Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“I’m not sure I’m supposed to talk to you.”

“Look, I’m not here to twist your arm. I’m only here to find out the truth.”

My words were meant to reassure Powers, but he looked almost frightened.

He said nothing. Gulls cried and kids on WaveRunners motored about on the water, laughing and squealing. Powers and I stared at each other.

“I just wanted to review a few small points, okay? Let’s start with something easy,” I said. “Did you get a close look at my client?”

“Well, of course.”

“In the dark?”

Powers grunted assent.

“So you’re sure it was her?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you don’t wear glasses?”

“No.”

“Were the porch lights on?”

“I … can’t recall.”

Uncertainty. Good.

“But you’re sure it was my client, even though it was dark. And my client is dark skinned. So she’d be, frankly, difficult to see.”

Powers shifted from foot to foot. “I know what I saw. Why would I lie?”

Good question.

I looked straight into his eyes and asked, “What were you doing out that night when you saw my client at the murder scene?”

“I told you. I was on my bicycle coming home from work.”

“Ah. So … where do you work?”

“I told you that, too. I currently have a gig every weekend at the Oceanfront Arms Hotel. It’s a new luxury hotel.” Powers paled a bit.

“Right. You mentioned that. So … you’re a musician?”

“Yes. I play guitar. With a band. Classic rock. Oldies. ’80s. ’90s. Whatever.”

“Okay. Do you own this house?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t afford this. I rent.”

“Uh huh. And who pays your band?”

“Well, the Oceanfront management, of course.”

“Naturally. Do you happen to know who owns the hotel?”

“How would I? Why would I care?” Powers was sweating. His voice took on a whiny edge.