Free Dangerous Depths by Kathy Brandt Page B

told Elyse I’d be
trying to do some work here to keep the water from running down to
the sea. I’m in the process of applying for a good-sized loan. I
don’t need a bad report about my operation from her or anyone else
about my operation that might threaten the loan. I’ve been putting
in drainage to collection ponds.”
    “I’d love to see what you’ve done. How about
a tour?” I wanted to know whether Porter was just bullshitting me
or whether he was sincere about working on solutions. Maybe all he
wanted to do was to divert any suspicion by appearing to be taking
Elyse’s concerns to heart.
    “Detective Sampson, I am a busy man and I
don’t like what I can see you are thinking. Now I need to be
getting into town.” He turned and walked back to the trailer and
slammed the door.
    All he’d accomplished was to increase my
motivation. Why hadn’t he simply put my concerns to rest by showing
me the work he was doing to divert runoff. Maybe he wasn’t doing
anything at all. I intended to find out.
    I parked the Rambler down the road at a snack
shop and waited, hoping that Porter really was going to head into
town. I didn’t wait long. Ten minutes and two Bob Marley songs
later he drove past, never even glancing my way.
    Back at the gravel pit, I pulled off my tank
top, and squiggled into the tight black dress that still hung in a
dry-cleaning bag in the back. Then I fished under the seat and
found a pair of shoes I’d kicked off on the beach during a close
encounter with O’Brien. I’d tossed them under there and forgotten
them till now. The damned things hurt my feet, but they were
perfect for this occasion—three inch heels and red.
    I figured a fashion statement for the guys at
the gravel pit was low-cut and short and that none of them would
take a second look at anything above my neck. Just in case, I put
my sunglasses on, wrapped a scarf around my head, and stepped out
of the car, a different woman.
    I found Porter’s supervisor sitting in the
office trailer, feet propped on Porter’s desk. He quickly dropped
them to the floor and stood, eyes glued to cleavage.
    “Hello dar, pretty lady. What can I be doing
for you?” he asked, like I might be willing to go out back and roll
in the weeds with him. I flirted. And lied.
    “I’m Martha Cary, from the bank.” I sat down,
crossed my legs, making sure to show a lot of thigh, and fumbled
through my bag. I pulled out my wallet, searched it twice, and
looked at him with a helpless shrug.
    “Oh, I am so embarrassed. I seem to be out of
my cards. I’m here to assess the property for a loan Mr. Porter has
applied for. My boss will be furious if I don’t take care of this
today. Mr. Porter has been pressuring him to get it done.”
    “Don’t be worrin’. What is it you be
needin’?”
    Well, I just need to look around your
operation. Won’t take long. Just a matter of procedure.”
    “I be at your service.”
    “Could I have a glass of water before we go
out? It’s sooo hot.” I made a fanning motion across my chest, once
again bringing his gaze to cleavage.
    “Oh, no problem,” he said, smiling.
    As soon as he went to the back, I fingered
through a stack of papers on the desk. I could hear him clattering
though glassware, probably looking for a clean glass. I was looking
for anything that might implicate Porter. All I found was a stack
of bills, a couple marked overdue.
    I heard the water shut off in the back and
was sitting casually in the chair, still fanning, when the
supervisor came back and handed me what must have been the cleanest
glass he could find, lipstick on the rim. I had a feeling this guy
had as many female guests as he could get away with when Porter was
gone. I took a couple of sips and stood. He held the door for
me.
    “Now you be watchin’ your step,” he said, and
damned if he didn’t take my arm.
    “What you be needin’ to see?”
    “The whole layout—the machinery, anything
that adds value to the property.” I