Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

There was a distinct challenge in his words that put me on edge.

“This is a very close-knit community,” he droned. “I know the ins and outs. And I have the contacts. With all due respect, you don’t.”

“Fair enough,” I said, holding back a plethora of acidic responses. “But if there’s anything I can do—”

He coughed up a laugh. “Look, I know you wanna help your friend, okay? But I’m the professional. I’ll get right on this and be reporting to Mulrooney on a regular basis. Okay?”

“And I’m telling you as his co-counsel that I intend to be involved in some way.” You patronizing bastard.

“You want to help?” He coughed out another laugh, then jabbed a finger at me. “The best way to help me is to just stay out of my fucking way. You got that, girlie?” He came down heavy on the last word.

I rose. “Thanks for the fucking coffee.” I turned and left.

*****

As I started my car, my phone rang. It was Mulrooney. Jamila’s parents had come through on the bail bond. I aimed my car toward Coastal Highway and headed directly for the jail.

As I left Conroy’s, I was steaming. That sexist son of a bitch! Good thing I had several blocks to bring my full-boil anger down to a low simmer before reaching my destination. When I got there, Mulrooney was awaiting Jamila’s release. This was the good news. Unfortunately, the bad news had hit the local radio stations. No doubt Jamila’s arrest would be on everyone’s lips tomorrow. Thank God most of the convention’s attendees probably wouldn’t roll in until the day after or Friday. Would this still be news by then?

Jamila emerged and collected her things, looking dazed. Mulrooney placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Go home. Get some rest,” he said. “Let’s meet at my office tomorrow. Say around nine?”

We both nodded.

I led Jamila out to the car, got behind the wheel and headed back to the motel. I made sure to keep the radio off.

She sat silent, arms crossed, staring straight ahead.

“Are you all right?” My words sounded feeble and idiotic.

Jamila just nodded. I didn’t press.

As we drove, the only sounds were roller coasters clattering, motorcycles roaring, kids laughing. The farther north we went, the more traffic noises took over. Buses wheezing, horns honking.

Once we’d arrived at the motel, its seediness didn’t seem to register on Jamila’s radar. Eyes glazed, moving like a robot, she exited the car and trailed me to the room. I opened the door, and she took zombielike steps inside. She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor without looking, walked to the closest bed and abruptly sat on it.

Planting her elbows on her thighs, she buried her face in her hands.

“I don’t believe this,” she said.

When she lifted her face, I saw it was streaked with tears. I rushed to sit beside her and hugged her.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re innocent, goddamn it. We’re going to get you out of this. Free and clear.”

I was still dying to ask about the unspoken exchange between her and Mulrooney, but this hardly seemed like the right time. So I ignored the doubt nibbling at my gut.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The sun shone in a China blue sky as Jamila and I drove to Salisbury the next morning. A salty breeze blew through the car. Seagulls wheeled and squawked in airborne choreography as we left the ocean, crossed the Route 50 Bridge and motored inland.

Mulrooney’s office was near the courthouse, but our first stop was a coffee shop down the street. Mulrooney was there, chatting up the cashier.

“Mornin’, ladies,” he said, with a nod and a smile.

“Hey,” I said.

As I scanned the pastry selections, Mulrooney nudged me and said, “I’m a cheese Danish man, myself.”