Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 9

After dropping Jamila at the motel, I had to act. But where to start? The eyewitness. What was his name? Mulrooney hadn't said, and I'd neglected to ask. I called Mulrooney and left a message. Now what? Start with Billy Ray's friends. They knew about the confrontation. They also could've stolen the knife and clothes. They'd be the logical ones to frame Jamila. But who were they? And assuming I could track them down, what would I do? Torture them into confessing? Right.

Time was my enemy. The preliminary hearing was in two weeks. And Jamila's presentation was in three days. So I had only so much time to ... what exactly? Exonerate Jamila? Do damage control?

I took a moment to think and try to pick a sensible course. Maybe I should start with the name I did know—Marshall Bower. Perhaps there was something to be learned from Billy Ray's stepfather, the man with all the local pull.

Sam McRae, girl of action, decided to find an Internet café. I figured it would take me all of five minutes to look him up.

The "café" turned out to be one lonely terminal tucked in the corner of a forlorn shop that sold cheap T-shirts in one of the strip malls a couple of miles north on Coastal Highway. They charged an outrageous $20 for ten minutes. I figured I'd rather cough up the cash than run back to the condo, fetch Jamila's laptop and hunt around looking for free Wi-Fi.

As the connection—dial up, no less!—crept to life, I checked my watch. Almost 10:30. Okay, I had time. Still it was mere hours away from my meeting with Jinx. It felt like waiting to have a tooth pulled.

When the home page finally downloaded, I checked my favorite directory. Three listings for a Marshall Bower in Maryland. None of them in the area.

"Shit." Unlisted, no doubt. Given his apparent stature in the community, I guessed it was his way of avoiding contact with the hoi polloi.

I Googled the name, throwing in the terms "Eastern Shore" and "Ocean City." Results! Among the top hits was a blog post about Bower Farms, Inc. Bower, who reportedly owned amusement rides, arcades, a few hotels, and other real estate holdings, had diversified last year into the poultry business—big business on the Eastern Shore. His outfit was small compared to the heavy hitters like Perdue and Tyson, but according to the post dated two months ago, the company was making aggressive inroads into the industry. Enough to where it put the local farm and migrant worker protection groups on alert. The blog had been created by just such a group. The Farmworker Protection League, aka FPL. Interesting.

With another glance at my watch, I quickly Googled Bower Farms, Inc., for its address and phone number. A few more clicks and I had it mapped and printed on a dusty, but functioning ink jet printer.

With minutes to spare, I checked the blog for contact information. No phone number, just a gmail address. I went into my email and quickly shot off a message, expressing an interest in talking to someone at FPL about Bower Farms, and Marshall Bower and family, in particular. If Bower had the kind of clout that could end up railroading my best friend into pleading guilty to something she didn't do, I intended to find the guy's Achilles' heel.

In the meantime, I'd learn what I could on my own.

With address and map in hand, I went off in search of Bower Farms.

*****

Thirty minutes later, I was cooling my heels in the reception area decorated in soothing shades of red, yellow, black, and white. Soothing, that is, if you enjoy that particular riot of colors. Bower, for reasons known only to him and against all better judgment, had chosen to emphasize his loyalty to Maryland by doing up his office in the colors of the state's flag. A bit jarring to the eye and unlikely to win any awards from Interior Design Magazine.

Bower's receptionist, Gwen, a woman who looked to be in her early sixties with blonde hair piled high in a do that was (in an odd coincidence of sorts) fashionable during the early '60s, had told me Mr. Bower had a full schedule and was on a conference call at that time, but he might be able to "squeeze" me in if I waited. While waiting to be squeezed, I selected a magazine from the array on the ebony coffee table. Poultry Today. And the latest issue, too. How lucky can a girl get?

I was perusing one of the front-section department items ("Chicken Feed"—a gossip column for poultry farmers, if you can believe that), when I overheard Gwen say, "Oh, yes. All right." She paused and nodded with vigor, perhaps attempting to make the movement visible through the phone. "I understand. Yes. Okay. I'll tell her."

She placed the receiver in the cradle as gently as a jeweler placing a Faberge egg in a packing carton.

I leaned forward and bared my teeth in what I hoped resembled a winning smile. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. Tell me what?"

Gwen's gaze flicked briefly to the desk blotter, then the wall over my shoulder, as if she were searching for the answer somewhere in the gaudy room.

"Let me guess. Mr. Bower won't be able to squeeze me in?"

"I ... I'm afraid not." Gwen gave me a beseeching look.

"Perhaps I could schedule another time to meet him?"

"Well ..." Her face contorted and she bit her lip. This was not looking good. "That may be complicated."

I took a deep breath. "Why is that?"

"Mr. Bower says he wants to have his lawyer present if he talks to you. I'd need to coordinate his schedule, as well." She sounded as perplexed as she looked. I felt almost the same. Almost.

I closed the magazine and, grinning with all I had, rose and said, "Tell you what. I'll call you later to set something up, okay? By the way, this is really great reading. Do you mind if I take it with me?"

*****

As I left Bower Farms' paean to all things Maryland, I reached a stunningly obvious conclusion: this is a small community. People talk to each other. They already know who I am and what I'm doing. It's going to be really hard to get any useful information from anyone. That's why Conroy was hired. Duh!

By heading directly for Marshall Bower, I had in effect thrown myself at a brick wall. Of course, I hadn't thought that a man who wasn't accused of anything would lawyer up. What was that all about?

When I returned to the motel, I found a note from Jamila saying she'd gone to the beach to relax and try to forget. After a quick call to her cell phone (which she'd turned off or wasn't answering), I left a message about needing to use her laptop to do some research. Not waiting for a yea or nay on this issue, I took the laptop to the nearest coffee shop with Wi-Fi. I tried looking into Billy Ray Wesley's background, seeking anything that would point to another person or thing I could investigate about the man. Scanning the local news items, I ran across a really interesting tidbit.

About four months ago, the local paper had announced that Billy Ray was engaged to a Danielle Beranski. Danni, I thought. The quiet one who had hung back while the others followed their leader to the car after that first encounter.

The engagement must have been called off, since Danni was "no longer his girl," as I recalled. So, what was she doing hanging out with the guy? Maybe they'd decided to part as friends. Or maybe there was more to Danni than met the eye. Either way, she seemed like an excellent source of dirt on good old Billy Ray.

I looked up D. Beranski and found a local address and phone. After pinpointing her location on a map, I called the number (using *67 to shield my own) and got voice mail delivered in the shy girl's distinctly faltering tone. I disconnected without leaving a message and shut down the computer.

Surely, it wouldn't be stepping on Ellis Conroy's toes to have a short talk with Danni Beranski.