by Debbi Mack
“You had to get it from somewhere. I remembered that you had expressed an interest in computer gaming and starting your own business. It occurred to me that maybe Fullbright, Saltzman, and LaRue weren’t the only ones involved in making the child porn game, even if they were the only ones taking money from the company.”
Brad turned away, wearing a sly smile.
“How did you get in on it?”
“I overheard them talking about it, after hours,” he said. “They were talking about setting up an interactive adult entertainment game. They were worried about using the equipment at work because it would leave a record on the computers. They knew they’d get fired in a heartbeat for misusing the equipment and working on pornographic games. At the time, I didn’t realize they were talking about kids.” He shook his head, in a manner that struck me as disingenuous. “Anyway, I let them know I’d heard them. I told them I wanted in, or I’d tell on them. That freaked them out. I certainly see why now. They paid me for my silence and used my equipment. They even taught me a few programming tricks in the bargain. It was a nice arrangement.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know they were embezzling from the company to subsidize this. Everything I said about that was true.”
“So nothing ever showed up on their computers,” I said. “Or would show up on yours, I’d wager. I see you have a new laptop.”
“Sometimes it’s best to cut your losses and run,” he said. “Even if I had the photos on my computer, you can’t turn me in. You’re my lawyer. And I have the right to remain silent.”
“Well, your co-workers’ little side project almost got me and your devoted uncle killed,” I said.
“That’s because you were investigating the embezzlement,” he said. He dropped his voice and emphasized his words. “I didn’t know anything about the child porn. I swear!”
“One was tied to the other,” I said, my voice calm and steady, belying the rage I felt. “As far as I’m concerned, the blood of everyone who died for this is on your hands, too.”
Brad said nothing, exercising his right to remain silent. He remains silent to this day. As do I. I didn’t tell Walt. As I say, some things are best left unsaid.
* * * * *
Whether Powell will go down for Shanae’s murder remains to be seen. The evidence I gave them is thin. Although her description matches Powell, and the prosecution can call her as a witness, Mrs. Mallory wasn’t sure he was the one she saw that night at Shanae’s house. Other than Cooper’s calendar and the photos, no one can connect Powell with the child porn operation or Kozmik. Beaufort or Fisher could have, if they’d lived, which leads me to believe Beaufort’s “suicide” was anything but. If Powell keeps his mouth shut, and the defense attorney can discredit Mrs. Mallory on cross-examination, he may get away with murder. In any case, I suspect I have no further worries. Thanks to Little D, Diesel’s gone for good. He won’t be missed.
I guess you could say everything worked out okay in the end. As okay as it could under the circumstances. There are some things that simply can’t be fixed. I can’t fix the system, I can’t fix society, and I can’t solve everyone’s problems. But I do what I can. The chips fall where they do. At least I can look in the mirror and say I tried. And that’s okay.
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debbi Mack is the New York Times bestselling author of the Sam McRae mystery series. She’s also had several short stories published in various anthologies and been nominated for a Derringer Award.
Debbi is also a screenwriter and podcaster who hosts the Crime Cafe podcast, where she interviews crime, suspense, and thriller authors twice a month.
A former attorney, Debbi has also worked as a journalist, reference librarian, and freelance writer/researcher. Along with writing mysteries, Debbi is currently working on a new trilogy of crime novellas and other projects.
www.debbimack.com
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Thank you for choosing to buy this book. If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll do me the favor of leaving a short review on your favorite book retailer’s site. Nothing makes an author’s day like knowing they’ve made a reader happy.
I also hope you’ll consider trying another one of my books. I’ve listed them below.
The Sam McRae Mystery Series
Identity Crisis
Riptide
Deep Six
Short Stories
Five Uneasy Pieces
Deadly Detour (A Short Story)
Other Novels
Invisible Me
The Planck Factor
Crime Cafe Collective Works
The Crime Cafe 9 Book Set
The Crime Cafe Short Story Anthology
You can also contact or connect with me in the following ways:
Email: http://[email protected]
Twitter: http://twitter.com/debbimack
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Riptide
Debbi Mack
Copyright © 2012 Debbi Mack
All Rights Reserved
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JUNE 2006
CHAPTER ONE
The pounding woke me. I felt for the bedside lamp, turned it on, and looked around the unfamiliar room.
The swimsuit flung onto the broken wicker chair told me I was in the right place.
My best friend Jamila and I had rented the condo for a week, a gift to ourselves before pressing flesh at the annual bar association convention in Ocean City, Maryland. I usually bypassed the conference, along with Brussels sprouts and whiny kids, whenever possible. Jamila shamed me into going, since she was slated to speak. The topic was legal ethics. There wasn’t a room at the convention center big enough to accommodate everyone who should have attended.
We had checked in on Saturday, aka “change day” in the world of beach rentals. Not that I’d know. This was my first vacation in forever.
I’d left my case files, my calendar, my briefcase, and my cares back in my office on Main Street in Laurel. My neighbor Russell was looking after my cat Oscar in my stead. Russell is like the gay father I never had. He’s not a huge cat fan, but he’s a great friend.
More pounding. The noise came from the front door. I glanced at the bedside clock. 1:35 A.M. What the fuck?
The banging resumed. I rolled out of bed, trudged to the door and opened it. Jamila stood in the short hall between our rooms. She held a creamy white bathrobe closed across her sizeable chest.
Jamila looked amazing for someone who’d been startled out of bed in the wee hours. Despite pillow-tousled hair and sleepy eyes, she was a dusky Queen of Sheba in figure-revealing silk to my anemic court jester in striped men’s pajamas.
“Who on earth could that be, Sam?” Jamila hissed.
“I don’t know.” My words were stupid and obvious.
Another round of pounding. I moved to the door and peered through the peephole, before our visitor pounded his knuckles bloody.
On the other side stood a uniformed cop.
Sighing, I opened the door.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the cop said.
“Good morning, you mean.” Wail on my door in the middle of the night and you’re guaranteed an audience with the Wicked Witch of the West.
The cop took a step back then recovered quickly.
“Sorry to wake you at this hour—” he started.
I cut him off. “Please tell me this doesn’t have to do with our friends on the first floor. I thought we had that straightened out.”
“No ma’am. This is far more serious.”
> It better be. And quit calling me ma’am.
I heard Jamila shuffle up behind me.
A female officer moved into view. She consulted a notepad. “Are you Stephanie Ann McRae?” she asked.
“Right. What’s this about?”
The woman ignored me. “And you’re Jamila Williams?”
“Yes.” Jamila sounded tired, unsure. She moved closer.
“Is this yours, Ms. Williams?” The man held up a plastic bag containing a decorative tortoise shell comb. The four-pronged, fan-shaped comb was distinctively marbled.
Jamila blinked. “Can I see that?”
He handed it to her for inspection.
“It ... looks like one of mine,” she said. “One that I lost. Where did you find this?”
The cops exchanged a look.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you need to come with us.”
“What?” I said. “What the hell is this?”
“Ms. Williams, we need to take you in for questioning.”
Adrenaline pumped through me, bringing me to full alert. “Questioning?” My voice was shrill. “What’s going on?”
“William Raymond Wesley has been murdered. We just need to ask you a few questions at the station.”
The man droned on. The night had turned surreal. I tried to get more specifics, but Jamila silenced me with a raised hand. Probably didn’t want to look uncooperative. Reluctantly, I backed down.
Everyone seemed to move in slow motion. The woman escorted Jamila to her room so she could get dressed.
Who the hell is William Raymond Wesley?
Then, I remembered.
Jamila emerged in a warm-up suit. With a firm hand on Jamila’s arm, the female cop escorted her while holding onto an evidence bag with her pajamas and robe. Jamila and I exchanged a look that said she, too, recalled how we’d met the victim.
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