Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“Hi.”

He smiled. “This is odd.”

“Yeah.”

I hadn’t had a case with Ray recently. Ray worked the Circuit Court, handling jury trials on the murders, rapes, and major drug offenses that arose with great frequency in our county. My criminal cases rarely went to trial. When they did, the matters usually involved clients with exaggerated notions of their driving ability after 10 beers. Or people who believed in the socialist principle of the even distribution of wealth and expressed their support by redistributing other people’s goods to themselves.

The fact that Ray was prosecuting was yet another sign that this case was serious.

“So?” I asked.

“So.” He looked away for a moment.

I glanced at my scuffed shoes. “We can handle this, right?”

He nodded vigorously. “Sure.”

“OK.” I paused to gather my thoughts. Part of me wanted to kiss him. I was also aware of the pain I felt when I tried to reach him after my release from the hospital.

“I thought you were in San Diego,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“San Francisco.”

“Right.”

“I got back yesterday.”

“Was it nice?”

“Yeah. It’s a beautiful city.”

“It must be fun to travel. I never have the time or the money. Of course, I’m not wild about planes. You always hear about them falling out of the sky and people losing their luggage and all.”

He looked at me warily. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I forced myself to look him in the eye. “Why don’t we talk about the case?”

“Dinner first?”

>

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m really tired and it’s been a long day. I’m still—” I started to say that I was still sore from the beating, but I stopped myself. I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to get sucked into dinner. I didn’t want to tell my problems to Ray. I couldn’t depend on him.

“Still what?” he asked.

“Still tired from my drive. I drove to Pennsylvania and back.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“So I probably won’t be very good company. And it’s late. You probably want to get home.”

“Helen won’t mind,” he said, giving me a meaningful look. “She’s still in San Francisco.”

So it was more than dinner I was being sucked into. It was another perfect opportunity. I wanted it, too. But a little voice said no. “My head. I’m just not feeling so hot. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “It’s OK. We’ll have other times.”

“Let’s get back to the case. The bail hearing—where are you on that? I assume you won’t be asking too high an amount.”