Riptide

by Debbi Mack

  Finally, Luisa suggested I try looking for more information about Dwayne at the trailer park where she used to live. A place where the most desperate people would seek extra income through extralegal means.

  *****

  The trailers jammed into Luisa’s former neighborhood made Curtis Little’s double-wide look like the Waldorf Astoria. A dirt road encircled the trailer park. We took it around, surveying the place, until we returned to the entrance. The place was practically buried in dust and reeked of raw sewage. A couple of swarthy men dressed in jeans and T-shirts sat in lawn chairs next to a trailer, tipping back beers. I checked my watch. 8:15? A little early for poultry workers or crab pickers. But not drug dealers.

  “Amber, I want to question those guys,” I said, pointing to the men.

  Amber looked unsure, but nodded. She pulled the car over and cut the ignition.

  We got out and walked toward the men, who were laughing and carrying on a raucous Spanish conversation. They paid no heed to us, but kept it up, even as I appeared right beside them.

  “Hola,” I said.

  One of them snickered. The other one sneered and took another swig of beer.

  “Do you know Dwayne Sutterman?” I asked.

  Mr. Snickers froze. Clearly, someone understood English. The Beer Swigger swallowed with an audible gulp and belched.

  I reached for my wallet and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “What can I get for this?”

  The Beer Swigger laughed. “I sell you all the beer in my fridge. How ’bout that?”

  After ten minutes of fruitless questioning, it became clear that these guys were probably drug dealers, and they weren’t going to help me in any way, shape, or form. So Amber and I got back in the car and split.

  “There’s got to be something I can follow up on,” I said. “I’m running out of time.”

  I thought again about the EPA’s interest. Was there anything there to explore?

  “You know, I’d really be interested in pursuing this environmental compliance angle a bit further,” I said. “Would you happen to know if Bower Farms used a consultant on these issues?”

  Amber said, “I might have a possible contact you could try.”

  Amber dropped me off at my scooter and I followed her to the office in Salisbury. There she rummaged through her files, looking for a letter or note or some scrap of information that might help.

  “This isn’t something we keep regular records on,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I assured her, checking my watch. Almost 8:45.

  She turned her attention to the papers strewn across her desk, pawing through them. “I could have sworn I had … yes!” She snatched up a business card and presented it to me with a flourish. “There you go. I got her card at a recent conference. I’m pretty sure she said they’ve specialized in start-ups, like Bower Farms.”

  I took a look at the card. It read: Greener Way Consultants. The slogan read, “Do green business and make more green.”

  I peered closer at the name and title in smaller print under the company name: Karla Dixon, CEO and Founder.

  Well, if it wasn’t Big Red. What do you know?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It was just past 10:30 when I marched up the steps of the blue and gray building in West Ocean City, strode the walkway to Unit #204 and rapped on the door.

  No answer. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing.

  I pounded on the door. Hard.

  I could sense her presence on the other side. Waiting.

  I rang the bell again. Over and over. And over.

  “Go away!” A muffled voice sounded from inside.

  “Avon calling!” I said.

  “I’ll call the cops.”

  “Oh, good. We can both talk to them about Greener Way Consultants and Billy Ray. Won’t that be fun?”

  Silence. The door opened a crack, which widened to reveal Karla. She was dressed in a purple tank top, frayed cutoffs and flip flops.

  Well, this is interesting, but I don’t have all day.

  “Karla, you forged documents, didn’t you—?”

  “Wait, wait! Come in. Come in.”

  Suddenly, Karla had become my best buddy. She couldn’t drag me into her condo fast enough. She certainly wasn’t slamming the door in my face this time.

  “Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Water?” Karla hovered near me.

  “No, thanks. This won’t take long.”

  I settled onto the sofa and Karla perched on the other end, hands twisting in her lap.

  “Karla, what if I told you the EPA is helping to investigate Curtis Little’s murder? And they’re searching his trailer right about now? And what if I told you I found false compliance documents for poultry producers that Bower Farms did business with? And that those documents were prepared by your company—Greener Way Consultants—and had your signature on them?

  “And what if I also told you I found them in Curtis Little’s trailer? Would that suggest a possible motive for his murder do you think?”

  Karla’s face turned chalk white. “No! I didn’t. I swear. It wasn’t me.”

  “Did Curtis try to blackmail you?”

  Tears leaked from Karla’s eyes. She nodded.

  I moved down the sofa and sat next to Karla, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

  Karla sobbed and hiccupped. Finally, she said, “Curtis was greedy. He felt he wasn’t getting his fair share.”

  “Fair share of what?”

  “We all took a cut of the larger operation.”

  “Which was?”

  “I didn’t ask questions.”

  Yeah, I thought. I’ll bet.

  “We were supposed to get equal shares,” she continued. “But Curtis said he wanted more, since he brought the workers in. That’s all I know. Honest!”

  “So, what were you paid for?”

  “Billy Ray knew the company couldn’t afford the kind of oversight program that the big companies like Perdue have. So he came to me and asked a favor. I did all the paperwork and he got his good PR in return. After that, he treated me like a goddamn queen. He couldn’t afford not to, right?”

  What was I hearing? Regret? Bitterness? Rage? Self-hatred?

  I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask.

  “Karla, did you love Billy Ray? Or did you do it just for the money?”

  She snorted. “What do you think?”

  I shook my head. “Like I’d know?”

  “Well, now what?” Karla said, backhanding the tears from her cheeks.

  “Tell me the truth. Is Dwayne Sutterman’s illegal drug trafficking part of the larger operation?”

  Karla shook her head. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t doubt it.” She stared at her lap.

  Not an admission, but not a denial, either. “Do you know where he works?”

  Karla laughed bitterly. “Dwayne works with the watermen, to the extent he works at all. When he’s not hanging out at his place, huffing weed, he’s either in a boat on the water or drinking beer with the other lowlifes at the Pirate’s Den down near the inlet.”

  “I see.” I rose. “Have you ever heard of Maria Benitez?”

  This drew a perplexed look and shake of her head.

  “Okay,” I said. “I have to go now. Thanks for confirming my theory.”

  “What?”

  I leaned toward her. “Karla, here’s a tip. When a lawyer says something in the form of a question, it’s usually a hypothetical. Now do you understand?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Pirate’s Den was a ramshackle building with weathered driftwood boards stacked into makeshift walls. I parked the scooter in the lot and climbed the wooden ramp to the entrance. A pirate’s skull-and-crossbones sign welcomed me. Cute.

  I pulled open the door and stared into a void. The bar was so dimly lit, I had to step inside and let my eyes adjust be
fore I could see a thing. It took a while. Eventually I made out a bar running along the back wall, old-fashioned lanterns hung on wrought iron posts, wooden beams, starfish, shells and other beachy doodads hanging from the fishnet on the walls. A few customers emerged from the dark.

  Now what? Should I shout, “Ahoy?” Blow a foghorn?

  I chose to move toward the bar, where a tall steroid addict was wiping the counter.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said, drawing him aside to speak out of earshot of the local drunks. “I wonder if you could help me.”

  Goliath glanced my way. “What’ll it be, lady?”

  “I’ll have a ginger ale. Has Dwayne Sutterman been in today?”

  He stopped wiping. He turned and gazed down at me. “Who wants to know?”

  I pulled the fifty-dollar bill from my wallet and waved it in his face. “Does it really matter?”

  My eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom, so I could see him squinting, brow creased in apparent thought.

  “So, can I have my ginger ale, please?” I asked.

  “Lady, ginger ale only costs a couple of bucks.”

  “I know. But I tip well.” I folded the note and tapped it on the bar. “If the service is good enough.”

  He tossed the rag aside, rattled some ice into a glass and hosed my drink into being. He produced a small napkin and placed it on the bar before setting the glass on it. He even gave me a straw.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Nice,” I said. “But not worth fifty bucks.”

  He exhaled. He actually seemed to shrink a bit.

  “Okay,” he said. “You didn’t hear this from me.” He leaned closer. “Dwayne was in here earlier. Word is he’s going down to the docks today. From the looks of it, he might be taking a long trip.”

  “Uh huh. And which dock?”

  He gave me the name of a marina and a dock number. A place less than half a mile from the Pirate’s Den.

  “Thanks, man.” I gave him the fifty. “Who says there’s no such thing as good service, anymore?”

  *****

  By the time I reached the marina, it was almost 11:30. Most of the watermen were out, so it wasn’t hard to spot Dwayne’s boat, The Wet Dream.

  If the boat was Dwayne’s idea of a wet dream, I had to wonder. Given its small size and relative state of disrepair, I thought The Rusty Bucket would have been more appropriate.

  I strolled down the pier toward The Wet Dream. Dwayne must have disappeared down the hatch or whatever it’s called. I stood watch over the floating piece of shit. Surely, he wasn’t expecting to get far in this thing, was he?

  I don’t know a damn thing about boats, but The Wet Dream was skuzzy, with slime growing like moss along the sides. Were those tiny shells clinging to the hull barnacles or what?

  Dwayne popped out of the hatch, like a stripper from a cake. Surprise!

  I took a moment to recover. “Hi, Dwayne.”

  He scowled. He was good at that. “How the hell did you get here?”

  “On my scooter.” Well, he asked.

  “I mean, how did you know I was here?”

  “I was told.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we skip the repartee? I’m not telling you.” Dwayne continued to scowl. A world champion scowler, that guy.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Out to sea,” he said. “Fishing. Crabbing. Whatever.”

  “Really? You’re leaving a bit late, aren’t you? Most fishermen go out early. I bet they’re out there, reeling in their catches as we speak.”

  “I can leave whenever I want,” Dwayne said. “I don’t have to punch a clock. I don’t have to account for my time.”

  “I don’t know much about crabbing, but I don’t see any equipment on this rattrap that even remotely resembles what you’d need to do any serious crabbing.”

  Dwayne crossed his arms. “What do you want?” he asked. His jaw worked hard enough to make my head hurt.

  “What was your part in killing Curtis Little?”

  Dwayne tossed his head back and laughed.

  “Who killed Billy Ray?” I asked.

  Dwayne shook with laughter. Apparently, I’d missed my calling as a stand-up comic.

  “I know you’re part of a larger scheme. Something involving drugs. When they arrest Karla Dixon, she may not know the details, but I’m sure she’ll lead the cops to you. Do you really think you’re going to escape in that dinky little boat?”

  Dwayne stopped laughing, but he grinned at me and wiped his eyes.

  “You have no idea,” he said. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You’re in way over your head.”

  “Who is Maria Benitez?”

  His grin vanished. He went below and slammed the hatch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Now I knew four things: Curtis Little had definitely been involved in smuggling illegal workers into the country, Karla Dixon was more than just a busty redhead, Dwayne Sutterman was way more than a pothead and occasional fisherman, and there was something distinctly rotten going on at Bower Farms. No wonder those three had latched onto Billy Ray.

  So why would they want to kill the goose that provided their golden eggs? I could understand how Curtis Little might have gotten killed due to greed, but why Billy Ray? What motive would his minions have?

  As I motored down the road, I grasped at straws. What should I do next? My mind meandered through the past few days. I thought about my talk with Danni Beranski. Had I asked her about Bower’s son, Junior? What had she said? That he wasn’t cut out to take over the business? Could it be he’d felt deprived of his birthright?

  Maybe I needed to meet the guy.

  After all, this was a small community. And word got around. What if Marshall Jr. heard about the confrontation? What if he wanted to take over the business in Billy Ray’s stead? And what if he knew about this “big operation,” whatever it comprised? Could this all add up to a couple of murders? One of which he’d conveniently pinned on Jamila, based on circumstance?

  My mind was reeling. But it was a theory. Hell, it was a start. And it would explain why Marshall Bower, Sr., if he knew or suspected that his son killed his stepson and wanted to protect Junior, wouldn’t talk to me without a lawyer present. Speculation? Yes. Next step? Find proof.

  I pulled onto the shoulder, dug my notebook out of my shoulder bag and checked the address I’d jotted down for Marshall Bower’s home. It was time to pay the Bower family a visit. I tucked the notebook away and hit the road.

  *****

  Twenty minutes later I motored up to an 8-foot-high wrought-iron gate. The kind with spikes on top for the severed heads. A small slate-gray box with blue and yellow buttons and a pinhole-dotted speaker was attached to one side of the entrance. Under the blue button it said, “Press Upon Arrival.” The yellow button was labeled “Press to Talk.” I pressed the blue button and waited.

  A camera perched atop one of the brick columns flanking the gate. No attempt had been made to hide or camouflage it. Hi there! Welcome to the House of Bower Reality TV Show. I waved at it. Considered flipping the bird and thought better of it.

  The speaker issued a crackled “Yes?”

  I hit the talk button. “Hi. Is Junior there?” I was gambling. Couldn’t recall if he went by Junior or not. Seemed like he would. Silence ensued. Shit.

  I wondered if I’d fucked up big time. The speaker squawked. Amid background noise, I heard, “Sorry about the wait. We’re around back. C’mon in.”

  The gate clicked and opened. I eased the scooter through as if two-wheeling into a millionaire’s estate was something I did routinely.

  I motored up a long, circuitous driveway lined with common-variety trees. The occasional dogwood or magnolia broke the monotony. The air was honey scented. I caught glimpses of white blossoms spiking upward among the
greenery. This trip through the Garden of Eden took me to the front entrance of the Bower mansion.

  Viewing Chez Bower from the seat of a scooter had a humbling effect.

  I gawked at the huge house looming over me—five stories of gabled faux Tudor excess extended left and right for a few thousand miles. The trees along the driveway had given way to a view of a sweeping front yard to rival the gardens of Versailles. Somewhere, I could hear music. Hip-hop? From behind a Tudor home? In Versailles?

  As I tried to establish that I was still in touch with reality, a young woman dashed out from the left side of the house, laughing. She raced across the front lawn. Stumbling but managing to stay upright, she ducked beside a tall shrub near the walkway to the front door.

  A young man appeared where she’d emerged and looked around. He wore blue swimming trunks.

  The young woman noticed me. She put her finger to her lips.

  I looked back and arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. The young woman wore absolutely nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The young man in the blue trunks gave me a curious glance then ventured forth as if I weren’t there. “Denise!” he called.

  I glanced sideways at the woman I assumed was Denise. She crouched behind the bush, snickering into her hand.

  “Hi,” I said. “Looking for someone?”

  The man stopped and gaped at me. Denise stopped snickering and gaped at me. Apparently, people were anxious to show me their dental work.

  “Did you see a girl come by here?” the man asked. He crossed the lawn and stood next to me.

  “No, I haven’t actually.” I shot Denise a look. She took her cue and bolted. The young man turned and watched her scamper off, her laughter trailing behind her. Her naked derriere waved a merry farewell to us both.