Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“Patience, counselor. You never know what piece of information might be relevant …”

I tapped my foot and waited, while he rambled on.

“… so, although I couldn’t access their corporate records online, I contacted someone who hooked me up. He knew someone—”

“Duvall,” I said. “Can we cut to the chase?”

“Okay. Here’s the score. I have the name of the person authorized to transact business for the organization. Who happens to be the same person who rented the silver compact car with the Delaware tags.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Maria Benitez.”

“You’re good.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The next morning, armed with the information Duvall had unearthed, I dropped off the scooter and caught a ride with Jamila to the nearest rental car office, where I obtained my own set of wheels. From there, I took the familiar route north, flying by the look-alike strip malls, faux palm trees, all-you-can-eat buffet signs, fake tiki huts, and bamboo fences, one after the other for blocks until I reached the north end where the towering condos fronted the beach.

I took the left onto Pine Shore Lane and spotted Conroy’s dark blue Toyota. No sign of the silver compact. Yet.

I cruised past the house, did a three-pointer, and tucked the car behind an outcropping of shrubbery at the end of the quiet street. From there, I had a clear view of the front of Conroy’s house. Fortunately, the car I’d rented was nondescript. A gray Taurus, two-door. Nothing special. Not a car that would stand out in a crowd like my classic ’67 purple Mustang or Jamila’s silver Beemer.

I slouched behind the wheel and waited, keeping the ignition on and the radio low. Looking for the compact with the Delaware tags.

Time crept by. I checked my watch. A half hour. Nothing. Gulls swooped overhead. A man on the radio sang a catchy tune about being cold but still there. I bobbed my head in rhythm to the music and tapped the wheel with both hands, keeping my eyes glued to the house. A commercial break, followed by another song. Duran Duran singing “Hungry Like the Wolf.”

“Got that right,” I muttered. “I was cold, but I’m still here. And I’m hungry like the wolf.”

I checked my watch. An hour had crawled by. Wait, I thought. Early still. Only 11:00 in the morning.

Cars came and went from other houses on the street. Conroy’s place remained eerily silent. Was anyone even home? Was I watching an empty house? It would figure. Checking my watch again, I noted it was coming up on noon.

Should I knock on the door? I rejected the thought. I wanted to see Conroy’s visitor before I told him anything about what I knew.

I cranked the engine and considered my next move. Then, he appeared. Conroy emerged from the house and scurried to his car. He ducked behind the wheel, yanked the door shut, started up, and took off like a bat out of hell.

Didn’t take a lot of guesswork to figure out my next move. I slammed the car into gear and took off after him.

Conroy approached the intersection. The light was yellow, but he made a left without hesitating. I stomped on the gas, praying the light would hold. When it turned red, I changed strategy and made a right, doing the most perfunctory stop-and-look in the history of driving. Then I swerved left to the first median break to make a U-turn and try to catch up with Conroy.

My foot to the floor, I zoomed in and out of traffic like a maniac, pushing the Taurus to its four-cylinder limit. The engine whined like a hungry toddler. I looked ahead and strained to make out the dark blue Toyota from the pack. I thought I caught a glimpse. I changed lanes quickly. A horn honked.

“Sorry!” I waved an apology to the driver behind me. He gave me the finger. I shrugged. I’d tried.

Again, I scanned ahead. This time, I could clearly make out the dark blue car barreling up the highway toward the Delaware border. I kept him in my sights, making sure to keep several car lengths between us to avoid being detected.

“You’re not getting away, you son of a bitch,” I murmured.

*****

Conroy didn’t slow until he’d crossed the state line. A few thousand yards into Fenwick, he made a right into the parking lot for a complex of stilted beach houses. I pulled in and backed the car into a space behind a tall set of cattails in front of the development. I got out, locked the car, and crept up the driveway.

A large, freestanding square brick edifice with gold letters announcing “Fenwick Dreams” stood several feet from me. Conroy was parked at the first building past the entrance, two spaces away from the silver compact. He’d left the car and was already on his way upstairs.

My stomach felt hollow and my throat tightened. I scuttled to the huge brick signage and hid behind it, peeking out to see who Conroy was meeting.

He knocked on the door and waited. When it opened, a woman appeared.

She was tall, slender, brunette, and dark-complected. About Jamila’s build, I would have wagered.