by Debbi Mack
Junior, meanwhile … Jesus! Talk about a pawn. Sure, he was a nitwit. Even so, the price he’d paid for twenty minutes of pleasure—oh, let’s get real, probably five, if he was lucky—was his life. As I made my way to the door, my disgust grew. Bile rose in my throat. Years of working with the Public Defender’s Office had never made me feel this wretched. At least, the criminals there didn’t hide behind phony respectability.
Before I left, I spotted an umbrella stand beside the door. I took a moment to clear my throat of the bilious phlegm, gathered it in my mouth and hocked a loogie into the stand before I walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I felt the wind in my hair as I scootered down the drive, trees sweeping past in a green blur. The gate swung open as I neared it. I hit the accelerator hard.
About five miles or so later, I let off the gas. God, what a relief.
My thoughts turned to Danni Beranski. Little wonder she’d broken things off with Billy Ray. Who’d want Marshall Bower for a father-in-law, let alone sweet Georgia Lee as mother-in-law? And Junior? Could he have made a pass at her? Not hard to imagine.
Now, with Lisa pregnant, I could just picture Thanksgiving. Georgia Lee drunk off her ass, Lisa not far behind, Bower Sr., carving the turkey and spouting platitudes, Junior in the bathroom jerking off between doing lines of coke. Lisa’s brat (or two or three) running around, wreaking havoc. Straight out of Norman Rockwell.
I aimed the scooter toward Berlin and Danni Beranksi. I had a few follow-up questions.
*****
By the time I eased the scooter to the curb before Danni’s old Victorian and marched up the steps, it was nearly 3:30. Where had the day gone? I rang the doorbell. No answer. After a minute, I tried again. The chime rang faintly and faded out. No answer. The trees made shushing noises in the yard behind me, as if the bell had disturbed them. Their limbs creaked like those of arthritic elders.
“Sorry,” I said, aloud, smiling at my own silly thought.
I opened the screen door and knocked. I was pondering how people always knock after ringing the doorbell—like: answer now or I’ll pound your door down—when someone behind me said, “Looking for me?”
I jumped and turned. Danni stood there, a shoulder bag slung diagonally across her chest. She held a plastic shopping bag in one hand.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay.”
“You look a bit pale.”
“No, no. I’m naturally pale.” And short of breath.
Danni invited me in and offered me water, iced tea, or lemonade. I went for the lemonade, which was fresh squeezed. Boy, was it good. She also helped herself to a glass.
We returned to the porch with our drinks. I took the rocker I remembered, and she took the porch swing again.
“Danni,” I said. “Tell me about Junior. Also, anything you recall about Marshall Bower, Sr., and his family.”
“Oh, my God!” She looked like she’d just sucked hydrochloric acid. “Just thinking about those people makes me sick.”
“Yeah. I can understand.”
“Horrible. They were all horrible.”
“Did Junior ever, um, come on to you?”
“Good God, when did he ever not come on to me?”
Danni poured forth a long narrative about how every dinner at the House of Bower turned into an endurance test, in which she was required to fend off the under-the-table or in-the-other-room advances of her would-be brother-in-law.
“You’d think the guy was on a steady diet of Viagra and porn, the way he kept after me,” Danni said. “Jesus!”
“Uh huh.”
“I mean, I’d come out of the bathroom, and he’d ambush me and start humping my leg like a dog. You have no idea.”
“Oh, I think I do.”
Danni’s eyes grew large. “No way was I going to marry into that family.”
Smart girl.
“So, what can you tell me about Marsha?” I asked.
Danni blinked a few times. “Marsha?” Frowning slightly, she stared into her glass. “I hear she was the only decent one in the bunch. But she disappeared.”
“Any idea where she might have gone?”
“No,” Danni said, “I know she wanted to get as far as she could from … them. Marsha was different. That’s all I know.”
“Do you think Marsha knew anything about how her father or Billy Ray ran the poultry business? About the working conditions or hiring practices?”
Danni shook her head. “Bower only recently started that business. Marsha’s been gone for ages. Long before they got into it. Anyhow, I doubt she’d want to be involved.”
Damn it, my leads seem to be drying up!
I spent a bit more quality time with Danni, drinking lemonade, but getting little more than a full bladder to show for the effort. After a quick pit stop, I bid my kind hostess adieu, climbed aboard the scooter and hit the road. Now what?
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled over and checked the number. Mulrooney. Good news? A dismissal? Hope springs eternal.
I answered. “Mr. Mulrooney?”
“Good day, Sam McRae.”
I might have been more charmed by the rhyming bit, if his voice hadn’t been a little too happy.
“Is there a reason you’re calling? Other than to talk in rhyme?”
“Ah!” The exclamation came out like the climax of an aria. “Yes, I have good news and bad.”
“And that would be ... ?”
“The quote-unquote good news is that the state has been processing the evidence in this case quite expeditiously. So they’re providing discovery faster than a speeding bullet, so to speak.”
“Um, what?
“They’re not dragging their feet. They’re prosecuting with all due speed.”
“Okay.” Which meant the bad news was …
“That means things are moving quicker than expected. The preliminary hearing has been moved up to next week.”
“Holy shit!” The words slipped out. “You must be kidding? Can we get a continuance?”
“We can try and, of course, we have grounds in our favor. However, you can’t assume they’ll grant our motion, even if it’s a slam dunk. Frankly, I suspect Bower’s attorneys have been maneuvering behind the scenes. Unfortunately, some people feel no compunction about breaking the rules when it comes to making ex parte contacts with judges or their staff.”
I burned with silent anger. Thanks to these assholes, my friend was looking at going down for a murder she didn’t commit. Her presentation on ethics would’ve fallen on deaf ears among that bunch.
“Anyhow,” Mulrooney said. “I’ve told Conroy and I’m telling you, we need to be prepared. And soon.”
*****
As I finished up with Mulrooney and closed the phone, I felt the brief sensation of the earth falling away. As if its rotation were taking place and I were standing still. Ridiculous. The thought made me dizzy. My surroundings spun. Was it something in the lemonade? Was I simply hungry? Stressed out? Probably just the last two. Honestly, Sam, don’t be paranoid.
Focus, I thought. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. In and out. In and out. Focus and relax. Don’t freak out. You’ll find the solution. It’s probably right in front of your face.
After several minutes of deep breathing my way to relaxation, the world stopped spinning. I boarded the scooter and motored to a nearby sandwich shop to grab a late lunch of meatball sub and onion rings. Greasy, but I deserved it.
What now? Who would have a motive to kill Billy Ray? If it wasn’t the terrific trio handling his shady business affairs, then who? What about Marsha? She stood to gain financially. But she’d walked away from her family long before the business even existed and already had plenty of trust fund money. So what would her motive be?
While I scarfed down my food, I thumbed through the issue of Poultry Today, which I’d snagged fr
om Bower’s office. It was among the effects in Jamila’s car that I’d moved into the storage compartment of the rented scooter. I hunted through it now, in a desperate bid for information of any sort. My gaze caught on an item at the bottom of the “Chicken Feed” gossip column, which read:
A benefit concert for Sea Turtle Saviors will be held in San Diego, CA on July 31, 2006. The Costa Rica-based nonprofit is believed to have been established by an individual or entity connected with the poultry industry.
Something clicked.
Big operations south of the border.
And Maria Benitez.
Bingo! .
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Okay, I had a theory. Maria Benitez could be saving sea turtles in Costa Rica. Or not. This led to all sorts of interesting possibilities, if you applied the “follow the money” principle.
Suppose Maria Benitez was involved in the business, but not directly. Maybe she was using the nonprofit as a front. And Maria was probably more than just Dwayne’s drug supplier. She no doubt supplied illegal help to Curtis. Labor in Central America is so much cheaper and good help so much more plentiful than here. Plus, the nonprofit could be used to launder money. How convenient.
Right now, all I had was a name and a theory. One problem: how to prove it, by next week? Or, better yet, in the next two days?
Meanwhile, I wondered if Jamila had been scratched from the program yet. And I still owed Jinx Henderson an answer to her question about Ray.
Damn it, what do I do? I stared at the greasy remains of my onion rings. I had no access to the necessary databases to confirm anything. Conroy would tell me to buzz off, in less polite words. How could I find the help I needed stranded here on these alien shores?
Then, I realized, Sam, you’re an idiot!
I retrieved my cell and speed dialed the number.
As it rang, I muttered, “Pick up. Please pick up.”
Then, I heard, “Reed Duvall.”
“Oh, thank God!”
“Well, that’s a first.” Pride or triumph underscored his tone.
My face grew warm. “Um, that wasn’t exactly …”
“Sam, what can I do for you?” Duvall sounded his normal self again. Maybe slightly playful.
“Got an urgent assignment for you.”
“Aren’t you at the beach? Attending some convention?”
I sighed. “Yeah, but things got, um, a bit complicated. Got a few minutes?”
“Sure thing. Shoot.”
Reed Duvall was a private investigator I’d come to know while working opposite sides of an old case. I ran through the events of the past few days and then asked him to try to confirm that some chick named Maria Benitez was the linchpin in an illegal drug and human smuggling operation. I explained my theory that someone connected with the big operation had killed Billy Ray and framed Jamila. I hoped to nail down my theory by having him confirm a few facts.
When I’d finished, Duvall blew out an audible breath. “When do you need this?”
“Yesterday. Preferably the day before.”
He chuckled. “My time machine broke, but I’ll get right on this.”
“Duvall, I really …” I got choked up and couldn’t continue.
“That’s okay. We met because of Jamila. Remember?”
I thought back to that case. It was only last summer. Despite working opposite sides, we’d formed a bond. Now we were friends. Or were we more?
“Thanks. Really.” I managed to get the words out.
“I will always have your back. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“One more thing,” I said, before he could hang up. “Could you do a background check on someone named Marsha Bower?”
Duvall repeated the spelling of Marsha’s name and her last known address as he took the information down.
“She’s disappeared,” I said. “No one has a clue where she’s gone.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” Duvall said. “I’ll check for death records and so on, as well as any recent address listings.”
As I disconnected, I nearly wept with joy.
Wolfing down the last bite of meatball sub, I gathered the trash and threw it out. By now, it was after 5:00. I decided to test my latest theory of the case on the witness who fingered Jamila in the lineup. I left the sub shop, hopped on the scooter, and sped off to Bayview Drive.
*****
I returned to Roger Powers’s tidy rancher. In the early evening light, it looked charming, tucked between two others with the bay’s grayish-blue waters glimmering in the background. A one-car garage and a healthy rectangle of lawn made his house a standout. I pulled into the asphalt driveway and left the scooter near the garage. Powers must have seen me coming, because he opened the door before I’d gotten halfway up the walk.
“Hi,” he said, ambling out.
“Hi, remember me?” We shook hands. The corners of his mouth turned down.
“I’m not sure I’m supposed to talk to you.”
“Look, I’m not here to twist your arm. I’m only here to find out the truth.”
My words were meant to reassure Powers, but he looked almost frightened.
He said nothing. Gulls cried and kids on WaveRunners motored about on the water, laughing and squealing. Powers and I stared at each other.
“I just wanted to review a few small points, okay? Let’s start with something easy,” I said. “Did you get a close look at my client?”
“Well, of course.”
“In the dark?”
Powers grunted assent.
“So you’re sure it was her?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you don’t wear glasses?”
“No.”
“Were the porch lights on?”
“I … can’t recall.”
Uncertainty. Good.
“But you’re sure it was my client, even though it was dark. And my client is dark skinned. So she’d be, frankly, difficult to see.”
Powers shifted from foot to foot. “I know what I saw. Why would I lie?”
Good question.
I looked straight into his eyes and asked, “What were you doing out that night when you saw my client at the murder scene?”
“I told you. I was on my bicycle coming home from work.”
“Ah. So … where do you work?”
“I told you that, too. I currently have a gig every weekend at the Oceanfront Arms Hotel. It’s a new luxury hotel.” Powers paled a bit.
“Right. You mentioned that. So … you’re a musician?”
“Yes. I play guitar. With a band. Classic rock. Oldies. ’80s. ’90s. Whatever.”
“Okay. Do you own this house?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t afford this. I rent.”
“Uh huh. And who pays your band?”
“Well, the Oceanfront management, of course.”
“Naturally. Do you happen to know who owns the hotel?”
“How would I? Why would I care?” Powers was sweating. His voice took on a whiny edge.
I patted his arm. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find out. And thanks. You’ve been a great help.”
I turned to go, then stopped and looked back.
Powers froze like a statue.
“By the way,” I said. “You ever hear of anyone named Maria Benitez?”
Powers’ jaw dropped.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” I said. “Thanks for the confirmation.”
I marched over to the scooter and mounted it, leaving Powers with his mouth agape and his pants around his proverbial ankles.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I stopped by the condo to pick up the laptop. Jamila was on the phone. Sounded like she was having a pleasant talk with her auto insurance company about her coverage. As I ducked inside, she said, “Hold on a moment,” and set the receiver down with a loud clunk, fixing me with a killer look.
“You would not believe
what I’ve been through today,” I told her. I launched into a brief summary of the bizarre events that morning at the Bower residence, followed by the eye-opening discussion with Danni, my phone call with Reed Duvall and my interrogation of the witness who fingered her in the lineup. I skipped over a lot of the gory details about Karla, Dwayne, and Curtis, and didn’t speculate about the big operation. I still needed confirmation of a few facts before I told Jamila more. She was my client and had to be treated like any other.
Jamila sat transfixed, her phone call seemingly forgotten. I pointed to the receiver. She blinked several times and picked it up. “Sorry. Can I call you back?” She hung up almost immediately.
I tucked the laptop into its case and made ready to leave. “While Duvall is tracking down the information I want, I’ll investigate on my own. First thing, I’m checking out who owns the Oceanfront Arms Hotel. I have a funny feeling about this Roger Powers guy.”
“Well, look out for that damn van,” Jamila called after me, as I left. “Those journalists have come by twice trying to get an interview since you were last here.”
I looped the laptop case strap across my chest like a bandolier and mounted the scooter. I took off, hanging a left on Coastal Highway and keeping a sharp eye out for a coffee shop with free Wi-Fi. Being that it was a late Thursday afternoon in June, early-bird vacationers were making the traffic a bit heavy. This was both a blessing and a curse. With movement slow, I had more time to view my options. I spotted a place within a few blocks. A small bakery tucked away in a strip shopping center, between a bikini store and a shop that sold candles, handcrafted goods, and knickknacks that gather dust and cat hair.