by Debbi Mack
I nodded and fixed myself a bowl of cereal as she talked about plans to go shopping.
They say confession is good for the soul. I had no time or inclination for confessions. My soul probably couldn’t bear close examination.
“I think I’m going to head up to the discount stores in Delaware,” Jamila said. “I know the convention has started, but I don’t want to hang out there while these charges are still pending, you know?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Besides, why not take advantage of the lack of sales tax?” That would keep her busy, which was in everyone’s best interests. My cell phone rang. The caller ID was as I’d hoped.
I flipped the phone open. “Talk to me, Duvall.”
“Well, hello there. Those aren’t exactly sweet nothings, but I’ll take them.”
I inhaled, and slowly blew out my breath. “Why don’t we save the cute remarks for later? Just tell me. Whatcha got?”
“On Marsha Bower, I came up empty. I found an old address for her in Santa Fe, New Mexico, but when I called, the landlady said she hadn’t lived there in years. She moved out and didn’t leave a forwarding address.
“I checked the public records. Her driver’s license has expired, but I can’t find a death record.”
Most odd. Marsha seemed to have vanished into thin air. I wondered if her family had bothered to look for her after she’d taken off. I recalled the weird look I caught in Junior’s eyes when I mentioned her name. What was it? Haunted? Fearful? Hopeful? I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Sam?” Duvall said.
“I’m here. Just got distracted. So what else did you learn?”
“Sea Turtle Saviors is a nonprofit based in Costa Rica. Did you know that Costa Rica has a large nonprofit sector? Did you also know that nonprofits down there are rumored to be used quite often for nasty business like money laundering connected with terrorist activity?”
I blinked. “What does this have to do with Maria Benitez?”
“Nothing. I just thought it was interesting.”
I huffed. “Can we stick to the relevant facts, please?”
“Patience, counselor. You never know what piece of information might be relevant …”
I tapped my foot and waited, while he rambled on.
“… so, although I couldn’t access their corporate records online, I contacted someone who hooked me up. He knew someone—”
“Duvall,” I said. “Can we cut to the chase?”
“Okay. Here’s the score. I have the name of the person authorized to transact business for the organization. Who happens to be the same person who rented the silver compact car with the Delaware tags.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Maria Benitez.”
“You’re good.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The next morning, armed with the information Duvall had unearthed, I dropped off the scooter and caught a ride with Jamila to the nearest rental car office, where I obtained my own set of wheels. From there, I took the familiar route north, flying by the look-alike strip malls, faux palm trees, all-you-can-eat buffet signs, fake tiki huts, and bamboo fences, one after the other for blocks until I reached the north end where the towering condos fronted the beach.
I took the left onto Pine Shore Lane and spotted Conroy’s dark blue Toyota. No sign of the silver compact. Yet.
I cruised past the house, did a three-pointer, and tucked the car behind an outcropping of shrubbery at the end of the quiet street. From there, I had a clear view of the front of Conroy’s house. Fortunately, the car I’d rented was nondescript. A gray Taurus, two-door. Nothing special. Not a car that would stand out in a crowd like my classic ’67 purple Mustang or Jamila’s silver Beemer.
I slouched behind the wheel and waited, keeping the ignition on and the radio low. Looking for the compact with the Delaware tags.
Time crept by. I checked my watch. A half hour. Nothing. Gulls swooped overhead. A man on the radio sang a catchy tune about being cold but still there. I bobbed my head in rhythm to the music and tapped the wheel with both hands, keeping my eyes glued to the house. A commercial break, followed by another song. Duran Duran singing “Hungry Like the Wolf.”
“Got that right,” I muttered. “I was cold, but I’m still here. And I’m hungry like the wolf.”
I checked my watch. An hour had crawled by. Wait, I thought. Early still. Only 11:00 in the morning.
Cars came and went from other houses on the street. Conroy’s place remained eerily silent. Was anyone even home? Was I watching an empty house? It would figure. Checking my watch again, I noted it was coming up on noon.
Should I knock on the door? I rejected the thought. I wanted to see Conroy’s visitor before I told him anything about what I knew.
I cranked the engine and considered my next move. Then, he appeared. Conroy emerged from the house and scurried to his car. He ducked behind the wheel, yanked the door shut, started up, and took off like a bat out of hell.
Didn’t take a lot of guesswork to figure out my next move. I slammed the car into gear and took off after him.
Conroy approached the intersection. The light was yellow, but he made a left without hesitating. I stomped on the gas, praying the light would hold. When it turned red, I changed strategy and made a right, doing the most perfunctory stop-and-look in the history of driving. Then I swerved left to the first median break to make a U-turn and try to catch up with Conroy.
My foot to the floor, I zoomed in and out of traffic like a maniac, pushing the Taurus to its four-cylinder limit. The engine whined like a hungry toddler. I looked ahead and strained to make out the dark blue Toyota from the pack. I thought I caught a glimpse. I changed lanes quickly. A horn honked.
“Sorry!” I waved an apology to the driver behind me. He gave me the finger. I shrugged. I’d tried.
Again, I scanned ahead. This time, I could clearly make out the dark blue car barreling up the highway toward the Delaware border. I kept him in my sights, making sure to keep several car lengths between us to avoid being detected.
“You’re not getting away, you son of a bitch,” I murmured.
*****
Conroy didn’t slow until he’d crossed the state line. A few thousand yards into Fenwick, he made a right into the parking lot for a complex of stilted beach houses. I pulled in and backed the car into a space behind a tall set of cattails in front of the development. I got out, locked the car, and crept up the driveway.
A large, freestanding square brick edifice with gold letters announcing “Fenwick Dreams” stood several feet from me. Conroy was parked at the first building past the entrance, two spaces away from the silver compact. He’d left the car and was already on his way upstairs.
My stomach felt hollow and my throat tightened. I scuttled to the huge brick signage and hid behind it, peeking out to see who Conroy was meeting.
He knocked on the door and waited. When it opened, a woman appeared.
She was tall, slender, brunette, and dark-complected. About Jamila’s build, I would have wagered.
Before Conroy could say a word, she spoke with animation, punctuating her words with thrusts of her hands. Finally, she invited him inside. But not before I snapped a few photos with my cell phone.
“Gotcha!” I said.
*****
Conroy emerged about a half hour later, looking none too happy. He trudged downstairs to his car, got in, started it and was on his way out, when I pulled out and blocked his exit.
Conroy honked the horn and looked annoyed. I unfolded myself from the car and gave him a shit-eating grin.
“Hi,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Conroy’s expression melted. There’s no other word for it. He went from annoyed to astonished in less than five seconds.
“I think we need to talk,” I said. “Care to join me for a cup of coffee?”
*****
After meeting at a coffee shop down the road an
d ordering a couple of cups of dark roast, we found a corner table where we could talk in private.
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” I said. “I know what you did. I know who you’ve really been working for. I know, for instance, about the witness who fingered Jamila.”
Conroy waved a hand. “I didn’t. It wasn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter. It won’t look good, will it? No matter whose idea it was. Because you did nothing to stop it, right?”
Conroy hung his head. “True.”
“Okay. So, in order for me not to blow the whistle on you, and have your PI license revoked, and make you an accessory to first-degree murder after the fact … you’re going to do me a favor. Got that, old man?”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
After Conroy and I finished our talk, I got on the phone.
“Hey, Jinx,” I said.
“Well, have you decided?”
“I’m fine, thank you. And, yes, I think I’ve decided.”
“Oh, good! So will you support me?” True to form, Jinx ignored my little joke at her expense.
“Actually, before I answer, could we meet? I just have one or two more questions for you.”
“Questions?” Jinx sounded appalled.
“You did say you’d provide reassurance you’d keep your end of the bargain. I’d like to see some proof of that, before I agree to anything.”
Jinx sputtered. “Well, of course. I can arrange that.”
“So … can we meet? At your place, perhaps?”
“No, no. How about that coffee place? Java on the Beach?”
Another round of parry and thrust with Jinx in a tiny dump that smelled like rotten fish? Thank God, it wouldn’t come to that.
An hour later, I stood outside Java on the Beach. The air was fresher and I knew this wouldn’t take long.
Jinx strolled up, looking dapper in khaki pants and a conservative navy blazer over a white shell. Based on her outfit, I assumed she must have been attending the conference. Looking at her made me feel like a kid playing hooky.
“Shall we go in?” she said.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, raising my hand, palm out. “I’m saying no to your deal.”
Jinx’s eyes nearly popped from her skull. “What?”
“I said—”
“I heard you the first time,” Jinx snapped. She gazed at me with a wounded expression.
“I’m sorry, but that’s my answer.”
“You realize I’m going ahead with this? With or without your help?”
I shrugged. “Qué será será. Whatever. So long and good luck with that.” I walked away.
“So why the hell did you want to meet?” Jinx called after me.
I stopped and turned to look at her. “I just had to see your face when I gave you the news.”
*****
Having dispensed with that, I made a few phone calls and stops on my way back up Coastal Highway. I crossed the line into Delaware and turned into the “Fenwick Dreams” complex. I pulled up to the first building past the big brick sign with the gold lettering and parked the car. The silver compact appeared not to have moved.
She was up there. I surveyed the lot. Quite a few cars, actually. Not like we were all alone. Even so, I wondered if this was the ideal place to confront a murderer.
“Silly,” I murmured. “You’re covered, right?” I had my mace, my wits, my cell phone. And my ace in the hole. Plus I’d made arrangements. I only hoped I’d been taken seriously.
However, these killers were wily. They’d already killed one person to protect their illegal activities and their culpability as Billy Ray’s murderers.
On the other hand, how else was I going to flush them out? To do that, I had to show my cards and let them make a move. I had to do something to keep Jamila from going down for a crime she didn’t commit. I simply wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t allow it.
I sighed. “Well, Sam. You’re not going to accomplish anything sitting here, are you?”
I exited the car and locked up. I climbed the steps to the house Conroy had visited only hours earlier. I rapped on the door.
The elevated beach house afforded a stellar ocean view, which I was admiring when she answered. Tall and slender, she wore a dark tan and a puzzled expression.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Hi, Maria,” I said. “Or should I say, Marsha?”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The woman gawked at me. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“Cut the crap, Marsha. You know who I am. I know who you are. Let’s get real, okay?”
The woman crossed her arms and tilted her head back. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Okay, fine.” I got up in her face. “We can play it your way. It won’t go easy, but once I turn Conroy in to the cops, do you think he won’t spill the beans on you? He’ll be on his knees begging for a plea bargain. And do you suppose part of that plea bargain will involve turning state’s witness against the people who paid him to look the other way while they bribed a witness in a first-degree murder case? Yeah, I’d take that bet—”
“Hey, sis, what’s going on?” The voice from within was familiar and unmistakable.
Marsha looked about ready to spit nails.
“Oh, sis,” I said. “You want to tell Junior what’s going on?”
She said nothing, but pure hatred radiated from every pore.
“What do you want?” she said, finally.
“You have to turn yourself in.”
“Fat chance.”
“Really? We’ll see.”
“You gonna make me?”
“I think I can.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Our voices must have carried, because who should appear at Marsha’s side, but Mr. Horny Cokehead himself.
“Girls, girls … please,” he said, grinning and stumbling. “No fighting. Okay?”
He leaned on Marsha’s shoulder and raised his glance toward me. The grin vanished.
Marsha turned toward Junior and glared at him. “Junior, go back to your room. Now!”
Junior turned around and slumped off.
“That’s right, Junior. Do what mother says,” I goaded. “You know, you might want to keep your brother on a leash. The last time I saw him, he tried to hump my leg.”
“Fuck you!” Marsha turned her wrath upon me. “Who are you to judge? How would you feel if your own father gave your birthright to someone else’s kid?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“No shit you don’t.” Marsha looked at me with disdain. “Our mother dies and he goes and marries some piece of trailer trash. Then her kid gets to own the family business? Well, the hell with that. I wasn’t going to let that happen. That business should go to Junior. Billy Ray was an interloper, plain and simple.”
“Interloper. That’s quite a word. So many syllables. Almost as many as in premeditated. As in first-degree murder. I’m so disappointed, Marsha. Everyone says such nice things about you.”
“Well, I care about my brother. I’m the only one really looking after his interests.”
“You care so much, you took your trust fund money and left him high and dry.”
“Don’t preach to me, honey. I had to live in that house, not you. Once our mother died and our father hooked up with that whore, I simply couldn’t stand it.”
“Must have been pretty horrible to drive you to leave the country and assume a new name.”
“You can’t prove any of that.”
“Oh, but Conroy knows all about it. I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to share what he knows to keep his ass out of prison. Not to mention having his private eye license yanked and his reputation turned to shit.”
Marsha closed her eyes and lifted a hand to her brow, rubbing it. A tear formed in the corner of one eye.
“I only wanted to help Junio
r. I swear.”
“It’s over, Marsha. One way or the other, the truth will come out. Now, you can either admit what you did or sully Conroy’s reputation by forcing him into a plea bargain in which he turns state’s witness against you. Do you want that on your conscience, too?”
Marsha paused, as if considering taking a dive off a cliff. The moment stretched to eternity. Her answer would make or break my deal with Conroy.
I wasn’t looking to bring Conroy down. Who was I to judge the man? But Marsha had to confess her mortal sins if I hoped to make an airtight case for Jamila’s innocence.
Finally, Marsha exhaled. “Okay, fine. I kept in touch with Dwayne and Curtis after I left Maryland. They kept tabs on Junior and let him know I was okay, without giving away too much detail.”
“Were you using the nonprofit as a front for laundering money from drug smuggling and bringing illegal aliens into the country?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
I can just imagine.
“My point,” she continued, “was that they kept me apprised of events. Every now and then, I come into town on business and stay here incognito. When I heard that vicious slut Lisa Fennimore had sunk her greedy little hooks into my brother, I came here. I told Junior he should insist on an amnio before he marries that gold digger. I’ll bet anything that’s not even his kid.”
“So, you think Lisa hopes to get her hands on the business, too?”
“Lisa just needs to get married to access her trust fund. She doesn’t give a damn about my brother or the business. And my father obviously gave up on Junior ages ago. That rat bastard!”
I nodded. “Did you come to Maryland intending to kill Billy Ray?”
Marsha shook her head, looking glum. “No. It’s just that … after I heard what happened in the parking lot, I sensed an opportunity to get rid of the guy for good, and keep free and clear of the whole mess. But, I swear to God, all I wanted was to get that scum sucking man out of our lives. I killed him to protect Junior.”
“Except, of course, if your father dies, you’re the one who inherits the business now, aren’t you?”