Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“Have you got that?” Betsy concluded to the flustered-looking man. As he bustled off, Betsy aimed her formidable figure my way.

Standing roughly six feet in low heels with a gray helmet of hair, Betsy gave the distinct aura of one not to be trifled with. She looked down at me, a skulking 5-foot, 8-inch midget, and said, “What can I do for you?”

Don’t hit me. I’m ashamed to admit they were the first words that came to mind. “I … uh, I just wanted to say you’ve put together a great program. I can’t wait for the sessions to start.”

Betsy looked thunderstruck. “Why … why thank you. That’s very nice. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Sam McRae.”

“Well, Sam, it’s really good to meet you.” Betsy pumped my hand and nearly wrenched my arm from its socket.

I opted for the time being to keep mum about Jamila.

*****

As I left the convention center, I ran into Kaitlyn Farrell from the State’s Attorney’s Office.

“What are you doing here so early?” I asked.

“I’m a presenter, remember?” I recalled then that Kait was giving a tutorial on recent criminal law developments. “I had the leave and I needed a break from the grind, so I’m here early to get a little R&R before my big presentation.” She said the last two words, using finger quotes. “I figured I’d stop by and check out what’s going on.” She peered into the nearly empty building, shook her head and turned toward me. “Not much, from the looks of it.”

“The place will be more lively later this week,” I assured her. “Can’t wait to hear you.” I tried to recollect when she was scheduled.

“I guess Ray will be basking in it this weekend,” Kait said, rolling her eyes. Ray Mardovich was a state’s attorney with whom I’d had an adulterous fling almost a year ago. Things had ended on a sour note—especially when I discovered he’d been seeing yet another woman. Now, the once-divorced, soon-to-be-twice-married Ray was to be installed on Saturday as the new bar association president. This amazed me on more levels than I cared to ponder.

It took all my restraint not to spout expletives. “I’m sure he’ll do a great job.”

“He is the kind of guy who can get things done.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s a real politician. Always trying to please everyone.”

For good or ill, the irony of that statement was lost.

*****

As I slid behind the wheel of my car, my cell phone jangled. To my surprise, it was Jinx.

“Sam, I wonder if we could reschedule our meeting. Would tomorrow afternoon be okay? Say, around 1:30?”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

“Oh, good. I can’t wait.”

As we hung up, I breathed a sigh. Well, I can.

I then punched in the number for our crack investigator, Conroy. Four rings later, he picked up.

“Hi. This is Sam McRae.”

“Mulrooney told me you’d be calling.” The voice was low and brusque and the line came out so fast, it sounded practiced.

“Would you have a moment to meet now?”

“Sure. C’mon by, if you like.”

If I like? Yes, I think I would. I got directions to his place before ending the call.

From the convention center, I took a left and headed north on Coastal Highway, the town’s Main Street, past iterations of strip shopping centers and miniature golf courses adorned with faux palm trees and waterfalls. Toward the north end of town, tall condo buildings stood sentry-like, their facades glowing in the setting sun.