Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 23

I was no closer to finding Billy Ray's real killer, and I'd managed to get Jamila's car vandalized. Now, I'd have the thankless job of explaining that to her, made doubly hard by staying out all night then hanging up after she'd called to make sure I was okay.

I held my throbbing head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was all a terrible nightmare. I ventured to open them and, unfortunately, it was all too real.

Heaving a sigh, I slammed the hood shut, locked the car and started walking.

At barely the crack o' dawn, I chose not to call Jamila right away about the car. I burned with guilt. I hoped that she'd simply gone back to sleep and thought no more about me after I'd ended our call so summarily. Didn't she have enough problems?

The odor of fried eggs, potatoes, and coffee lured me. When was the last time I'd eaten? My stomach felt hollow as a basketball. A gurgling basketball. I followed the scent to a corner café. Like a lemming drawn over a cliff, I lunged through the door and made for the counter.

The waitress, her curly red hair bound up in a net, bounced around the joint in a light blue waitress outfit. She held a coffee pot in one hand and wore a large lipsticked smile. Bright red. Naturally, her name was Flo. She filled a nearby customer's cup, chattering nonstop, and sauntered my way.

"How's it hangin', hon?" she asked, pen poised over pad.

"Great," I said, lying like a rug. "Can I get a waffle, three scrambled eggs, two sides of bacon, a side of potatoes, and all the coffee you can spare me? And throw in a blueberry muffin, while you're at it."

"Hmm. Looks like someone's hungry. Ooh, I'm jealous, girl. How do you stay so thin? Look at you."

"Well ... I don't eat like this all the time." Please, please. Just fill my order. We'll chat later.

"It's metabolism, you know? You lucky thing." She paused and leaned in. "Anything else?" Her lips compressed into a knowing smirk.

"No. Yes. Well, could I get the muffin and coffee first?" Please, please, please ...

"Sure, hon." She flounced off and returned with both. It took great restraint not to stuff the whole muffin into my mouth.

Later, as I gobbled my breakfast, Flo entertained with her running commentary. She could have done a solo Broadway show. "The Vagina Diner Monologues." Flo was funny in the way that small-town waitresses can be. And friendly? Other than Amber at FPL, she was the nicest person I'd dealt with lately. While I harbored thoughts of asking her to run for mayor, Flo said something that snapped me from my reverie.

"Hear about that murder at Bower Farms last night?"

"Murder? You're kidding." A man two stools down spoke.

"Well, according to the news I heard on the radio this morning, they think the dead guy might have been smuggling illegal aliens."

The man snorted. "Shit. Spics. The guy got killed smuggling Spics into the country? Spics who take our jobs? Serves him right, I say. Son of a bitch."

I could feel my face grow hot and my temper rise. Spics, my ass. And whose jobs are they taking? The ones you don't want. The ones that pay shit.

I did a long, slow count to ten. Then twenty. Forced myself to breath deeply, in and out. I had enough problems without going off on a local redneck.

"Stan, they aren't all bad," Flo replied. "Some of them work damned hard. They do work no one else will take. Construction, landscaping, poultry work, crab meat processing. Thankless stuff that doesn't pay. God knows, I should know about that."

I looked up at Flo with new appreciation. She sauntered over, her coffee-pot appendage at the ready. "More?"

I smiled. "No thanks. I think I've had enough."

I settled my bill with Flo who doubled as cashier, pressing a ten-dollar tip into her hand. She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

"You obviously work very hard," I said. "And you just made my morning. Thank you."

With that, I got up and walked away. But not before catching the smile on her face.

*****

With a full stomach, I couldn't postpone the inevitable any longer. I had to make the call to Jamila about her car. I turned on my phone, expecting messages from her. None were there.

I expected to reach an angry friend. She wasn't. In fact, she took the news about her car with astonishing poise and grace, saying that she'd get in touch with her insurance company about securing a rental. Her comprehensive insurance would cover all of it, of course. I guess when you're a murder suspect, having your car fucked with is pretty low on your list of concerns.

She even forgave me for hanging up on her after I told her about my lovely evening—summoned by an anonymous call to another murder scene, arriving at Conroy's house to find him in a mysterious meeting with someone or other, fleeing God knows who in an old Chevy during a high-speed chase down Coastal Highway.

"I passed out in the car, and when I woke up, the sun was rising," I explained.

"Don't worry about it. Sounds like you've been through hell."

Well, what about you?

"Are you all right?"

The breathy sound of a sigh. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Any more media calls?"

"A few."

Shit. I wondered how long we could hold off that pack of jackals. In fact, I wondered if any of them were exploring possible connections between last night's murder at Bower Farms and Billy Ray's unfortunate demise.

"Sam, I should probably call the insurance company."

Jamila's voice snapped me back to attention.

"Right. Good idea."

"You'll need a car, won't you?"

I looked up the street and spotted a scooter rental outfit. "Not necessarily."

*****

Ocean City is two-wheeled rental central. You can find just about any kind of two-wheeled transportation you might desire for rent within the city limits. Scooters have become an extremely popular mode of transport in this town, given the high price of gas and the low availability of parking. Rather than risk Jamila's wheels, I'd get my own. Why blow bucks on a car, if I could get by with less? The scooter was speedy and cheap. Highly maneuverable in traffic. I took it for a test ride on the straightaway of Coastal Highway. This baby could move. It maxed out at a blinding 45 miles per hour, though it felt like closer to 60. So, I backed her down quickly.

As I played with my new toy, I pondered where to go next. If the police suspected Curtis Little of smuggling illegal workers, I wondered how much evidence they had. I also wondered if Little and Sutterman could have been smuggling people and drugs in a joint operation. How interesting would that be? And what proof did I have? None, of course. What else was new?

Think, Sam. Where to start looking? How about Little's trailer? Haven't the cops been there? Perhaps not. Maybe they haven't gotten a warrant yet. So what are you waiting for?

I pulled the scooter over and called Amber's cell number. She answered on the second ring.

"Hi there," I said. "I need a Spanish translator. How'd you like to do something a bit different this morning?"