Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 16

I headed farther west on Route 50 to Dwayne Sutterman's place. On the way, I passed a flatbed truck laden with crated chickens. The odor suggested an overflowing septic tank on wheels. Upon closer inspection, I could see the chickens crammed so tightly their feathers fluttered between the slats like tiny flags of surrender.

"Poor birdies," I muttered, as I slowed to turn off the highway. The truck zoomed on, its driver heedless of me or his passengers.

The Glades apartment complex was a step up from Curtis's trailer park home. Part of it might survive if a tornado ripped through the area. The apartments were organized into four-story units of light brown brick with beige trim. I strolled the grounds of manicured grass, lined with boxwood shrubs and the occasional bed of daylilies and impatiens, until I located Dwayne Sutterman's building. It was only early June, but the summer heat was already creeping in. A trickle of sweat inched down my spine as I climbed to the top floor. I knocked at his door and waited.

I could hear a rustling sound within. Several thumps and a few mumbled words later, a man opened up. I recognized him from our first encounter with Billy Ray.

"Yeah." A toothpick hung from the corner of his mouth. Although his flint-gray eyes were unfocused, his gaze traveled up and down my body, like a scanner.

"Hi, Dwayne. You may remember me from a few days ago in the parking lot with Billy Ray."

"Uh huh. You want something or what?"

The pungent odor of pine-scented air freshener drifted from inside the apartment. Beneath that scent, I detected the unmistakably skunky scent of weed. Unless I missed my guess, Dwayne's eyes weren't the only thing unfocused about him.

"I'd like to talk to you and Curtis, if I could."

Dwayne said nothing. His gaze drifted to my face and stayed there.

"Uh, Dwayne. Is Curtis here?"

More silent staring.

I waved my hand, as if to flag him down. "Hello? Anyone home?"

Dwayne's expression crumpled into one of annoyance. He grabbed my hand and cocked it back at the wrist. I sucked my breath in hard, as pain shot from my wrist to my elbow.

Keeping a hard grip on my hand, Dwayne leaned close, his face hovering inches from mine. "Don't fuckin' do that," he growled, enunciating each word so slowly, minutes seemed to elapse between them. "Do you understand?"

"Sure, sure," I gasped. "Sorry."

"Good." He pushed me and I stumbled backwards to the top of the stairs. Only good balance and quick reflexes prevented my tumbling down them.

"Are you going to tell me what you want?" His voice was as sour as his expression. If this guy is stoned, I'm sure ruining his buzz.

I sighed. "First, I'd like to know if Curtis Little is here." I was starting to feel like a damned parrot.

"No. Is that it?"

"I'll settle for you then. Who were you talking to just before you opened the door?"

"And how is that any of your goddamned business?"

"Is there anyone else here?"

Dwayne pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"Right," I said. "Then let's talk about Billy Ray."

"What's there to say? Your nigger friend killed him."

"How can you be so sure?"

"All the evidence points to her, doesn't it?"

"Not really."

"Oh, yes it does. What about the knife? What about the comb?"

What about the fact that you know all this?

"It's interesting you should bring those things up. I don't think the police have shared any of that information with the press." I paused to watch the effect of these words. He just looked surly. "In fact, cops tend to be very close-mouthed about evidence in ongoing investigations. So unless you have an inside source, I can't imagine how you'd know about the knife and the comb."

Dwayne's lips curled back in disdainful amusement.

"My brother is a detective. He's working a homicide. Three guesses which case he's just been assigned to."

For a moment, I was lost for words. The nepotism and cronyism in these parts was stunning.

"That's interesting. I wonder how your brother the cop would feel about your pot-smoking habit?"

"Yeah, right. I don't have a habit. You can't prove anything. Besides, he's a homicide detective, not a narc, you stupid bitch."

Dwayne snickered, then chuckled. This built into laughter. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a used tissue and blew his nose. A slip of paper came out and drifted to the doormat unnoticed.

I stooped to pick up the piece of paper. It read: "Maria Benitez" with a long string of numbers beneath it.

Dwayne stopped laughing. He snatched the paper from my hand, retreated inside, and slammed the door.