Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 35

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.