Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

I retrieved my cell and speed dialed the number.

As it rang, I muttered, “Pick up. Please pick up.”

Then, I heard, “Reed Duvall.”

“Oh, thank God!”

“Well, that’s a first.” Pride or triumph underscored his tone.

My face grew warm. “Um, that wasn’t exactly …”

“Sam, what can I do for you?” Duvall sounded his normal self again. Maybe slightly playful.

“Got an urgent assignment for you.”

“Aren’t you at the beach? Attending some convention?”

I sighed. “Yeah, but things got, um, a bit complicated. Got a few minutes?”

“Sure thing. Shoot.”

Reed Duvall was a private investigator I’d come to know while working opposite sides of an old case. I ran through the events of the past few days and then asked him to try to confirm that some chick named Maria Benitez was the linchpin in an illegal drug and human smuggling operation. I explained my theory that someone connected with the big operation had killed Billy Ray and framed Jamila. I hoped to nail down my theory by having him confirm a few facts.

When I’d finished, Duvall blew out an audible breath. “When do you need this?”

“Yesterday. Preferably the day before.”

He chuckled. “My time machine broke, but I’ll get right on this.”

“Duvall, I really …” I got choked up and couldn’t continue.

“That’s okay. We met because of Jamila. Remember?”

I thought back to that case. It was only last summer. Despite working opposite sides, we’d formed a bond. Now we were friends. Or were we more?

“Thanks. Really.” I managed to get the words out.

“I will always have your back. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“One more thing,” I said, before he could hang up. “Could you do a background check on someone named Marsha Bower?”

Duvall repeated the spelling of Marsha’s name and her last known address as he took the information down.

“She’s disappeared,” I said. “No one has a clue where she’s gone.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Duvall said. “I’ll check for death records and so on, as well as any recent address listings.”

As I disconnected, I nearly wept with joy.

Wolfing down the last bite of meatball sub, I gathered the trash and threw it out. By now, it was after 5:00. I decided to test my latest theory of the case on the witness who fingered Jamila in the lineup. I left the sub shop, hopped on the scooter, and sped off to Bayview Drive.

*****

I returned to Roger Powers’s tidy rancher. In the early evening light, it looked charming, tucked between two others with the bay’s grayish-blue waters glimmering in the background. A one-car garage and a healthy rectangle of lawn made his house a standout. I pulled into the asphalt driveway and left the scooter near the garage. Powers must have seen me coming, because he opened the door before I’d gotten halfway up the walk.

“Hi,” he said, ambling out.

“Hi, remember me?” We shook hands. The corners of his mouth turned down.