Free Black Water Rising by Attica Locke

asks.
    “Excuse me?”
    “I said... how do you know it was a woman he was with?”
    It takes Jay a moment to understand what the man is asking, to realize the mistake he’s made, the single clue he let slip from his mouth. The panic, when it hits him, is swift and forceful, and he actually feels himself sway just the tiniest bit. Then, remem bering the article from the paper, he repeats a few of the details. “The cops talked to a lady friend,” he explains. “It was in the police report.”
    “Is that right?” the groundskeeper asks, a knowing smile creeping across his stubbly face. He pinches off the head of his cigarette, letting the cherry fall to the dirt and pocketing the dirty butt. “Well, I know why they talked to her.”
    “You do?” Jay feels the panic again, and he has a sudden thought of Jimmy’s cousin, the boat’s captain. It’s the first time Jay has considered him since the night of the boat ride. And it now occurs to him that the old man might have seen the same blurb in the paper and gone straight to the police. He’s so caught up in what that might mean for him, wondering if the cops already have his name, that he almost misses the next words out of the groundskeeper’s mouth.
    “Dude’s pants were coming down,” the man says. “What?” Jay asks, not immediately comprehending.
    “The dead man,” the groundskeeper says. “The belt, the fly... his pants was wide open. The cops was all over it. And they was taking pictures of the ground over there.” He points to the dirt and grass where Jay is standing. “There were footprints, real small-like, you know, like a lady’s shoe.” Jay remembers the woman’s bare feet on the boat, her missing earring too. “But we don’t really know it was a woman,” the groundskeeper says. We, like he’s in on the investigation, like he and the cops are work ing this one together. “We don’t know what that man was into. Hell, when I seen him, he was wearing leather in August, had on gloves up to here,” he says, demonstrating high on his forearms. “Ain’t no telling what kind of freaky shit was going on. That mighta been why he was hiding out here in the first place.” He lowers his voice, speaking the seemingly impossible. “I mean, it coulda been a dude he was with.”
    The groundskeeper helps himself to another Carlton. “Now ain’t that some shit,” he says. His expression has cooled somewhat, and he seems to have turned his investigative gaze on Jay, taking a second look at Jay’s soiled clothes and his missing shoe, seem ingly calling his whole presence at the crime scene into question. Jay doesn’t like the way the man is looking at him, or what he thinks the man may be insinuating. It would be ridiculous, the idea of Jay being in any way involved in a murder, if it weren’t so... plausible. Even a rookie cop knows that more times than not, the perpetrator returns to the scene of his crime.
    “You with the Chronicle or the Post ?” the groundskeeper asks.
    “I freelance,” Jay answers, a little too quickly.
    “Maybe I could get your name, in case I remember something else.”
    The smirk is faint, but impossible to ignore.
    The groundskeeper stares at Jay, waiting for an answer.
    “Ernest Pennebaker” is the first ridiculous name out of Jay’s mouth. He delivers it as convincingly as a practiced closing argu ment, thanking the man for his time and reaching for his car keys. He nods good night as he slides into his front seat. Through the dusty windshield, the groundskeeper watches him, the Sky lark’s headlights carving deep shadows beneath the man’s suspi cious eyes. Jay throws his car into reverse, driving faster than he should, churning up reddish brown dirt across his rear window, creating a blinding haze of smoke.
    He rolls up his window and turns on the radio, trying to shut out the noise in his head. The box is set to 1430 AM, black radio. They’re in the middle of another hour of Confessions . Wash Allen is