Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“What kind of work was it?”

“Bringing my computer systems up to date, working on websites, troubleshooting—a little of everything.”

“I understand he and Bruce Schaeffer worked together.”

“It was Bruce who talked me into hiring him. Begged me, practically. Bruce manages a club for me.”

“Aces High, the strip club?”

“Right.” If he was embarrassed about my bringing up the nature of the club, he didn’t show it. “Anyhow, I guess Tom must have coordinated with him on his work there.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I didn’t really care how they did it, as long as it got done.” He swirled the drink in his glass and took a healthy sip.

“And did it get done?”

“Yeah, far as I know ... at least, at first. In fact, I had him handle some of my other businesses, too.”

“But you became dissatisfied with his work?”

“The managers really. They liked him, but sometimes Tom would forget appointments. Or sometimes he was late. Or he’d say you need more RAM or ROM or whatever, but it’d take him two weeks to fix it. Maybe I was too nice. I figured I’d cut the guy some slack—figured he was busy. Plus, he was good at what he did, so I was willing to put up with some eccentricity.”

He paused, examining his drink. “Then things really took a turn. Not only was everything taking forever, but I heard he was coming in looking like hell, barely functioning. I thought maybe he’d been working too many hours, staying up too late.” He lifted his glass. “Maybe partying a bit too much. Hell, I’ve been there. Anyhow, one day, I got a call from the manager at one of my dealerships. Tom came in so sloppy drunk, he spent more time harassing the help than doing his work.” He shook his head. “Good help is hard to find. I let him go.”

“I understand you had an argument with him,” I said. “What was that about?”

“It was after I fired him. We had words. He was PO’ed, but I said, look—” He interrupted himself with another swallow, polishing off his drink. “It’s business, you know? Care for another?”

I held up the ginger ale, still almost full. “Still working on this one.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I think I’ll indulge.” He got up with glass in hand and a sway in his gait that made me suspect he might have indulged before I arrived.

When he came back, I asked, “So, how many businesses do you own?”

Ash gazed into space. “Let’s see ... there’s the club, several car dealerships, a couple of restaurants, a storage facility, some shopping centers, a part interest in a mall. I usually have a few real estate deals pending at any given time.”

“Other than the club, which businesses was Tom working for?”

“The dealerships and the restaurants. Probably the offices at the mall.”

“Probably?”

“Yeah, I think.”

I found it interesting that this wealthy guy was so detached from his businesses. Was this what it was like to be filthy rich? So well-off, you didn’t have to think about where the money came from?

“What exactly was the nature of his work?”

He looked at me as if I’d spoken in a foreign language. “I said computers.”

“What I mean is, precisely what did he do? Was it just upgrading your hardware? You said something about websites. Was he also setting up databases and which ones?”

“Oh, well.” He waved a hand, as if he were shooing flies. “I left it up to the managers to figure out what had to be done. Each business had different needs.”

“So you can’t say exactly what Tom Garvey was doing?”

“My people kept track of that.”