Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 20

After calling Jamila to tell her not to wait up for me, I got on the phone to Amber Moore to get the exact address. Then I called 911 and told them about the call. I turned the car around and headed back toward the processing plant, wondering who or what I'd find. As for Jamila, I figured the less she knew, the better.

When I arrived on the scene, the lot where we'd parked mere hours earlier was overflowing with cars. Many of them sported rooftop visibars, creating a red-and-blue disco scene. Uniformed cops swarmed the grounds. One stood at the door, apparently on guard.

I walked up to the cop on guard. "What's happening?"

He looked at me. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sam McRae. I was the one who got the phone calls."

I won't say his jaw dropped, but his eyes betrayed shock. "The detective will want to talk to you," he said, his voice much calmer than he looked.

Great. I waited as the young man spoke into a walkie-talkie, then turned back to me and said, "He'll be here in a moment."

I smiled. "Thank you." I think.

The door opened and a man with a face cut from granite emerged. He stood roughly an inch shorter than me, but looked solid. His hair was dark and wavy, with ripples of gray threading through it.

"Detective Amos Morgan," he said without preamble. His arm extended and I grasped a hand as hard and calloused as a cowboy's.

"Sam McRae."

"Tell me about these phone calls."

I did so, as he scribbled in a small spiral notepad.

"Would you recognize this Curtis Little if you saw him?"

I thought back, trying to picture the guy in the lot who wasn't Billy Ray or Dwayne.

"Maybe," was about the best I could do.

"Come with me."

We entered the building. The lights were on, eerie as I remembered them. The equipment must have been hosed down because it looked clean. The walls, however, still looked sticky. The floors still wet.

Detective Morgan and I picked our way toward a dark shape forming in the gloom. A couple of jumpsuited technicians were setting up lights, as if for a photography shoot. As we drew close, the lights snapped on.

I sucked in a breath. I remembered the face. Curtis Little. He slumped from one of the hooks used to move the chickens down the conveyor.

"Is that him?" Morgan prompted.

"Uh huh."

Little's face was sheet white in the glare of the lamps. His heavy-lidded eyes expressionless.

"How ...?" My voice trailed off.

"Stabbed in the gut." Morgan pointed toward Little's abdomen with his pen. The lower part of the dark shirt he wore was wet. A bloodstain.

*****

"So what was your connection to Little?" Morgan asked for the fifth or sixth time. We sat in his car at the scene. He asked questions and took lots of notes.

"I told you, Little was with Billy Ray the day he harassed me and Jamila Williams. I've been trying to touch base with him without success. Frankly, getting people to talk to me has been hard. The phone calls were weird to say the least."

"Did you perceive Little as a threat?"

"Are you kidding? Of course not."

"Even though those calls were from his phone?"

"Like I said, I didn't recognize the number. Or the voice."

"What about your friend?"

"My friend knows nothing about this. Nothing."

Morgan gave me his best cop stare. I had no more to say.

"You realize you may have been the last one to talk to him?" he said.

"Other than the killer," I added.

He smirked. "Right."

My stomach clenched. Why did he sound so sarcastic?

*****

By the time Morgan cut me loose, it was in the early hours of Thursday morning. Too late, I supposed, to talk to the eyewitness. Maybe. Just for kicks, when I got to Bayview Drive, I passed the condo and checked the address. To my surprise, lights were on inside the place. Almost every window. You'd have thought it was early evening instead of the wee hours. Maybe Roger Powers was a night worker. That would explain his presence so late at the scene of Billy Ray's murder.

I pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. Silence descended. Not even gulls were crying. Traffic noise was muted. Only the rhythmic swish of water on nearby bulkheads was audible. It felt like I had cotton in my ears.

I exited the car and proceeded up the driveway to a curved walkway leading to the rambler's front door. The porch light was on. A party? Midweek? When I reached the door, I heard the faint sound of music. Classical? I knocked, tentatively.

I glanced at my watch. 2 A.M. Good grief. Powers was either a night worker or a serious insomniac.

The door opened up. A tall young man in his mid to late twenties with short dark hair and a faintly distracted look opened up. "Can I help you?" he asked, blinking.

For a moment, I simply froze. It was 2:00 in the morning, and I was questioning an eyewitness who claimed to have seen my best friend at the scene of a murder. What should I ask him? Why isn't my brain working? Maybe because it's 2 A.M. Duh!

I snapped out of my reverie. "Hi. I couldn't help noticing you were up. My name is Sam McRae and I'm an attorney representing the suspect in the murder that took place down the street. Would you have time to answer a few questions?"

He nodded and said, "Sure. C'mon in."

I breathed a sigh. Now, how hard was that?

*****

Ten minutes later, I'd learned that Roger Powers was a musician. This explained the nocturnal schedule. Powers was in a band that played regular gigs around town. A variety of oldies and album rock. Anything from the late '60s up to the early '90s.

Powers offered coffee, which I gratefully accepted. I drank my way through three cups and endured a mind-numbing exchange of polite chitchat to warm him up for my laundry list of questions.

Me: "Do you wear glasses?"

Powers: "No. My vision is 20-20."

Me: "What were you doing at the time you saw this person on the stairs?"

Powers: "I work as a musician. I was coming home from a gig."

Me: "What gig?"

Powers: "A gig at a local hotel. The Oceanfront Arms."

Me: "Had you had anything to drink? As in alcohol?"

Powers: "No. I was sober. I don't do drugs either."

Me: "So how good a look did you get at this person on the stairs?"

Powers: "She was in shadow, but I could see enough to tell it was a tall, thin dark woman."

Me: "When you picked her out of the lineup, what made you so sure you picked the right one?"

Powers: "The build, the clothing, her complexion. It was all as I remembered it."

Me: "But you say her face was in shadow?"

Powers: "Well ... yes, but ..."

Me: "What?"

Powers: "I could still see enough of her features to be sure it was her."

Me: "You're certain?"

Powers: "Absolutely. Was there anything else?"

After attempting to pick apart his version of that night with a few more questions, I called it quits. However, I wondered how much more there was to his story.