Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“What’s there to say? Your nigger friend killed him.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“All the evidence points to

her, doesn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, yes it does. What about the knife? What about the comb?”

What about the fact that you know all this?

“It’s interesting you should bring those things up. I don’t think the police have shared any of that information with the press.” I paused to watch the effect of these words. He just looked surly. “In fact, cops tend to be very close-mouthed about evidence in ongoing investigations. So unless you have an inside source, I can’t imagine how you’d know about the knife and the comb.”

Dwayne’s lips curled back in disdainful amusement.

“My brother is a detective. He’s working a homicide. Three guesses which case he’s just been assigned to.”

For a moment, I was lost for words. The nepotism and cronyism in these parts was stunning.

“That’s interesting. I wonder how your brother the cop would feel about your pot-smoking habit?”

“Yeah, right. I don’t have a habit. You can’t prove anything. Besides, he’s a homicide detective, not a narc, you stupid bitch.”

Dwayne snickered, then chuckled. This built into laughter. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a used tissue and blew his nose. A slip of paper came out and drifted to the doormat unnoticed.

I stooped to pick up the piece of paper. It read: “Maria Benitez” with a long string of numbers beneath it.

Dwayne stopped laughing. He snatched the paper from my hand, retreated inside, and slammed the door.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Maria Benitez? Who the hell was that? Googling the name could produce ten million hits easily. I wished I had a photographic memory for numbers. I pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot. Amber waited in her burnt-orange Prius, sipping a coffee. I pulled my convertible top up and grabbed a cup of brew before I joined her.

“Get ready,” she said, as she turned the ignition.

“Dare I ask for what?”

“Some pretty harsh realities.” Amber’s lips twisted briefly. She backed out and drove off.

We rolled past flat fields of soybeans—according to Amber—stretching out in green rows toward a horizon punctuated with trees and a few houses.

“Soybeans are among the most important crops in this region,” Amber explained.

“Why?”

“They have many uses. They feed people and livestock, for one thing.” Amber paused, taking the time to check before passing a slow-moving farm vehicle. The operator even pulled to the side of the road for her. I marveled at this simple politeness that was so conspicuously absent at home.

“The Eastern Shore is the most concentrated agricultural area in Maryland,” she continued, after passing the vehicle. “It makes up nearly a third of Maryland’s agricultural land and produces more than half its major crops, like corn, soybean, wheat, and barley.”

“You’re a regular agricultural encyclopedia.”

Amber laughed. “Sorry if I sound like an ad for the Chamber of Commerce. This place and subject have become my life. I don’t get to talk to many people about it.”

“How about your coworkers at the FPL?”

Amber frowned. “We’re running out of those. The FPL has had to cut paid staff. We rely almost exclusively on volunteers and workers funded by grants.”