Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

I took a couple of deep breaths. My hand shook slightly as I turned the ignition, but I started the car. I even managed to pull a shit-eating grin and give the gawkers a brief salute before I left.

*****

En route to our lovely new digs, I hit a drugstore to pick up a few essentials and then swung past the convention center to scope out whether the conference organizers had cottoned to the news of Jamila’s arrest. As I suspected, few of my peers were in evidence. While some of them may have chosen to use the convention as an excuse to take a week’s vacation, I was sure most were only taking a few days off from busy schedules to be here. That’s the practice of law for you: just one long nonstop party.

I ventured into the cavernous building, wandering past a long line of display tables, still empty but no doubt soon to be filled with process servers, title examiners, litigation support services, and other hungry vendors. As I glanced around, a familiar voice came from behind me. One I didn’t particularly want to hear.

“Sam? Sam McRae, is that you?”

I turned to face the source. “Hello, Jinx.”

Jingle Henderson had to be one of the most irritating lawyers I’d ever known. Her nickname couldn’t have been more appropriate. There was no rule Jinx wouldn’t try to bend—nearly to the breaking point. I’d dealt with her bullshit on more than one occasion. I didn’t want to deal with it now.

However, instead of the cool reception she usually gave me, Jinx beamed a broad smile in my direction. She rushed me and threw her arms around me like a linebacker.

“It’s so good to see you, Sam,” she said.

“Uh huh.” That’s all I could force myself to say, as my mind screamed, what the fuck?

Jinx loosened her grip and stepped back, still grinning. “We need to talk.”

Must we? “About what?”

Jinx’s expression turned more solemn. “Would you like to get coffee?”

Though I’m second to none in my love of coffee, the thought of having it with Jinx wasn’t enticing. I let her question hang for a moment before answering. Should I refuse? I’ll admit, I was curious.

“Okay. Where do you want to go?”

“There’s a place about a mile from here on the boardwalk. Java on the Beach. Do you know it? I could drive us.”

Again, I pondered an appropriate reply. I suspected it wasn’t, “Gee, Jinx, that’s nice, but I’d rather walk there barefoot over broken glass than be stuck in the same car with you.”

Finally, I said, “I know the place. Would it be okay if we met there in an hour or so? I’m looking for someone.” Anyone else.

Jinx nodded so fast it made me dizzy.

“Awesome! Let’s exchange numbers.” Reluctantly, I gave her mine and programmed hers into my phone. She glanced at her watch. “See you in about an hour then?”

I nodded as she walked away. Now what’s going on?

CHAPTER SEVEN

I continued my search for the program coordinator. Jamila was scheduled to make her presentation Saturday afternoon. Mulrooney should be able to arrange her release well before then. Even so, I wondered if anyone associated with the conference had read the local papers. Or how they would react to news reports that night.

For a frozen moment, I worried about word getting out through the new social media. Facebook, and now something called Twitter. But who used that stuff? Kids. Ha!

Traditional media and the rumor mill were my bigger concerns. How would it look for Jamila to give a lecture on ethics after being arrested as a murder suspect? Would the program planner want to cancel her session?

In a far corner, I spied Betsy Larkin, the program coordinator, deep in consultation with a red-faced man in a tight-fitting suit. He didn’t look happy. I approached with caution, not wanting to interrupt.

“I asked for bottled water,” Betsy said. “You know, the cute little bottles? Everyone loves them.”

As Betsy made her pitch for cute little bottles of water, I wondered if this was the right time to bring up another possible glitch in the program.

“Also,” Betsy said, “I was hoping for a wider variety of fruit juices with the morning pastries and coffee.”

While Betsy rambled through her culinary demands, I pondered the notion that it might be unwise to broach the subject of Jamila’s problems. After all, I had four days. She might be eliminated as a suspect in that time.