Riptide

by Debbi Mack

  I parked the scooter, went inside and ordered a large black coffee and a big cinnamon roll. I don’t care how much cholesterol they have. If I can’t eat cinnamon rolls, I don’t want to live.

  I settled into a corner table. After booting up the laptop and connecting to the Internet, I found the website for Maryland’s corporate filings agency, which had a searchable online database. In a separate window, I went to the homepage for the Oceanfront Arms Hotel, which included the notation “MEB Enterprises Inc.” at the bottom of the screen. Gee, I wonder what MEB stands for?

  I entered “MEB Enterprises” into the search box for the agency and hit Return. To no great surprise, it turned out to be a holding company that owned a slew of businesses. Including Bower Farms, Inc.

  My thoughts raced. I’m no super genius, but even I could connect these dots. Powers was just a poor musician working at Bower’s hotel. Someone saw the opportunity to use him and paid him to be a witness against Jamila. The question was, who? Maria? Powers had reacted at the mere mention of her name. But how would she have known about our confrontation with Billy Ray? This brought me back to the connection between Dwayne Sutterman and Maria Benitez. He could have told her about it. This also raised the question of motive. What would Maria’s motive be for killing Billy Ray? Or Curtis? Did he simply represent a loose thread that had to be eliminated? Was he not only a threat to the big operation, but an accomplice to murder? More questions. Hopefully, Duvall could supply a few answers. Preferably by tomorrow.

  I drummed my fingers on the table. There’s something more, I thought.

  Conroy!

  I drew in a sharp breath. “That son of a bitch!” Heads turned as I shut down the laptop and stowed it in its case. I finished off my pastry and coffee, picked up the carrying case, and made for the door.

  *****

  I motored back to the condo to return the laptop to safety, repeating countless times the five-word expletive marking my exit from the coffee shop. I had asked myself once before what Conroy had been doing all this time. Clearly, it didn’t include doing a simple investigation into the most damaging witness the prosecution had to offer in its case against my client. I caught a distinct whiff of something rotten in the state of Maryland.

  Jamila was taking a shower. Good. I had no desire to wait or explain. I left the laptop and hit the road.

  I headed back to Coastal Highway, turned north, and pushed the scooter as hard as I could. If only I’d thought to get the tag number of the silver compact parked outside Conroy’s house. But how could I have known? Even now, I had no proof of anything. Yet.

  Traffic was building and slowing to a crawl. Several blocks to go. Damn.

  If I tried to maneuver between cars, I’d probably get ticketed. Cops were on the lookout at this time of year for violations of that sort. Any sort.

  Even so, I thought about it. I checked my mirror. No cop cars. Good.

  However, several cars behind me… Was that the beat-up old green Chevy?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I blinked. The cars shifted and the Chevy disappeared from view.

  Don’t panic, I thought. There are plenty of green Chevys.

  I kept an eye out, anyway. As the traffic moved forward, I caught another glimpse of the vehicle. Through the darkened windshield, I made out the silhouettes of two people in the front seat. Were they looking my way? I couldn’t see their features.

  I took a deep breath. Traffic began to move more freely.

  “Quit worrying,” I muttered.

  I hit the gas and sped toward my destination, glancing at the mirror now and then. The green car receded into the distance but didn’t disappear.

  By the time I reached Pine Shore Lane, it felt like déjà vu. The setting sun gave the tall condos on the beach a golden hue against the indigo sky. I turned left onto the street and pulled up a few doors down from Conroy’s house at 2555. There was his blue Toyota. And there was the silver late-model compact I remembered. Delaware tags. Coincidence?

  I set the scooter on its kickstand and strolled over to take a nonchalant look-see.

  A sticker in the window showed it was a rental. Interesting. I read the tag number and repeated it as I walked away. Fishing through my shoulder bag, I pulled out my small notepad and pencil and jotted the number down before it evaporated from memory.

  I hit the speed dial for Reed Duvall, but cut the call off mid-ring when I saw the green Chevy.

  Who the hell are those guys?

  I didn’t know and I wasn’t hanging around to find out.

  I jumped on the scooter, started it and took off.

  In my mirror, I saw the car execute a three-point turn.

  “Shit!”

  It wasn’t two in the morning. This wasn’t going to be easy or fun.

  I hit the corner and made a right with barely a glance the other way, squealing tires as I took the turn.

  Traffic was heavy. I had to keep my arms steady or risk wiping out. I maneuvered through the vehicles, trying to keep my cool and exercise judgment about my moves. Weaving the scooter back and forth between cars, I managed to hold her steady, like a two-wheeled Mario Andretti.

  I stole a quick look in the mirror. The green Chevy was several car lengths behind and bearing down fast.

  “Damn it!”

  As we approached the downtown area, the same problem as the night before lay ahead: a dead end and turnabout. Edging my way lane by lane to the right, I made a quick turn onto a side street. The green car followed. I cruised west a block or so until I spotted a gap between two buildings. I rolled to a stop and eased the scooter through the narrow opening into an alley on the other side. The green car pulled up near the entrance. I couldn’t see inside the tinted window, but I knew the driver must be looking at me. I waved goodbye and motored off.

  “Jesus, that was close,” I said. I went several blocks down the alley and pulled over. Digging out my cell phone, I hit the speed dial.

  “Sorry,” Duvall said. “I still don’t have all the information for you.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. There’s something else I need you to check out.”

  *****

  After I finished talking to Duvall, I punched the button to disconnect, only to sit and stare at the phone. I needed a car for what I had to do. Should I simply call the closest Avis or Hertz rental office? Should I borrow Jamila’s laptop and look for the cheapest deal? I didn’t want to borrow her rental and put it at risk.

  As I mulled options, I noticed a car heading toward me. A green Chevy, of course. Must have worked its way to the alley through the mazelike side streets.

  “Great.” I stowed the phone, started the scooter, and burned rubber.

  The alley provided a nice traffic-free zone. However, I still had to dodge garbage cans and a moonscape of potholes. Behind me, my pursuer stayed on my tail.

  I counted the cross streets down as we approached the Route 50 Bridge. Fourth Street, no cars coming, Third, no cars, Second, a car rolled by just before I reached the intersection. I wove around its rear end and continued straight down the alley.

  At First, I hung a sharp right, skidding halfway across the street and barely managing to keep upright. I aimed toward the next street over, but faked them out by taking another alley. They overshot it. While they were backing up and trying to make the turn, I gained distance on them. I cranked the accelerator and took her as fast as I could without wrapping myself around a phone pole. This is insane, but who are those guys?

  I came to my senses a few blocks later. I backed her down in time to cruise safely into an area where the street ended in a small park with a promenade running alongside the inlet to the bay. The salty breeze blowing off the water was bracing. The gulls cried. Was it in sympathy or mockery? I stopped the scooter and watched them swooping, listened to their cries. I shrugged. “Oh, fuck you,” I said. I started laughing. Hard. So hard it brought tears.

  I could hear boats
on the water, engines pulsating. Then another sound. One I didn’t want to hear. I looked up. The green Chevy. It had pulled into the lot’s entrance, blocking me in. Shit!

  My scooter was idling beneath me. I eased it toward the pavement and over the curb. “See if you can follow me now.” I hit the gas and headed down the promenade.

  I could hear car doors slamming behind me. The promenade narrowed behind a building into a thin strip of pavement, a railing separating it from a drop-off onto the rocky shoreline of the inlet. I would have appreciated the water view if I hadn’t been so focused on staying upright and maintaining a decent speed.

  I emerged from behind the building into the corner of an overflow parking lot with a hodgepodge of retail stores, restaurants, bait shops, and boat supply and maintenance service providers. Then the pavement simply ran out.

  The sky had darkened to slate blue. The sunset was a breathtaking explosion of blood-red, orange, and yellow stripes spread above the clouds. I pondered my next move.

  A pair of headlights zeroed in on me. One wall-eyed. The green Chevy.

  I hurriedly turned the scooter to go back from where I’d come.

  The car chirped to a halt. Two people exited. One called, “Wait!” A woman’s voice.

  I looked at her. She waved both hands. “Please. Can I just talk to you?”

  “What do you want?”

  The woman approached. Her companion, a man, perhaps sensing my apprehension, stood by the car.

  As she drew near, I saw she was no older than 25 or so. With shoulder-length blonde hair and dark eyes, she didn’t look especially threatening. “Please. Hear me out.”

  I took a breath and relaxed my shoulders. “You guys need to get your headlight fixed.”

  “Huh?”

  I waved a hand. “Never mind. Why have you been following me?”

  She reached into her purse. I started to tense up again. “I’m with the press,” she said. She pulled out a wallet and showed me her press pass. I think it was a point of pride. “Barbara Feldman. The Wicomico Weekly Alternative. Ever hear of it?”

  “Nope.”

  “We provide long-form journalism articles. Behind the scenes and in-depth reporting. The kind of thing that mainstream print and broadcast journalism can’t handle.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She yammered on for a bit about the importance of a free press and how journalism was turning to shit. I nodded.

  When she paused, I said, “So, why were you following me? At three o’clock in the morning?”

  “Oh, that. I’m sorry. We were up late, putting the paper to bed and we’d stopped to get a drink or two. We ended up closing the bar. We work evenings, so my cameraman, Clint, and I tend to be night owls. We just happened to notice your car and hoped we could talk to you.”

  “You guys must be desperate for a story, because you scared the living crap out of me,” I said.

  Barbara’s mouth turned down at the corners. Her eyes gleamed with seemingly genuine remorse. “I’m awfully sorry. It’s just that we’ve tried so many times to reach your client Jamila Williams. She’s not answering the door. Or her phone. We were hoping to get her side of the story about what happened to her brother.”

  I peered at the reporter. “Her brother? Jamila doesn’t have a brother. She’s an only child.”

  The reporter fell silent for a moment. “You don’t know, do you?”

  *****

  When I returned to the condo, no one was home. I grabbed a book and sat in the easy chair facing away from the front door. Jamila returned 15 minutes later. I heard her storing things in the kitchen behind me. I set the book aside and pondered my next words.

  She crumpled a plastic bag, tossed it and walked into the living room. I shifted in the chair and she jumped.

  “Sam, for God’s sake. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Hi. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Jamila moved to the sofa and sank onto it. “Well, guess what?”

  I smiled at the irony. So much I could say. This wasn’t the time for sarcasm. Or twenty questions. “What?”

  “I’m probably going to be taken off the program. Big surprise!” She threw her hands out.

  “Yeah, speaking of which …”

  Jamila hadn’t seemed to hear. “Plus my hearing has been moved up to next week. Goody!”

  I nodded and murmured, waiting for a break.

  She stopped and shook her head. “I’m sorry. This has been the most unbelievable time. Anyway, how was your day?”

  I took a breath. “Funny you should ask. For the last few days I’ve been followed by a couple of reporters. I didn’t know they were reporters until today, when they caught up with me. Apparently, they haven’t been able to reach you.”

  Jamila looked hurt and a trifle defensive. “You know as well as I that I’m not supposed to talk to the media.”

  I paused before answering. “I know that. We need to talk about what the reporter told me about you and your brother.”

  Jamila’s face turned sallow. She worked her mouth, but no words came.

  I leaned toward her. “Jamila. Please just tell me what happened to Bobby.”

  APRIL 1968

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was just another Thursday. Jamila walked home from Salisbury Elementary School with Laura, her second-grade classmate. Laura had raven locks, rosy cheeks, and blue eyes and lived down the street. She had the kind of assets that would come in handy later.

  At eight years old, neither of the girls thought about that now. They were too focused on more important things, like Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In, Lost in Space, Bill Cosby’s latest record, the Beatles, and the Monkees.

  “My sister gets Tiger Beat magazine,” Laura said, making it sound like a secret sin.

  “I wish I had an older sister.” Jamila frowned and felt a stab of envy. All she had was a younger brother. And they barely communicated.

  “I can bring the latest issue over tonight.” Laura imparted the information with breathless enthusiasm.

  Jamila shrugged. “Okay. C’mon by after dinner.”

  Laura jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “Yippee. See you later.”

  Jamila watched Laura get smaller as she ran down the street to her house.

  Jamila walked in, greeted her mother, and went to her room to do homework. After finishing her homework, she helped with dinner chores—setting the dining room table, stirring the pots, checking the casserole. Her three-year-old brother, Bobby, sat in the living room, watching cartoons. Her father arrived home at quarter to six, looking tired.

  “Hard day?” her mother asked.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Jamila’s father tossed his jacket on the sofa and dropped beside it with a grunt. “I’m beginning to think I made a mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jamila’s father shook his head. “Doing legal work for farm workers. It’s draining the life from me.”

  Jamila’s mother stopped fussing over the stove and sat beside him on the sofa. Jamila was all ears. Little Bobby’s attention didn’t stray from the TV.

  “What’s got you so discouraged?” she said in a soft voice, though Jamila could hear her plain as day.

  “It’s the people I’m up against. Frankly, racism is endemic to this place.”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down.” Jamila’s mother urged, with a quick glance toward Jamila, who feigned indifference.

  “I wonder how much longer I can keep this up. How much longer can I fight this system?” He gave Jamila’s mother a long look. “I don’t want our children growing up in a place where people feel entitled to call them niggers.”

  “Okay, tell me where they don’t.”

  Jamila felt a twinge of anxiety in her gut. She hated to hear her parents argue or even disagree. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it upset her.

  After a bit of back an
d forth between her parents, Jamila’s mother rose and returned to the kitchen. She and Jamila prepared to serve dinner. At shortly after six, Jamila told her father dinner was almost ready. As she returned to the dining table, she saw the cartoon had been interrupted by an announcement. Her father rose to bring Bobby to the dining table. On his way, he raised the TV’s volume.

  “We interrupt this program to inform you that the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., has been shot outside his motel in Memphis, Tennessee. At this time, Reverend King is being taken to the hospital …”

  The announcement was interrupted by a crash. Jamila looked at her statue of a mother. The casserole dish and its contents had scattered across the floor, sending ground beef, tomato sauce and noodles everywhere. Amid the shards and food, Jamila’s mother remained frozen. Never had Jamila seen such a look of sheer agony and panic on her mother’s face.

  Turning toward her father, Jamila saw even more despair. What was happening? Who was this Reverend King they were talking about?

  Bobby and dinner forgotten, her father walked to the sofa and simply collapsed onto it. “Oh, my God.”

  *****

  That night, the television was declared off-limits to Jamila.

  “Go to your room and read, sweetheart.” Jamila’s mother half pleaded her demand.

  “What’s happening?” Jamila asked. Everyone seemed to be going crazy. The house felt like it was filled with static electricity. One wrong word and a spark would blow them all up.

  Jamila’s father watched television and kept shaking his head. “I don’t believe this.” He must have said it a hundred times.

  “Laura is supposed to come over,” Jamila said.

  “No.” The vehemence in her mother’s voice startled her. “Laura’s not coming over.” She bit her lip. “Not tonight.”

  *****

  Jamila tossed and turned while her parents stayed up late talking. She’d close her eyes and open them, the dim light from the living room leaking under her door. Jamila pounded her pillow and repositioned it several times, but she couldn’t sleep.