Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

According to the complaint, the plaintiff, a businessman trying to buy property in Prince George’s County was unable to do so because someone, without his knowledge, borrowed twenty thousand dollars in his name—twenty thousand that was never paid back. Allegedly, that person was Melanie Hayes who, either with or without Tom Garvey’s help, got his personal information through her job at First Bank of Laurel. The businessman believed this because the paperwork for the twenty-thousand-dollar loan was discovered, along with similar paperwork for other First Bank of Laurel depositors, in Melanie Hayes’ apartment.

The 30-page complaint threw every claim in the book against the bank, its officers, and anyone with any potential responsibility on down the line to Melanie. Donna was a defendant, too.

No wonder Donna seemed nervous when I asked her about a possible breach of security at the bank. Her job was probably on the line.

My friend, Jamila Williams, signed the complaint. I didn’t know she handled litigation.

“If they’re after the bank, why am I being sued?” Melanie asked.

“It’s standard procedure to name every possible defendant. Like I said, the whole case depends on you, unless they dig up other evidence. The bank will probably argue that you were acting outside the scope of your employment or violating their policy. In other words, they weren’t responsible. If the court agrees, that leaves you—”

“Holding the bag.”

“Yeah.”

Melanie put her head in her hands. “I’m going crazy. The whole world is going crazy.” She pushed herself upright and faced me, her legs crossed Indian-style. “Look,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose with both hands. “So they sued me. Let’s say they win. I don’t have what they’re looking for. I don’t have any money at all.”

I nodded. “It’s the bank that’s got the deep pockets here. They can get a judgment, but collecting on it is a whole ’nother thing. You don’t own real estate, do you?”

“Real estate? Ha. I have a ten-year-old car and about eight hundred dollars in savings. Not a lot to show, after 36 years on earth, huh?”

I shrugged. “My car’s older, and my savings account isn’t much more impressive.”

Melanie laughed. “We make quite a pair.” She looked away, as if sorry she’d said that. “I don’t mean to presume anything. I’d like to hire you for this, if that’s OK.”

“I guess it’s OK,” I said, slowly, thinking aloud. “I was lucky enough to avoid a problem, even though my information got out somehow. Of course, the bank’s legal counsel may offer to represent you ... but, under the circumstances, you may want to get separate counsel—”

“Will you help me?” She blurted.

I paused. I was starting to believe Melanie was set up. Why would she keep all those records? And her story about leaving Maryland made sense.

“All right. But if something comes up—a conflict of interest—you may need to change attorneys.”

She looked resigned. “OK.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about this?”

She lifted her hand and dropped it. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“No thoughts on who might have put those papers in your apartment?”

“Tom?”

“They weren’t there when I first went to your place, and Tom was dead long before that. Anyone else?”

“Maybe it was Bruce.”

“That reminds me. He called you a couple of times last week.”

“Bruce? I wonder why.”

“I wondered the same thing. I spoke to him, when I was looking for you. Based on what he said, he didn’t strike me as a close friend.”

Melanie snorted. “He’s not. He probably thinks I killed Tom.”

“For all we know, he could have killed Tom.”

“When I last saw Tom, he said Bruce had gone away for the weekend.”