Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“My client has also been accused of identity theft. If it was actuall

y Tom’s doing, maybe there’s something in those papers,” I said, gesturing toward her desk, “something that could help defend her.”

“Identity theft?” Rhonda’s eyes narrowed. I realized this might be a sensitive subject. She scanned the statements, looking as if she were seeing them for the first time. “Well ... these are business records. I’m not sure Mr. Ash would approve.” She opened a desk drawer, seemingly at random, and stowed the papers as if to protect them from my probing gaze.

“It’s OK,” I said. I had to try, but I couldn’t blame Rhonda for trying to protect her boss. “By the way, who was that girl at the gym? The one who yelled at Bruce.”

Rhonda’s eyes widened, as if the question had knocked her off-balance. “Oh, her? A friend. Knew Tom and Bruce, I guess.”

“She also seemed very upset about Tom’s death.”

“Yeah, she was. I wasn’t paying attention, but yeah, she was definitely upset.”

“You don’t remember anything they said? It seemed like quite a loud conversation.”

“I don’t know. I think she was just blowing off steam. I think maybe they might have been close at one time. Her and Tom, that is.”

“Guess you wouldn’t know her name?”

Rhonda shook her head.

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Maybe about that list of social security numbers, but I didn’t want Rhonda to know I’d been through the stuff on her desk. Of course, based on her note, she didn’t know anything about it either.

As I got up, my gaze drifted toward the boxes on the other side of the room. “You guys still keeping a paper copy of everything?”

Rhonda glanced over. “Some stuff, yeah, though I couldn’t tell you half of what’s in there. I think there’s a lot of junk that didn’t make it into the computer.”

“Like what?”

“Hell if I know. This place has been around a while. Some of that stuff could be 50 years old. Me, I’m staying out of it. I’ve got enough to do.”

I nodded. The boxes had the names and logos of various spirits printed on the side. One in particular caught my eye.

“Lobkowicz,” I read.

“That’s a Czech brewery. Bruce likes unusual beers.”

It was the name and a family crest-style logo that had been on the box of files in Melanie’s apartment. I felt my pulse quicken.

“Something wrong?”

“Huh?” I shook my head, trying to snap out of it. “No, sorry. I’m trying to think of where I’ve heard that name before.”

“Really? You don’t see that ale everywhere.”

I shrugged. “Is that right? Well, thanks again.”

Out in the hall, someone had propped the emergency exit open, and a warm breeze trickled through the stuffy air. A truck was parked near the door and two guys in T-shirts and jeans were unloading a keg from the back onto a handcart. The storeroom was open. Beyond the truck, a couple of guys leaning against a parked car were having a loud conversation with a third guy, who stood near a line of tall shrubs running along a chain-link fence. He faced away from them with shoulders back, as if at attention. I realized he was taking a whiz into the shrubs and marveled at how the simple act of urination could prompt such good posture.

The lounge area was looking even more like a smokehouse. It was almost eleven and the place was still hopping. Skip was busy, but he looked up and smiled as I approached the bar.

“Can I ask you one more thing,” I said. Again, I had to shout over the music.

“What’s that?” he yelled back.

“Do you remember ever seeing Tom or Bruce with a woman in her thirties? Wiry with light brown hair? A little shorter than me.”

Skip looked blank for a moment. “Come to think of it, I might have.”