Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

I wondered how many of the questions Melanie could answer.

f f f

I spent a lot of time that weekend phoning people in Melanie’s book. In an attempt at efficiency, I ignored the professional entries—doctors, dentists—and anything identified by an institutional name only. As for the rest, I figured I’d start with A and keep going.

Personal phone books have this tendency to collect names the way furniture collects dust and, in my quest, many of those names were about as useless. Some people I called weren’t home—I left messages when I could. Some hadn’t seen Melanie for years, and some barely knew her to begin with. A couple of people knew her from school, some from the bank. They expressed concern, but couldn’t help me. I kept going.

By Monday, I’d slogged through to the Ms. I’d developed a short explanatory speech that sounded stale by the third call. I got all sorts of reactions, from skepticism to concern, hostility to apathy. I felt sorry for telemarketers. I was glad to stop and turn my attention back to legal work.

I was wrapping up for the day, when I heard a knock.

“Yes?” I said.

The door opened and a man I didn’t recognize stuck his head inside. The disembodied head wore a shock of light brown hair and a genial expression.

“Excuse me, Ms. McRae? I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.”

I got up and approached him. “For a consultation?” If he was a potential client, the answer was yes. If he was a salesman, my preference was to beat feet home to some take-out Chinese and the ball game.

The door opened all the way, revealing a sturdy frame—not fat, not skinny, maybe a slight beer belly—clothed in a pair of chinos, a Madras shirt, and moccasins. He stuck out a squarish hand.

“My name is John Drake. I’m a friend of Melanie Hayes’ parents. Were you busy? I could come back.”

“No, that’s OK.” Feeling curious, I invited him in.

Drake relaxed into a guest chair, crossing a leg over one knee. He looked a bit like an overgrown version of a kid in a Rockwell painting, complete with cheek of tan and unruly cowlick.

“Melanie’s mother called a few days ago. Her folks are concerned, because they’ve been told she’s missing. Since I live in the area, they asked me to try to contact her.”

“Oh?” The wariness that rose in me was almost palpable. “How do you know her parents?”

“I’ve known Melanie since she was a kid.”

“That’s interesting.” He looked like he was close to Melanie’s age. “So they looked you up? Or have you kept in touch with them since they moved to New Mexico?”

Drake smiled broadly. His teeth were as even and white as Chiclets. “Arizona,” he corrected me. “They live in Arizona.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

Drake’s smile faded, but his green eyes continued to look amused. “I’m doing her folks a favor.”

“Sure. But I don’t know how I can help you.”

“I understand from someone at the bank that you’re her attorney.”

That could only be Donna.

“Correct,” I said. “You’ll understand if I’m a little protective when it comes to a client.”

“Certainly. Really, I have no dark motives.” He spread his hands, as if he were opening himself like a book. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Unfortunately, I have no idea where she is.”

“Ah.” He looked terribly disappointed. “I was hoping you might have heard from her.”

“I haven’t.”

“She didn’t give you a possible alternate address or phone number to contact her at?”