Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)
Amber started to translate, but Luisa said, “Doo-ah-ee-nay? He no good.”
“Why do you say that?” I persisted. “¿Porqué?”
Amber rattled off the translation. Luisa responded.
Amber said, “She says that Dwayne is a drug dealer who uses her people to buy or distribute for him. She thinks Maria Benitez is his supplier.”
*****
In the ten minutes I got with Luisa, I gleaned more information from her. Apart from the fact that Dwayne Sutterman was more than the occasional user, that is. For starters, she was lucky to be living in a one-bedroom dump with four other families instead of a company-owned trailer with a nonworking sewage system and other delightful perks that she couldn’t complain about for fear of incurring her employer’s wrath and the government’s scrutiny of her legal status. Further, her kids were, in fact, working by her side today. Well, the family that picks together sticks together, right?
Finally, Luisa suggested I try looking for more information about Dwayne at the trailer park where she used to live. A place where the most desperate people would seek extra income through extralegal means.
*****
The trailers jammed into Luisa’s former neighborhood made Curtis Little’s double-wide look like the Waldorf Astoria. A dirt road encircled the trailer park. We took it around, surveying the place, until we returned to the entrance. The place was practically buried in dust and reeked of raw sewage. A couple of swarthy men dressed in jeans and T-shirts sat in lawn chairs next to a trailer, tipping back beers. I checked my watch. 8:15? A little early for poultry workers or crab pickers. But not drug dealers.
“Amber, I want to question those guys,” I said, pointing to the men.
Amber looked unsure, but nodded. She pulled the car over and cut the ignition.
We got out and walked toward the men, who were laughing and carrying on a raucous Spanish conversation. They paid no heed to us, but kept it up, even as I appeared right beside them.
“Hola,” I said.
One of them snickered. The other one sneered and took another swig of beer.
“Do you know Dwayne Sutterman?” I asked.
Mr. Snickers froze. Clearly, someone understood English. The Beer Swigger swallowed with an audible gulp and belched.
I reached for my wallet and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “What can I get for this?”
The Beer Swigger laughed. “I sell you all the beer in my fridge. How ’bout that?”
After ten minutes of fruitless questioning, it became clear that these guys were probably drug dealers, and they weren’t going to help me in any way, shape, or form. So Amber and I got back in the car and split.
“There’s got to be something I can follow up on,” I said. “I’m running out of time.”
I thought again about the EPA’s interest. Was there anything there to explore?
“You know, I’d really be interested in pursuing this environmental compliance angle a bit further,” I said. “Would you happen to know if Bower Farms used a consultant on these issues?”
Amber said, “I might have a possible contact you could try.”
Amber dropped me off at my scooter and I followed her to the office in Salisbury. There she rummaged through her files, looking for a letter or note or some scrap of information that might help.
“This isn’t something we keep regular records on,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her, checking my watch. Almost 8:45.
She turned her attention to the papers strewn across her desk, pawing through them. “I could have sworn I had … yes!” She snatched up a business card and presented it to me with a flourish. “There you go. I got her card at a recent conference. I’m pretty sure she said they’ve specialized in start-ups, like Bower Farms.”
I took a look at the card. It read: Greener Way Consultants. The slogan read, “Do green business and make more green.”
I peered closer at the name and title in smaller print under the company name: Karla Dixon, CEO and Founder.
Well, if it wasn’t Big Red. What do you know?