn’t been seen round these parts in forever. Like I said. Dysfunctional. Totally sad.” She paused. “Anything else?”

  “Actually, yes.” I stood up. “Could you give me the names of everyone who was with Billy Ray the day my friend and I … first met him?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. But I don’t really think any of them killed him, to be honest.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well … Billy Ray could be difficult. But now that he’s dead, they’ve got no one to leech off.” She frowned. “I guess I was really no better. I should’ve steered clear of him and his groupies after we called the wedding off.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  I removed a small notebook and pen from my shoulder bag. “So … those names?”

  *****

  Danni turned out to be the proverbial gold mine of information, providing not only the names of Billy Ray’s groupies, but the address for Marshall Bower’s happy home. There’s nothing like love gone wrong to turn your average person into your very own confidential informant.

  Armed with my list of names and the laptop, I headed toward the nearest coffee shop with free Wi-Fi and looked up the addresses. I suspected none of these sources would be terribly forthcoming, but I had to start somewhere. I figured I’d take my chances with Karla Dixon, the busty redhead. Perhaps as a woman, I could more easily establish rapport with her.

  Karla lived in a recently built condo in West Ocean City—across the bridge from Ocean City proper. I climbed the outdoor stairs that led to the second level of the sleek, blue and gray building and turned down the walkway to reach Unit #204.