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t was Amber.
“Up for a tour of the processing plant tonight?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
We arranged to meet at a mutually convenient spot on Route 50, where Amber would provide a ride to the plant. “My advice,” she said, “don’t eat beforehand.”
*****
I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to confront the two men who’d been with Billy Ray on the day of our auspicious meeting. For Jamila to be set up, one of the people who’d been there that day had to be involved. Even if they only slammed the door in my face, I had to at least try to question them.
I took the laptop to the closest place with Wi-Fi to do a bit of Internet research on the men so I’d have an idea who I was dealing with. The names of the players were Curtis Little and Dwayne Sutterman. For kicks, I checked the Maryland Judiciary Case Search, which had docket information about civil, criminal, and traffic cases throughout the state.
Dwayne Sutterman’s record wasn’t spotless. I checked the entries. Nabbed a couple of times for possession and use. Each time he managed to get off with probation before judgment—a slap on the wrist. Luck? Or more? I searched for Curtis Little, but found nothing in the official docket. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t done anything. He just hadn’t been caught.
I finished my research, packed up my things, and headed out to Curtis Little’s place. The address I found for him was in a trailer park outside Berlin—a forlorn cluster of mobile homes on a large dirt lot behind a line of trees. The frontage was a carpet of weeds with a long, straight gravel driveway striped across it.
As my car crunched up the driveway, my expectations—already low—sank even further upon surveying my surroundings. I suspected the trailer park was well populated with people who didn’t care for lawyers. No doubt, Curtis Little would have little incentive to answer my questions.
I located the trailer—a double-wide with a small porch—and knocked on the door. I vaguely recalled that Danni had mentioned in passing that Little was probably Billy Ray’s best friend.
The door was pulled open by a chubby dark-complected young woman who looked up at me with liquid brown eyes. The top of her head barely reached my shoulders.
“Is Curtis Little here?”
She stared at me for a moment. Then, she began to prattle in Spanish.
My Spanish was more than a bit rusty, but I tried it out. “Por favor. Curtis Little aqui?”
She shook her head. “No,” she answered in perfect Spanish, followed by an overwhelming flood of more of the same. I waved my hands to silence her.
“Lo siento. No hablo español. Un poco solamente. Muy, muy poco.”
“Ah.” She smiled and nodded. The woman spread her hands, looking helpless. “No hablo inglés. Um … sorry?” Her smile widened.
I returned the smile and nodded. “Uh … ¿Dónde está Curtis?”
She took a moment, no doubt trying to process Spanish thoughts into words I could understand. Finally, she dredged up, “He go. Doo-ah-ee-nay.”
“He go” I got, but I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that last part.
“So, Curtis has gone?” I waved my hands as I spoke, hoping to pantomime my message. “He left here—¿Vaya de aqui? And—¿Dónde está?”
I knew I wasn’t getting all the words right, but she nodded throughout my performance like a pleased critic. When I asked my last question, she simply repeated, “Doo-ah-ee-nay,” stretching out each syllable like warm taffy.
Is there a place called Dooaheenay? Never heard of it.
Then I realized I was an idiot.
“Do you mean his friend—um, amigo, Dwayne?”
Her smile would’ve lit up a subterranean cavern. “Sí, sí. Doo-ah-ee-nay.”
“Well, thank you, um, gracias. I’ll go see him. By the way, who are you? I mean, ¿Cómo se llama?” I held up a finger before she answered, retrieved a card from my shoulder bag, and handed it to her. “Me llamo Sam McRae,” I said, running my finger under my name on the card as I did.
She spouted a few more words my stellar American public school education hadn’t fully prepared me to understand, then added, “Me llamo Carmen Morales.”
“Uh … su nombre es muy bonita, Carmen.” God, I was shameless.
