Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“So I guess you wouldn’t know where Melanie is.”

She chuckled. “I don’t even know who she is.”

“Well, thanks anyway.”

“Sure.”

I still wanted to know why Bruce called Melanie if he hated her so much. Of course, it could have been a mistake. Maybe he realized he’d dialed the wrong number and hung up.

f f f

I drove past the storefronts on Main Street toward home. I liked living and working on Main Street, because it represented old Laurel, with its little shops in brick buildings—the meat market, the pizza place, the comic book store. Off the main road, the residential sections were mostly old Victorians with front porches and cozy brick ramblers. Throwbacks to the old days, before the malls and the plasterboard housing started sprouting like weeds.

The street was quiet, except outside Mitchie’s Restaurant, where the soaring sounds of blues from an electric guitar pi

erced the night. I drove another block and turned in at the entrance to my garden apartment complex. My luck was good. There was a spot in front of my building.

I didn’t see him at first. I was climbing the flight up to my landing, when he poked his head around the end of the balustrade and said, “Hi, Sam.”

“Jesus, Ray,” I said, putting a hand to my chest. “You took ten years off my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing here?”

Ray Mardovich got up, brushing off his Dockers. He smiled in a self-mocking way, looking abashed.

“I just wanted to see you,” he said.

I shook my head in disbelief. “Did it not occur to you to call?”

“I tried. Where have you been?”

“Here and there. I’ve had a strange day.” For a moment, I toyed with the notion of telling him I was too tired to invite him in, but he’d come more than 20 miles from Mitchellville in central P.G. County to see me.

“It’s been a while,” I said, stalling.

He reached out and tentatively touched my arm.

I frowned, and he withdrew his hand.

“I know,” he said. “It’s been difficult.”

“So ... Helen’s out of town again, and you got bored?”

“I deserve that,” he said.

“I won’t argue the point.” The regret in his hazel eyes looked real. “Would you like a drink?”

“Sure.”

We went inside, and I got Ray a beer. I don’t usually drink, but I keep it on hand for the occasional guest. That night, I decided to join him.

I had known Ray for years. He was a prosecutor with the state’s attorney. I met him while I was with the public defender’s office, my first job out of law school. Our affair started six months ago, after a very boring bar association function. He’d been drinking heavily. I had no such excuse. I guess I could blame it on months of abstinence and the lack of a steady male companion for the past few years. Maybe I was looking for what Erica Jong once called the “zipless fuck.” Whatever it was, somehow our one-nighter turned into a series of trysts, whenever and however we could manage it.

The last one had been two months ago, and I was starting to wonder if things were winding down between us. Thing was, that whole time, I couldn’t bring myself to call or e-mail him. At first, I thought of calling, but as time passed, I thought better of it. I didn’t want to be a pain. If it was over, fine. It’s not like I expected this thing to last forever. That didn’t make it hurt any less though. I also didn’t know where it left our friendship, and for some reason, I was afraid to bring that up.

“I didn’t see you at the mixer today,” I said.