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Me: “What were you doing at the time you saw this person on the stairs?”
Powers: “I work as a musician. I was coming home from a gig.”
Me: “What gig?”
Powers: “A gig at a local hotel. The Oceanfront Arms.”
Me: “Had you had anything to drink? As in alcohol?”
Powers: “No. I was sober. I don’t do drugs either.”
Me: “So how good a look did you get at this person on the stairs?”
Powers: “She was in shadow, but I could see enough to tell it was a tall, thin dark woman.”
Me: “When you picked her out of the lineup, what made you so sure you picked the right one?”
Powers: “The build, the clothing, her complexion. It was all as I remembered it.”
Me: “But you say her face was in shadow?”
Powers: “Well … yes, but …”
Me: “What?”
Powers: “I could still see enough of her features to be sure it was her.”
Me: “You’re certain?”
Powers: “Absolutely. Was there anything else?”
After attempting to pick apart his version of that night with a few more questions, I called it qui
ts. However, I wondered how much more there was to his story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I was going to drive the few blocks back to the condo, but I was too wired from all that damned coffee. I headed toward Coastal Highway instead. Tomorrow was Thursday. Hell, it was already Thursday.
Conference attendees would probably appear in force on Friday. A few early birds might show tomorrow—I meant today. Snap!
In the meantime, had Betsy Larkin heard about Jamila on the news and pulled her from the program? And what about Jinx? Time was running out. I needed answers, right now. And I could barely keep track of what day it was.
I pulled up at the red light at the intersection and considered which way to go. North toward Delaware? South toward downtown? Did it matter? At this time of night, nothing was going on in either place.
Curtis Little was dead. Who would have killed him? Did it have anything to do with Billy Ray’s murder? Were they completely unrelated? What were the chances?
Thoughts were careering through my overcaffeinated brain like rabid gerbils. Then another one jumped out: what the hell has Conroy been doing? My overheated ponderings wound down like a wheezing diesel engine.
Just what had that patronizing son of a bitch been up to, anyhow?
As if on autopilot, I made a left toward his house after the light turned green. I had no clue what I intended to do when I got there.
The highway had fewer cars, but more than I’d expect at that hour of the morning. Probably underage drinkers. June bugs out on the town. I did my best to play keep-away from the ones weaving from lane to lane.
Ocean City isn’t exactly Las Vegas, but it does have all-night miniature golf courses. Well, maybe closer to Disney, without the costumed characters. Add in the many T-shirt shops and candy stores and all-you-can-eat buffets and it’s almost Vegas, minus the gambling and the leggy showgirls.
When you reach the north end, the high-rise condos are more evocative of Miami, although the resemblance ends there. Just try and find a Cuban anything.
