Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“The owner?” she said, sounding surprised. “Nah, he ain’t here.”

“OK, thanks.”

I hit the button to disconnect, using my free hand to pull the little notebook from my purse. I found Connie’s name and number from the napkin and tried it. A man answered.

“Is this Connie Ash?”

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“Who is this, please?” The voice was pleasant, but terse.

“My name is Sam McRae. I’m an attorney. I understand Tom Garvey used to work for you—”

“A lawyer?” Maybe it was my imagination, but the voice seemed to get tinged with something less than pleasant. “What’s this about?”

“I’m representing the person charged with his murder.”

No response at first. “He’s been murdered?” He sounded astonished.

“That’s right.”

“And you’re representing who?”

“His ex-girlfriend.”

“Jesus.”

“I understand he once worked for you.”

“Yeah. When you said you were a lawyer, I thought maybe he had some beef with me. Man, I can’t believe someone killed him.”

“Why would he have a beef with you?”

“Oh, man. I just didn’t want to do business with him anymore, you know? You just never know. People sue people for the craziest things these days.”

“Could we arrange a time to meet?” I hate phone interviews. I like to see the people I’m talking to.

He was so quiet I wondered if he had hung up until he said, “OK.”

“If you’re available this weekend—”

“I’m available tonight, if you want to come by the house.”

“That would be great.” I’d never been to Gibson Island, so he gave me directions. He said he would give my name to the man at the guard station, where I would have to check in. Some people live in apartments with doormen. This guy lived on a guarded island.

I went home. A brief scan of the lot outside my apartment building revealed only the usual workaday crowd—hot and tired men and women in wilted suits and uniforms. However, their step had the subtle lift that comes with thoughts of Friday night and the weekend ahead. No black Lincoln.

I fed Oscar, then packed a few items in a paper bag while checking the parking lot like an obsessive-compulsive for the Lincoln. When Oscar was done eating, he jumped on the sofa to crash. I needed to arrange for someone to look after him. I could try to sneak him into the motel, but he probably wouldn’t like that, and would protest at the top of his lungs no doubt. Plus I’d have to bring the litter box and food. More stuff to lug around.

I went downstairs to Russell’s. He answered my knock wearing a black and yellow paisley satin smoking jacket with a pair of loose-fitting yellow satin pajama pants and holding a scotch and soda. He looked like Hugh Hefner’s gay younger brother.

“Russell, can you do me a favor and take Oscar for a couple of days?”

Russell scowled. “Why? Where the hell are you going? You’re supposed to be resting, not gallivanting about.”

“I have to leave. It’s just a couple of days.”

“Well, you know how Bitsy will feel about that.”