Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“We were supposed to get equal shares,” she continued. “But Curtis said he wanted more, since he brought the workers in. That’s all I know. Honest!”

“So, what were you paid for?”

“Billy Ray knew the company couldn’t afford the kind of oversight program that the big companies like Perdue have. So he came to me and asked a favor. I did all the paperwork and he got his good PR in return. After that, he treated me like a goddamn queen. He couldn’t afford not to, right?”

What was I hearing? Regret? Bitterness? Rage? Self-hatred?

I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask.

“Karla, did you love Billy Ray? Or did you do it just for the money?”

She snorted. “What do you think?”

I shook my head. “Like I’d know?”

“Well, now what?” Karla said, backhanding the tears from her cheeks.

“Tell me the truth. Is Dwayne Sutterman’s illegal drug trafficking part of the larger operation?”

Karla shook her head. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t doubt it.” She stared at her lap.

Not an admission, but not a denial, either. “Do you know where he works?”

Karla laughed bitterly. “Dwayne works with the watermen, to the extent he works at all. When he’s not hanging out at his place, huffing weed, he’s either in a boat on the water or drinking beer with the other lowlifes at the Pirate’s Den down near the inlet.”

“I see.” I rose. “Have you ever heard of Maria Benitez?”

This drew a perplexed look and shake of her head.

“Okay,” I said. “I have to go now. Thanks for confirming my theory.”

“What?”

I leaned toward her. “Karla, here’s a tip. When a lawyer says something in the form of a question, it’s usually a hypothetical. Now do you understand?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Pirate’s Den was a ramshackle building with weathered driftwood boards stacked into makeshift walls. I parked the scooter in the lot and climbed the wooden ramp to the entrance. A pirate’s skull-and-crossbones sign welcomed me. Cute.

I pulled open the door and stared into a void. The bar was so dimly lit, I had to step inside and let my eyes adjust be

fore I could see a thing. It took a while. Eventually I made out a bar running along the back wall, old-fashioned lanterns hung on wrought iron posts, wooden beams, starfish, shells and other beachy doodads hanging from the fishnet on the walls. A few customers emerged from the dark.

Now what? Should I shout, “Ahoy?” Blow a foghorn?

I chose to move toward the bar, where a tall steroid addict was wiping the counter.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, drawing him aside to speak out of earshot of the local drunks. “I wonder if you could help me.”

Goliath glanced my way. “What’ll it be, lady?”

“I’ll have a ginger ale. Has Dwayne Sutterman been in today?”

He stopped wiping. He turned and gazed down at me. “Who wants to know?”

I pulled the fifty-dollar bill from my wallet and waved it in his face. “Does it really matter?”

My eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom, so I could see him squinting, brow creased in apparent thought.