Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 25

While Amber and Carmen distracted the cops, I slunk into the tiny bathroom. I flushed the toilet, ran the tap several seconds, then left and walked toward the visitors, slapping my hands against my jeans.

And who led this contingent? The short craggy-faced cowboy with the calloused hands.

"Good morning," I said. "Detective Morgan, isn't it?"

"Amos Morgan, ma'am." He delivered the line in a near monotone. "Funny you should be here."

I shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood. Carmen and I have met. You can ask her. Right, Carmen?"

I gave Carmen my most disarming grin. She nodded and smiled brightly, clearly not understanding a word.

"I take it you want to search the trailer?" I said. "I don't want to get in your way." I glanced at Amber, who grabbed her purse and joined me. "So unless you have further business with us, we'll be going."

"What are you doing here?" Morgan dug in like a pit bull.

"Paying our respects."

He scowled. "Sure you were."

"Detective, you have no cause to hold us."

Morgan said nothing. Our gazes, as they say, locked. I tore mine loose from his. "Let's go," I said, and ushered Amber out the door. As we hustled to the car, I noticed that one of the official vehicles bore an EPA logo. What's that about? We beat feet out of there before you could say the words "Terry stop."

*****

"Wow. That was close," Amber said. We rolled down Route 50 toward the lot where I'd parked the scooter.

"You bet." Close in more ways than one. What if Morgan had decided the calls from Little's phone to mine provided the specific and articulable facts needed to do a Terry stop? That is, what if he'd decided they gave him cause to hold me under Terry v. Ohio, the case every law student and criminal lawyer knows inside and out? A Terry stop is supposed to apply to stop-and-search cases for weaponry. But what comfort was that? These days, cops will try to bend the Fourth Amendment every which way. And case law can be modified. But I'd managed to get out of harm's way. For the moment.

"Now," I said, parroting Mulrooney. "Did you notice one of the cars back there had an EPA logo? Clearly, they're not interested in illegal immigrants. So, any idea why EPA would be involved?"

Amber's eyebrows did a brief mating dance. "Well, one of the things EPA has been doing is trying to get bigger companies like Perdue to make sure the farmers they work with maintain high environmental compliance standards."

"Okay. So how does this work?"

"Years ago, Perdue signed a memorandum of understanding with EPA. It created the Perdue Clean Waters Environmental Initiative. The idea is that Perdue will help provide technical assistance and training, as well as monitoring and compliance, to make sure their poultry providers are doing business in an environmentally sound way."

I nodded. "But this doesn't bind Bower Farms legally, does it?"

Amber shook her head. "No, but it does provide a template for other socially conscious companies. And many companies have become interested in following Perdue's example. It gives them a much better image, particularly among investors who care about environmental effects and corporate accountability. Not to mention creating goodwill with environmentalist groups and the public."

Hmm, I thought. I wondered how many smaller companies just pretend to be socially conscious and get away with it. All that paperwork stuck in the drawer. If only I'd had a chance to look it over.

"Oh, by the way," Amber said, interrupting my thoughts. "Carmen mentioned that Curtis often talked to a woman named Maria on the phone."

"Maria Benitez?

"She didn't know her last name."

Great. Maria was only among the most popular female Hispanic names out there. And Maria Benitez was almost as common as Mary Jones.

"The only other lead I have is the name Maria Benitez. Any chance she might be a worker or related to someone who works for Bower?"

Amber shrugged. "It's a common name, but I know someone who might know."

She pulled the car over to the shoulder and dug her cell phone out of her shoulder bag. "Let me make a call and see if my source is okay with talking to you."

*****

Two minutes of fast-talking Spanish later, we were back on the road. "It's fine," Amber said. "As long as you're not with immigration or the cops, they'll answer questions."

Ten minutes after that, we pulled up before a tiny house that would have accommodated Little's double-wide, if you knocked down the inner walls. The dying lawn stretched roughly twenty feet from the house and clung to the curb. Toys were strewn about here and there. Off to the side, a rusty bicycle leaned against a trash can.

Amber put the car in park, gathered her things, and exited the vehicle. I got out and eyed the place. Where were the kids? The place looked deserted. How much worse could it be than the ghettos of Bed-Stuy, where I grew up? Or the ones where I'd spent time searching for evidence in a haunting case I'd handled only last fall.

We negotiated the buckled concrete walkway to the front door. Amber knocked three times. Birds sang cheerful morning songs. Strange muzak. After a lengthy wait, the door creaked open. A short, brown man around forty or so, wearing faded jeans and a white wife-beater shirt, stood in the doorway. He leaned on a set of crutches, his right foot encased in plaster.

"Can you tell him who I am?" I asked Amber.

Amber leaned toward me. "I know. I'll make the introductions, tell him who you represent, then ask him if he's ever heard of Maria Benitez. Okay?"

That seemed simple enough, so I nodded.

Amber turned toward the man and engaged him in conversation in Spanish. He nodded. I heard her mention Maria's name. He nodded some more. Interesting. But then he shook his head.

"Gracias," Amber said. She turned to me. "He says that one of the women living here has mentioned the name Maria Benitez on occasion. However, he doesn't know anything else about her."

"Okay. Could you ask him, who lives here and where are they? Who is the woman who mentioned Maria and where is she?"

Amber relayed my questions to him in Spanish. He responded.

"They're all working right now," she said. "Luisa works as a crab picker. You'll find her at the processing plant about half a mile from here."

"Is Luisa his wife?"

"No, she's his cousin." Amber turned to face me directly. "He says five families live here. That's pretty typical. And I've seen much worse."

*****

When Amber and I reached the processing plant, she said, "Why don't I go in and see if I can find Luisa and sneak her out here? She may feel uncomfortable being asked questions in the presence of her coworkers."

"Sure," I said.

She left the car and entered the building.

I sat alone, glancing from side to side. Just how big was this operation we were unearthing, anyway?

Was the CIA going to swoop in at any moment?

I laughed. "Good God, Sam. Don't be ridiculous." I said out loud.

Then, I heard the gunshot and flung myself down on the front seat.