Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

Nice. A woman who got right to the point.

“I’d like to talk to you about Billy Ray. But, first, I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Sam McRae and I’m—”

“I know what you’re doing. Everyone does, okay? You’re helping that awful lawyer Mulrooney with your friend’s defense, right?”

“Yes, I was just about to explain—”

“Save your explanations. I loved Billy Ray and now he’s dead.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Okay, so maybe he wasn’t nice to your friend, but that was no reason to kill him.” Her volume rose and her face reddened as she spoke. Her eyes actually teared up.

I cleared my throat. “My friend has been accused, but that doesn’t make her guilty. I’m just trying to clarify—”

“Stop it! You’re not trying to clarify anything. You’re just looking to lay the blame on someone else. You’re trying to confuse everyone. That’s all you criminal lawyers are good for. You’re awful. How can you even come here and question me? Billy Ray’s dead and I’ll never get to see him again. Thanks to your friend.”

Then she broke down and started sobbing.

I was speechless for a long moment. Finally, I said, “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

She backhanded the tears from her crimson face. Her expression twisted in fury, she said, “Give me a break. You don’t give a damn.”

With that, she slammed the door shut.

That went well.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I am so screwed. How could I help Jamila, if no one in this wretched backwater would talk to me?

It was coming up on 12:30 and I was starving. I stopped at a roadside stand that sold crab cakes and soft-shell crab sandwiches. Have you ever had a soft-shell crab? Full of green stuff. Don’t ask. I bought a crab cake on a roll.

I checked the time. The hour for meeting with Jinx was closing in. I directed myself toward the Route 50 bridge and tried to prepare for whatever she had in store for me.

The trip to Java on the Beach was quick but stimulating. Negotiating Coastal Highway traffic in early summer has that effect. The June bugs were out in abundance. They drove, bicycled and scootered their way through the throng, willy-nilly. The roar of glasspacks competed with hopped-up Harleys and bullet bikes. The ambient air was a stew of exhaust.

I turned onto the side street leading to the parking lot near the boardwalk—surviving a near miss with a boy on a moped who shot in front of me at the last second.

I found a space—miracle of miracles!—near the ramp leading to the boardwalk. From there, I plunged into a crowd of tourists. People wearing T-shirts bearing messages like, “I’m with Stupid.” The kind of thing that was new thirty years ago.

Java on the Beach was tucked between a gift shop and a video arcade. The place looked dead. I strolled in.

The small box of real estate contained a counter and a motley collection of round tables with chairs. The few customers sat silent or spoke in hushed tones.

I spotted Jinx against the far wall. When we made eye contact, she jumped up.

“Yoo hoo! Here I am.”

I surveyed the tiny shop. “So I see.”

I put in my order and waited for my coffee. Jinx sat at the table, watching me and looking ready to burst.

I took a seat opposite her and leaned on my forearms. “So. What is it we need to talk about?”

She gave me a look of sheer rapture, eyes aglow.

“Ray Mardovich,” she said.

For a moment, I said nothing. Just waited.

Jinx smiled and waited, too.