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“You have until Friday night. No later.”
“Why Friday?”
“Because Ray gets installed on Saturday night at the banquet, and I need to know if you’ll be with me or not.”
Two days?
“I still need more than your verbal assurance that you’ll keep your end of the bargain, if I do this,” I said.
“You’ll get it. But I need to know where you stand before midnight on Friday.”
She hung up.
&
nbsp; Just as I closed the phone, it rang again. This time it was Mulrooney. Despite the slight shake in my hand, I managed to flip the phone open and answer the call.
“Mulrooney here,” he said in response to my greeting. “How’s it going?”
Lousy. I wanted to say it, but that would be so wrong.
I gave him a brief rundown of my day.
“Hmm. I’m afraid I’m not surprised. I hope Conroy is getting somewhere.”
I wouldn’t want to pin my hopes on that, I thought. “I wondered, could you give me the name of the eyewitness? I’d really like to talk to this person.”
“No problem. His name is Roger Powers. I even have an address.”
Fishing through my shoulder bag, I managed to find my notebook and pen. I took down the information and thanked Mulrooney before hanging up. Powers lived right up the road from our condo on Bayview Drive. I sat in the growing gloom for a moment and thought about what I’d ask him before starting the car.
I slipped back onto Coastal Highway. As I drove, I mentally reviewed the questions I intended to ask Powers: what were you doing out that night? Where were you going? Where were you coming from? Do you wear glasses? Etc., etc. Meanwhile, wild speculations about Billy Ray’s possible connections to drug smuggling and trafficking in illegal alien workers ran in a continuous loop through the back of my mind.
As I turned onto Bayview Drive and headed toward the Powers address, my phone rang. I pulled over to check the ID. The number was unfamiliar. I answered anyway.
“Hello?”
“Ms. McRae?” The voice was a low murmur.
“Yes.”
“You need to come to Bower Farms plant. Right now.”
“Who is this?”
“Never mind that. There’s someone you need to see.”
“Wait. I’m not going there in the middle of the night, all by myself. Sorry.”
“Did you want to see Curtis Little?”
I paused. “Who is this?”
“A friend.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. This is a blast, but I’m tired and I don’t have time for games—”
“Neither do I. And neither does Curtis.” The voice turned acidic.
