Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

f f f

On the way to McDonald’s, I called directory assistance for Donna’s home number and rang her up. I wondered how much the long-distance would cost me. I couldn’t even remember if it was included in my plan.

Donna sounded distracted, but relieved. “Where was she?”

“On her way out of town,” I said, keeping it vague. Maybe I was paranoid, but somehow it seemed safer for everyone if I kept our location a secret. “We’re heading back.”

“Out of town? Where?”

“Not far. I’ll tell you later. You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on. The important thing is, Melanie’s fine.”

“Good. Thanks, Sam.”

“Something wrong?”

“Hmm. No, no. It’s been difficult for me, that’s all.”

“While I’m at it, I want to check something out with you,” I said. “Melanie says Tom did some work for the bank.”

There was a pause. “Well, yes.”

“Working on the computers?”

“Right.”

“How long ago was that?”

&nbsp

; “Several months.”

“Have you had any security breaches since then?”

A longer pause. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“There must be some reason you’re interested.”

“No, nothing in particular. I’d better go. I’ll be in touch sometime after we get back.”

“Sam, there’s something—” She stopped.

“What?”

“Never mind. I’ll talk to you later.”

I shrugged and disconnected.

At McDonald’s, I got a salad for Melanie, a Filet-O-Fish for myself. There was little traffic as I walked back to the motel. The sun had already set in a rosy glow. The twilight was warm and pleasant, a little less humid than at home. Off in the woods, away from the road, I saw swarms of fireflies, emitting brief flashes of phosphorescent light in upward strokes. A lone bird peeped at intervals.

I thought about Melanie’s explanation. She could have been right about Tom. I had an account at First Bank of Laurel. If that box of files was any indication, I was one victim among many.

The motel lot had few cars. From what I could see, only two other rooms had guests. I wondered how the place stayed in business.

One car seemed familiar, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen it. It was nondescript, a light color. Like about a million other cars. But this one ... what was it? I knew I’d seen it before, but couldn’t remember where.

Melanie met me at the door, and we divvied up the food. As we ate, the image of the car continued to nag at me. Then I realized ... it could have been the car that cut off the Lincoln back in Breezewood.