Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

Good point. Even if Jenna told her to call me, maybe she didn’t bother because it was futile. I couldn’t argue with that. But now we were getting to the harder questions. “

Did Tom ever mention someone named Gregory Knudsen?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“The FBI agent said he had something to do with the Mob guy.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

I finished off my pancakes. Melanie managed to eat half a sandwich and had the rest boxed to go. I took care of the bill.

As we got in the car, I said, “If you don’t know Gregory Knudsen, I’m assuming you also don’t know about a certain post office box in College Park.”

“Huh?”

“A post office box in my name.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you go back to your place at any time after you went to the domestic violence center?”

“Are you kidding? Of course not.”

I put the key in the ignition, then turned to face her, propping my arm on the back of the seat. “I need you to be very honest with me here.”

“I have been honest with you.”

“All right. Here it is. Someone pretending to be me tried to open a ten-thousand-dollar credit line in my name. Do you know anything about that? Because I found the paperwork in your apartment.”

“What were you doing in my apartment?”

I told her about Donna’s request, and how my attempt to find her had led me to the P.O. Box key.

Melanie looked stunned.

“When I went back to your place to return the key, there was a big box of files. Paperwork on my credit line and information on other people, too. Somebody’s been committing identity theft in a major way. What do you know about it?”

“I ... I don’t know anything,” she said.

I still wasn’t sure whether to trust her. “Well, those papers were in your apartment. The cops have searched your place, so they probably have them now.”

Melanie stared at me. “You think I tried to rip you off?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I buckled up and turned the key in the ignition. This time, nothing happened. I tried again. The car was dead. I moaned in frustration and banged the wheel. Melanie continued to stare at me.

I sighed and reached for the cell phone again.

Chapter ELEVEN

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I lay back on the bed with a groan, stared at the pebbled plaster ceiling of our motel room, and prayed for the day to end quickly.

Melanie sat cross-legged on the other bed, watching some show about young female lawyers in microminis and “fuck me” Manolo Blahniks, who couldn’t understand why the senior partners at their firm weren’t taking them seriously.

Sending the car off behind a tow truck left us little choice but to walk to a nearby motel. The price was right, and a woman at the front desk with a broad smile and a mole of unique proportions on her nose assured us the ice machine was probably working.

Sudlerville, Pennsylvania, was a small town with few diversions. It had an auto repair shop and a motel, both AAA-approved. It also had a shopping center, a church, a Moose Lodge, and an old movie theater that showed retrospective films on weekends. It was a place of stone houses built close together, tucked behind gnarly oaks, and no doubt owned by the sons and daughters of the sons and daughters of the sons and daughters of the city founders.