Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“You’ve got to relax,” Russell directed. “Even after you get out of the hospital, you’ll need time to recover.”

“Jesus.” I always wondered what I’d do if this happened. Self-employed people should always have a back-up plan, someone to turn to if they’re incapacitated. I felt as helpless and small as a bug on its back, trying to get upright. I was lucky I had friends I could depend on.

The first few days were tough. Once I got off the painkillers, I started to feel better, but it was still an effort to get around. Russell brought books and magazines. Jamila stopped by a

nd offered to fill in for me on any cases that needed immediate help. While she took care of the legal minutiae, Russell cleared my calendar of meetings and other stuff for the next few weeks and looked after Oscar. It was both gratifying and nerve-racking. I’ve never felt such a lack of control.

As the week crawled by, I improved slowly. I took extended walks around the floor as soon as I could, partly out of boredom and partly to show everyone how great I was doing. They wiped me out at first, but I got stronger each time. Near the end of my stay, I won’t say I was ready to run a marathon, but I was definitely moving better. I was also anxious to return to the outside world, despite being told by the police when they interviewed me that I should lie low for the immediate future.

When the doctor told me I could go, I almost jumped for joy.

“But you’ll have to take it easy,” he warned. “Don’t push yourself, or you’ll end up back here.”

“Sure. I understand.” Nod and smile, I thought. And get the hell out of here.

Russell picked me up. My calendar was clear for the next two weeks. I expressed my eternal gratitude. When we got to my apartment, I remembered that I needed to buy food. That’s what started this whole mess, going out for groceries.

When I mentioned it to Russell, he said, “Stay here. I’ll do your shopping.”

“Russell, I can do this—”

“Shut the hell up and make a list.”

Who was I to argue? After he left, I lay on the couch and watched TV. Same as I could have done at the hospital, but somehow, it made a great deal of difference that I was home.

f f f

The next day, I went to the office. I’d been out a mere week, but it seemed a lot longer. Besides, I couldn’t depend on the kindness of friends forever. I needed to check in.

Sheila stopped what she was doing when she saw me. “You’re supposed to be resting,” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s just for a little while.”

I couldn’t believe the fuss Sheila made over me. Even Milt Kressler, my landlord, roused himself from his desk long enough to ask how I was. I assured them I was fine and slipped upstairs to my office as quickly as I could. I would have to remember to come during off-hours next time. Placating them was more exhausting than work.

It felt good to be in my office. Familiar and ordinary. I walked in, switched on my computer, and started through the stacks of mail. Sheila or Jamila had already checked for important-looking stuff and set it aside. I had only a few voice mail messages, and more than a hundred e-mails, mostly junk. There was nothing from Ray.

Stop being such a hardheaded idiot. Pick up the phone and call him, I thought. I got through to his secretary, who said Ray would be gone for the next few days.

“You have a case coming up with him, Sam?” she asked.

“It’s not urgent.” I kept my voice more matter-of-fact than I felt.

“He took leave on short notice and we scrambled to cover his cases, so I wanted to make sure we hadn’t missed yours or something. His wife had to go to San Francisco on business, and he decided to go along at the last minute. Must be nice, huh?”

“Yeah. Must be nice.”

I hung up and sat there a while. I had no right to feel angry, sad, or disappointed. I had no rights at all. Finally, I gathered some files and went home.

I spent most of the day doing research, writing letters, and making phone calls. I couldn’t just lie around the apartment. When you come down to it, very few things are more therapeutic for me than work.

The next morning, I slept late and made pancakes for breakfast. I was still sore, so I did some light stretching. Don’t know if it really helped, but it was nice to know I could do it. I read the paper while sipping my coffee, then did some work, still in my PJs. That only lasted about ten minutes. I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, feeling better for doing so. I can’t work in pajamas.

Around ten thirty, I checked my office voice mail. Someone named Jenna Pulaski had left a message earlier that morning. She was one of the people I’d called about Melanie.

I dialed the number she left and got through to her desk at work.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “Look, um, something’s come up.”