Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“Stabbed in the gut.” Morgan pointed toward Little’s abdomen with his pen. The lower part of the dark shirt he wore was wet. A bloodstain.

*****

“So what was your connection to Little?” Morgan asked for the fifth or sixth time. We sat in his car at the scene. He asked questions and took lots of notes.

“I told you, Little was with Billy Ray the day he harassed me and Jamila Williams. I’ve been trying to touch base with him without success. Frankly, getting people to talk to me has been hard. The phone calls were weird to say the least.”

“Did you perceive Little as a threat?”

“Are you kidding? Of course not.”

“Even though those calls were from his phone?”

“Like I said, I didn’t recognize the number. Or the voice.”

“What about your friend?”

“My friend knows nothing about this. Nothing.”

Morgan gave me his best cop stare. I had no more to say.

“You realize you may have been the last one to talk to him?” he said.

“Other than the killer,” I added.

He smirked. “Right.”

My stomach clenched. Why did he sound so sarcastic?

*****

By the time Morgan cut me loose, it was in the early hours of Thursday morning. Too late, I supposed, to talk to the eyewitness. Maybe. Just for kicks, when I got to Bayview Drive, I passed the condo and checked the address. To my surprise, lights were on inside the place. Almost every window. You’d have thought it was early evening instead of the wee hours. Maybe Roger Powers was a night worker. That would explain his presence so late at the scene of Billy Ray’s murder.

I pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. Silence descended. Not even gulls were crying. Traffic noise was muted. Only the rhythmic swish of water on nearby bulkheads was audible. It felt like I had cotton in my ears.

I exited the car and proceeded up the driveway to a curved walkway leading to the rambler’s front door. The porch light was on. A party? Midweek? When I reached the door, I heard the faint sound of music. Classical? I knocked, tentatively.

I glanced at my watch. 2 A.M. Good grief. Powers was either a night worker or a serious insomniac.

The door opened up. A tall young man in his mid to late twenties with short dark hair and a faintly distracted look opened up. “Can I help you?” he asked, blinking.

For a moment, I simply froze. It was 2:00 in the morning, and I was questioning an eyewitness who claimed to have seen my best friend at the scene of a murder. What should I ask him? Why isn’t my brain working? Maybe because it’s 2 A.M. Duh!

I snapped out of my reverie. “Hi. I couldn’t help noticing you were up. My name is Sam McRae and I’m an attorney representing the suspect in the murder that took place down the street. Would you have time to answer a few questions?”

He nodded and said, “Sure. C’mon in.”

I breathed a sigh. Now, how hard was that?

*****

Ten minutes later, I’d learned that Roger Powers was a musician. This explained the nocturnal schedule. Powers was in a band that played regular gigs around town. A variety of oldies and album rock. Anything from the late ’60s up to the early ’90s.

Powers offered coffee, which I gratefully accepted. I drank my way through three cups and endured a mind-numbing exchange of polite chitchat to warm him up for my laundry list of questions.

Me: “Do you wear glasses?”

Powers: “No. My vision is 20-20.”