Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“So he hasn’t been ruled out?”

Derry didn’t say anything. As far as I was concerned, that meant yes.

“Have you found the gun yet?” I asked.

He shook his head.

We stopped at the door to the interrogation room. Through a window, I could see Melanie, hunched in a chair, staring at her clenched hands.

“Can you at least tell me what kind of gun?”

“Nine millimeter,” he said, enunciating slowly and with exaggerated patience.

“So she goes there and shoots him and is careless enough to leave fingerprints, but cautious enough to get rid of the gun?”

Derry gave me the kind of look one might give a pesky child. “Perhaps I’ll ask her,” he said, in a quiet voice. He opened the door, and we stepped inside.

f f f

After Derry questioned Melanie, I insisted on a break. Then Jergins took his turn. Mostly, he asked Melanie what she knew about Christof Stavos and Gregory Knudsen and the CD, which was nothing. I suggested we continue the questioning the next day.

I needed the postponement almost as badly as Melanie. She looked worn out, and I still felt the pain of physical recovery. My two-week “vacation” from work was turning into a busman’s holiday.

The good news was that everything Melanie said was squaring with what she’d told me. The bad news was that Derry didn’t appear to believe her.

“I think your case is a little light on evidence,” I said. “You have no gun. On the identity theft charges, there’s nothing other than that box of files.”

“The neighbor swears he saw her on the scene.”

“Did he hear the gunshots?”

“No. Said he was in the shower or something.”

“How convenient. What about the identity theft charges? A box of files doesn’t prove a thing.”

Derry didn’t say anything.

“Fine.” I checked my watch. “God, it’s late. Everyone at the state’s attorney’s office will have left by now.”

“He’s here.”

I did a double take. “What?”

“Yeah. I was just talking to him.”

“You’re telling me the state’s attorney assigned to this case is actually here?”

Derry shrugged. “This is big. Said he wanted to talk to you, too. I told him you might be a while. He’s waiting up front.”

I headed toward the lobby. State’s attorneys usually confine themselves to their offices and the courtroom. The case must be big if this guy came all the way to the police station to discuss it with defense counsel—after hours no less.

I opened the door. Across the room, standing up to greet me, was Ray Mardovich.

Chapter FOURTEEN

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“Hi,” Ray said.