Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

I didn’t want to alarm Melanie, but I did want to check it out. “Hey, I didn’t get drinks,” I said. “You want a soda?”

“OK. Anything without caffeine.”

I went outside and took a stroll by the car, keeping a distance, trying not to be obvious. It was tan, like the one in Breezewood. It was also an older model—maybe twenty years, maybe older. One of those boxy jobs with a lot of power. I still wasn’t sure it was the same car, but the resemblance was close.

I shook my head. You’re paranoid. That’s what I thought when I saw the Lincoln. Of course, if it was the same car, the driver had done us a favor. What do you call it when you think you’re being stalked by friends, rather than enemies?

I found the soda machine and got a couple of ginger ales. On the way back, I slowed to look at the car again. A Ford Fairlane. Lots of power, no style.

I guess I was tired. I didn’t hear him approach. He was only a few feet away when he said, “Not as old as yours, but a classic in its own way.”

I whirled around. He stood there, looking at me with that same shit-eating grin he’d had in my office.

“John Drake, I presume,” I said, trying to ignore the way my heart was pounding in my chest.

His smile broadened. “I guess you saw through that one.” He wore a light sports jacket and a pair of slacks. Why so dressed up, here in the middle of Nowheresville P-A on a warm summer night?

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m an interested friend. And it’s a good thing I’m here, or you might not be.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “I take it I have you to thank for getting out of Breezewood without the Mob on my tail.”

“Stavos would probably have caught up with you. Your car isn’t in the best shape.”

“I’m afraid it’s the only one I have. But let’s get back to you. See, I know who Stavos is and why he’s following me. You, on the other hand, I haven’t a clue about.”

“Sam?” Melanie had come outside. She walked up to us. “What’s going on?”

“Are you Melanie Hayes?” the stranger said.

She looked at me, then at him. “Yes.”

He reached inside his jacket.

“Melanie, run!” I yelled.

Melanie’s eyes widened. She started to turn. Meanwhile, the man had already seized her shoulder with his free hand. I tried to grab his other arm, but he pulled it away. His hand emerged from beneath the jacket—holding an envelope.

“My name is Reed Duvall, Ms. Hayes. I’m a private investigator.” He handed her the envelope. “And you’ve just been served.”

Chapter TWELVE

––––––––

I finished reading the complaint for the second time. Melanie had fallen, face down, on the bed and hadn’t moved since we returned to the room.

“It’s thorough,” I said.

Melanie lifted her head from the pillow and looked at me with disgust. “Wonderful. Any more good news?”

“Sorry.” I set the complaint aside. “I know this must be hard, but try not to worry. It’s really the bank they’re after. Of course ...”

“What?”

“The bank’s liability depends pretty much on you.”

She groaned. “Well, I never did anything.”