by Debbi Mack
“Neither do I. And neither does Curtis.” The voice turned acidic.
“Then tell him to get his ass over here to see me or meet me at a decent hour. Or better still, ask him to call me himself. Thanks.”
I hung up, stared at the phone and shook my head. I’d set it aside and started driving when it rang again. The caller ID showed the same number.
I flipped it open. “Hello, is this Curtis’s good friend again?”
“Come to Bower Farms,” the caller intoned, “if you want to see Curtis Little alive.”
This time the caller hung up on me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
After calling Jamila to tell her not to wait up for me, I got on the phone to Amber Moore to get the exact address. Then I called 911 and told them about the call. I turned the car around and headed back toward the processing plant, wondering who or what I’d find. As for Jamila, I figured the less she knew, the better.
When I arrived on the scene, the lot where we’d parked mere hours earlier was overflowing with cars. Many of them sported rooftop visibars, creating a red-and-blue disco scene. Uniformed cops swarmed the grounds. One stood at the door, apparently on guard.
I walked up to the cop on guard. “What’s happening?”
He looked at me. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sam McRae. I was the one who got the phone calls.”
I won’t say his jaw dropped, but his eyes betrayed shock. “The detective will want to talk to you,” he said, his voice much calmer than he looked.
Great. I waited as the young man spoke into a walkie-talkie, then turned back to me and said, “He’ll be here in a moment.”
I smiled. “Thank you.” I think.
The door opened and a man with a face cut from granite emerged. He stood roughly an inch shorter than me, but looked solid. His hair was dark and wavy, with ripples of gray threading through it.
“Detective Amos Morgan,” he said without preamble. His arm extended and I grasped a hand as hard and calloused as a cowboy’s.
“Sam McRae.”
“Tell me about these phone calls.”
I did so, as he scribbled in a small spiral notepad.
“Would you recognize this Curtis Little if you saw him?”
I thought back, trying to picture the guy in the lot who wasn’t Billy Ray or Dwayne.
“Maybe,” was about the best I could do.
“Come with me.”
We entered the building. The lights were on, eerie as I remembered them. The equipment must have been hosed down because it looked clean. The walls, however, still looked sticky. The floors still wet.
Detective Morgan and I picked our way toward a dark shape forming in the gloom. A couple of jumpsuited technicians were setting up lights, as if for a photography shoot. As we drew close, the lights snapped on.
I sucked in a breath. I remembered the face. Curtis Little. He slumped from one of the hooks used to move the chickens down the conveyor.
“Is that him?” Morgan prompted.
“Uh huh.”
Little’s face was sheet white in the glare of the lamps. His heavy-lidded eyes expressionless.
“How …?” My voice trailed off.
“Stabbed in the gut.” Morgan pointed toward Little’s abdomen with his pen. The lower part of the dark shirt he wore was wet. A bloodstain.
*****
“So what was your connection to Little?” Morgan asked for the fifth or sixth time. We sat in his car at the scene. He asked questions and took lots of notes.
“I told you, Little was with Billy Ray the day he harassed me and Jamila Williams. I’ve been trying to touch base with him without success. Frankly, getting people to talk to me has been hard. The phone calls were weird to say the least.”
“Did you perceive Little as a threat?”
“Are you kidding? Of course not.”
“Even though those calls were from his phone?”
“Like I said, I didn’t recognize the number. Or the voice.”
“What about your friend?”
“My friend knows nothing about this. Nothing.”
Morgan gave me his best cop stare. I had no more to say.
“You realize you may have been the last one to talk to him?” he said.
“Other than the killer,” I added.
He smirked. “Right.”
My stomach clenched. Why did he sound so sarcastic?
*****
By the time Morgan cut me loose, it was in the early hours of Thursday morning. Too late, I supposed, to talk to the eyewitness. Maybe. Just for kicks, when I got to Bayview Drive, I passed the condo and checked the address. To my surprise, lights were on inside the place. Almost every window. You’d have thought it was early evening instead of the wee hours. Maybe Roger Powers was a night worker. That would explain his presence so late at the scene of Billy Ray’s murder.
I pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. Silence descended. Not even gulls were crying. Traffic noise was muted. Only the rhythmic swish of water on nearby bulkheads was audible. It felt like I had cotton in my ears.
I exited the car and proceeded up the driveway to a curved walkway leading to the rambler’s front door. The porch light was on. A party? Midweek? When I reached the door, I heard the faint sound of music. Classical? I knocked, tentatively.
I glanced at my watch. 2 A.M. Good grief. Powers was either a night worker or a serious insomniac.
The door opened up. A tall young man in his mid to late twenties with short dark hair and a faintly distracted look opened up. “Can I help you?” he asked, blinking.
For a moment, I simply froze. It was 2:00 in the morning, and I was questioning an eyewitness who claimed to have seen my best friend at the scene of a murder. What should I ask him? Why isn’t my brain working? Maybe because it’s 2 A.M. Duh!
I snapped out of my reverie. “Hi. I couldn’t help noticing you were up. My name is Sam McRae and I’m an attorney representing the suspect in the murder that took place down the street. Would you have time to answer a few questions?”
He nodded and said, “Sure. C’mon in.”
I breathed a sigh. Now, how hard was that?
*****
Ten minutes later, I’d learned that Roger Powers was a musician. This explained the nocturnal schedule. Powers was in a band that played regular gigs around town. A variety of oldies and album rock. Anything from the late ’60s up to the early ’90s.
Powers offered coffee, which I gratefully accepted. I drank my way through three cups and endured a mind-numbing exchange of polite chitchat to warm him up for my laundry list of questions.
Me: “Do you wear glasses?”
Powers: “No. My vision is 20-20.”
Me: “What were you doing at the time you saw this person on the stairs?”
Powers: “I work as a musician. I was coming home from a gig.”
Me: “What gig?”
Powers: “A gig at a local hotel. The Oceanfront Arms.”
Me: “Had you had anything to drink? As in alcohol?”
Powers: “No. I was sober. I don’t do drugs either.”
Me: “So how good a look did you get at this person on the stairs?”
Powers: “She was in shadow, but I could see enough to tell it was a tall, thin dark woman.”
Me: “When you picked her out of the lineup, what made you so sure you picked the right one?”
Powers: “The build, the clothing, her complexion. It was all as I remembered it.”
Me: “But you say her face was in shadow?”
Powers: “Well … yes, but …”
Me: “What?”
Powers: “I could still see enough of her features to be sure it was her.”
Me: “You’re certain?”
Powers: “Absolutely. Was there anything else?”
After attempting to pick apart his version of that night with a few more questions, I called it qui
ts. However, I wondered how much more there was to his story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I was going to drive the few blocks back to the condo, but I was too wired from all that damned coffee. I headed toward Coastal Highway instead. Tomorrow was Thursday. Hell, it was already Thursday.
Conference attendees would probably appear in force on Friday. A few early birds might show tomorrow—I meant today. Snap!
In the meantime, had Betsy Larkin heard about Jamila on the news and pulled her from the program? And what about Jinx? Time was running out. I needed answers, right now. And I could barely keep track of what day it was.
I pulled up at the red light at the intersection and considered which way to go. North toward Delaware? South toward downtown? Did it matter? At this time of night, nothing was going on in either place.
Curtis Little was dead. Who would have killed him? Did it have anything to do with Billy Ray’s murder? Were they completely unrelated? What were the chances?
Thoughts were careering through my overcaffeinated brain like rabid gerbils. Then another one jumped out: what the hell has Conroy been doing? My overheated ponderings wound down like a wheezing diesel engine.
Just what had that patronizing son of a bitch been up to, anyhow?
As if on autopilot, I made a left toward his house after the light turned green. I had no clue what I intended to do when I got there.
The highway had fewer cars, but more than I’d expect at that hour of the morning. Probably underage drinkers. June bugs out on the town. I did my best to play keep-away from the ones weaving from lane to lane.
Ocean City isn’t exactly Las Vegas, but it does have all-night miniature golf courses. Well, maybe closer to Disney, without the costumed characters. Add in the many T-shirt shops and candy stores and all-you-can-eat buffets and it’s almost Vegas, minus the gambling and the leggy showgirls.
When you reach the north end, the high-rise condos are more evocative of Miami, although the resemblance ends there. Just try and find a Cuban anything.
I reached Conroy’s street and made the turn. I had no idea what I expected to find. What I didn’t expect to find were lights on in his house and two cars parked in front—Conroy’s blue Toyota and one I didn’t recognize. Now who could be visiting at this hour, apart from a hyperactive attorney with time on her hands and nowhere else to go?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Okay, I thought. Don’t be ridiculous. Conroy might have a female visitor. He’s entitled to a social life.
Assuming that’s who the visitor was. I hate assumptions.
I noted the car was a silver late-model compact with Delaware tags.
So, now what? Bust in on Conroy at nearly 3:00 in the morning, probably in flagrante delicto?
The guy already loved me, so that would go over really well.
I pulled up to the curb across the street and watched the house. In a window, a shadow flickered past the blind. Then another.
“Hmm.” I squirmed and tapped a staccato beat on the wheel. Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Nothing.
As my watch crept up on the twenty-minute mark, I prepared to exit the car, figuring I’d sneak up to a window and take a peek inside. That’s when I saw it coming up the street. The beat-up green Chevy with the walleyed headlights.
I slammed the door shut, started the car and took off. The green Chevy did a three-point turn in a driveway and followed.
“What the hell?” I muttered. I put my foot to floor and careened out onto the highway, tires screeching.
The green Chevy lumbered around the corner and roared after me.
Despite the hour, I still had to contend with some traffic. Very little, but enough to make driving 80 miles an hour a bit more than a walk in the park. No choice. Whatever it took, I had to get rid of this pest on my tail.
One problem: I was headed straight into downtown Ocean City. I needed to go in the other direction. On this course, I’d end up at a dead end and a turnabout. I kept going, not knowing what else to do, zooming by block after block. I glanced up in the rear view. The Chevy was gaining on me.
But Jamila’s Beemer had the power to go toe-to-toe with the vintage muscle car. I stood on the gas pedal. I was almost airborne. Gaining distance now. I passed a bus and cut in front with room to spare. Smashed my foot on the brake. Made a quick turn at the next street. Kept going, checking the rear view. No sign of the Chevy. Must have passed the street. I turned into a deserted alley, jerked to a stop and gulped in air.
Once I’d brought my breathing under control, I asked myself who the hell would want to follow me and why.
I thought back to when I’d first seen the green car. My gut clenched.
The car had first appeared at Curtis Little’s trailer park, the last time I’d tried to see him. The last time, as far as I knew, that he’d been alive.
*****
All right. If I assumed that Little was involved in illicit drug trafficking with Dwayne Sutterman, perhaps the people in the green car had something to do with that. Or not. I was too tired to think straight and way too wired, especially after racing like a stunt driver down Coastal Highway, to just go home and go to bed.
I placed my forehead on the wheel and let my mind go blank for a moment.
It was Thursday and time was ticking down until Jamila’s presentation. Plus Jinx was threatening to expose everything about my ill-advised fling with Ray unless I played ball with her. And I felt no closer to understanding anything.
I closed my eyes and drifted off for a moment.
I opened them and jerked upright. The sky was still dark, but lightening to the east. I checked my watch. 5:30? Good grief. I rubbed my eyes. I had a crick in my neck. My forehead felt sore where it had lain against the wheel. I massaged both areas.
Then my phone rang.
I picked it up and opened it.
“Yeah.” I sounded like a groaning wooden board.
“Sam?” It was Jamila. She sounded worried.
“Hi. Yeah. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” I sputtered the words. I couldn’t seem to make long sentences.
“Where’ve you been all night?”
“Uhhhh.” This was about the most articulate thing I could conjure up. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
I disconnected before she could ask more and turned off the phone.
After taking a moment to get my bearings, I started the car and headed back toward the highway. The dark-blue eastern sky was striped with fiery orange and salmon pink. I succumbed to temptation and turned left into a parking area near the boardwalk.
Pulling into a spot and locking the car, I climbed the ramp to the boardwalk and crossed to the rail. I leaned on the cold metal and felt the refreshing ocean breeze blow against me. The horizon blazed in Technicolor shades of pink, yellow, and blue along with the hot reddish-orange ball of the sun. Above the water, gulls circled and cried mournfully. A lone bicyclist rolled down the boardwalk behind me.
I shivered and crossed my arms. The beach was desolate. The waves washing up on the sand seemed less soothing than corrosive. Pounding the shore, over and over.
I stood alone and watched, a stranger in a strange land. Feeling no more welcome than a visitor from an alien planet.
*****
After a good half hour watching the sun come up and feeling sorry for myself, I pulled it together. I wasn’t going to accomplish anything standing there staring at the beach.
“C’mon, Sam,” I muttered. “You’ve been in tougher spots than this. Get going.”
I turned and marched back to the ramp, descending to the lot where the car was parked. I unlocked the car, slid inside, inserted the key and turned it. Nothing happened.
“What the f-!”
If it had been my car, I wouldn’t have been surprised. My old ’67 Mustang was a purple piece of shit on wheels. But this was Jamila’s Beemer. I tried the key again. Nothing. No click, no grumble of an engine trying to start.
<
br /> “Ohhh!” I could have wept. I sat, staring straight ahead, and realized the hood looked slightly bent. And not quite closed. Like it had been jimmied open.
“Fuck me!” I jumped out and ran to the front of the car. I could easily see the damage now. I jiggled the catch and opened the hood fully. Wires had been pulled out all over. A random act of vandalism.
“Fucking June bugs,” I said to myself. Or was it? Who else could have done this? Who else indeed?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I was no closer to finding Billy Ray’s real killer, and I’d managed to get Jamila’s car vandalized. Now, I’d have the thankless job of explaining that to her, made doubly hard by staying out all night then hanging up after she’d called to make sure I was okay.
I held my throbbing head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was all a terrible nightmare. I ventured to open them and, unfortunately, it was all too real.
Heaving a sigh, I slammed the hood shut, locked the car and started walking.
At barely the crack o’ dawn, I chose not to call Jamila right away about the car. I burned with guilt. I hoped that she’d simply gone back to sleep and thought no more about me after I’d ended our call so summarily. Didn’t she have enough problems?
The odor of fried eggs, potatoes, and coffee lured me. When was the last time I’d eaten? My stomach felt hollow as a basketball. A gurgling basketball. I followed the scent to a corner café. Like a lemming drawn over a cliff, I lunged through the door and made for the counter.
The waitress, her curly red hair bound up in a net, bounced around the joint in a light blue waitress outfit. She held a coffee pot in one hand and wore a large lipsticked smile. Bright red. Naturally, her name was Flo. She filled a nearby customer’s cup, chattering nonstop, and sauntered my way.
“How’s it hangin’, hon?” she asked, pen poised over pad.
“Great,” I said, lying like a rug. “Can I get a waffle, three scrambled eggs, two sides of bacon, a side of potatoes, and all the coffee you can spare me? And throw in a blueberry muffin, while you’re at it.”