Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

Conroy worked from his home office on the bay side: 2555 Pine Shore Lane. I made a left at Pine Shore and looked for 2555. It was a small cottage. White with light blue trim. A dark blue Toyota parked out front. The street dead-ended a few hundred feet from the house. Nice and quiet, with no through traffic. The kind of house a retiree might prefer. I wondered how old Conroy might be.

I went up the walk and knocked on a front door flanked by rose bushes, their salmon pink and orange flowers perfuming the air. The walk bisected the yard into two small scrubby green squares. Apart from the low white noise of distant traffic, the occasional shrieks of gulls were the only sound. I stood and watched a pelican dive for the bay. As it swooped in, I heard a voice rumble behind me.

“Can I help you?”

I snapped around. A man about my height stood in the doorway. Late fifties, thinning hair. Face brown and wrinkled with the squint of a fisherman, a skeptic, or both. He grinned at my discomfiture.

“Or did you just come to admire the scenery?” he asked.

*****

After we’d exchanged introductions, Conroy led me to his office in a converted garage. The desk was weighed down by piles of paper. He picked a stack of folders off a chair and nodded toward it. I sat. I’m not the most organized person, but Conroy’s office made me look fastidious.

“Coffee? Tea? Water?” he asked.

“Coffee would be nice.”

“Sugar? Milk?”

“Just black.”

“Good. Cause that’s all I’ve got. I don’t even have fucking milk.” He laughed. “Pardon my French.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Good. I won’t fucking worry about it then.” He guffawed. I smiled in return. He poured a Styrofoam cup of brew from a carafe on a side table.

He landed in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. “So, how can I help you?”

“I was hoping I could help you.”

He frowned and squinted harder. “Exactly how?”

“I think my friend’s been framed for murder. I want to help find out who really did this.”

His face scrunched so hard, it seemed near to imploding. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You know you don’t have to prove her innocence then.”

“But if we can find evidence that someone else did this and eliminate Jamila as a suspect, the matter could get dismissed. She could expunge the arrest from her record—like it never happened.”

He sighed and swung his feet off the desk. Leaning toward me, he said, “Well, sure. But what’s this ‘we’ stuff? I work alone, understand?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

He shook his head. “Look here, girlie. I’ve been doing this for almost thirty years. I’ve lived here all my life. If I can’t get the job done, I doubt anyone can.”

Um, excuse me?

“Well, first of all, my name is Sam—”

“Now, you’re not going to get your undies in a twist over a little expression, are you?”

“And second,” I continued. “I can’t sit back and simply do nothing.”

“Well, fine. Knock yourself out. But, I don’t want or need your help. And, believe me, you won’t get far around here on your own.”