Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

I gasped for breath. My body shook uncontrollably.

“If you’re lying, Ms. McRae—”

“I’m not,” I said in a strangled voice. “I swear.”

A long pause. The muscle man continued to stand over me, a dark silhouette against the spotlights. The only sound was his heavy breathing.

“All right. I think you’re telling the truth. If I find out you’re lying ... things won’t go so easy next time.”

With those words, I knew I was going to live. The blindfold and gag went back on. They untied my feet, helped me up, and half-walked, half-carried me to the car. My head ached where it had hit the floor. The ride home was silent and took forever.

They stopped in front of my building, helped me out, untied my hands and left before I could get the blindfold off. Again, I didn’t get the tag number.

I was right about one thing—the Mob didn’t kill unless it had to. What I hadn’t anticipated was they might beat the crap out of me.

It must have rained while I was gone, although it hadn’t cooled things down any. The parking lot was damp, glowing with the reflections of lights on the apartment buildings. Steam rose from the asphalt, creating an outdoor sauna.

For one panicky moment, I thought I’d lost my purse, until I realized it hung from my shoulder. Dazed, I hobbled to my building, but couldn’t bring myself to climb the stairs. I sat down to rest. Next thing I knew, I lay on the steps, my head on my arm and my eyes closed. My body felt like one huge bruise. Every breath I took was agony. It even hurt to think.

I heard a door open and close somewhere. I considered moving. Why bother? Footsteps. If they could walk, they could walk around me.

“What the hell?”

A familiar nasal voice. I opened my eyes. I knew this guy. Mid-sixties, hair a glossy, dyed brown, brown eyes and a disgusted expression. My downstairs neighbor, Russell Burke.

“Hi.” I tried to push myself upright with little success.

Russell came around and helped me sit up. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

I shook my head. “No. Drunk would not be it.”

“What the hell are you doing lying here on the stairs?”

“Resting.” I felt nauseated again. The effort of talking was making me sick. I was thirsty, too. I needed to get to bed.

He scowled. “I hope that crazy fool who left here with his tires squealing wasn’t your date. Hey.” His look changed to one of concern. “My God, you look pale.”

“I feel kind of pale. Ha ... oh, ow.” I clutched my rib cage. “Bad move. Worst date of my life. Uh-oh.” Things spun, but I caught hold of a step with one hand to steady myself. My tongue felt like a piece of dried leather.

“Sam? Sam?” Russell’s voice sounded tinny and far away.

“No problem,” I mumbled. “Just get me a gallon of water and a bed, and I’ll be fine. Okeydokey?” I grabbed the handrail and, ignoring the pain, pulled myself up. Then I passed out.

Chapter EIGHT

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I was in the bottom of a well, looking up. It was night. I could see the stars. I was cold. I was wet. It was a long way to the top. Voices. The sound of voices echoed down the well. They made my head throb.

I tried to yell, but nothing came out.

Someone’s beeper went off. Voices and a beeper. They were driving me crazy.

At the top of the well, a woman’s face appeared. She smiled at me.

“Melanie?” I called out. “Melanie?”

A spotlight blinded me. Not again. Please, don’t hit me again. Please ...