Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“You wouldn’t know who she is, would you?”

“No, no I don’t.” Skip looked distracted. He looked back and forth between the drinks he was pouring and me.

“How often did you see her?”

“I can’t recall offhand. Maybe once or twice.”

“I’ll let you get back to work,” I said, feeling guilty about interrupting him. “I’d love to talk to that woman, if I can find her, since she’s the closest thing to a friend of either of these guys I’ve found so far.”

“I don’t remember ever hearing her name. She was just here a couple of times. But if I think of it, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

I went outside. It was relief to get out of the smoke, to enjoy the relative quiet, other than the buzz of bass notes radiating from the building. Route 1 was empty. Far off, I could hear the stuttered tone of a tractor-trailer braking on I-95.

No one was in the parking lot. Out of idle curiosity, I walked around the building until I found the emergency exit in back. The three men had moved on, but the truck was still there.

That box was helpful, but it still didn’t prove anything. Maybe there was a link between the identity thefts and Aces High, but that didn’t mean Melanie wasn’t involved.

The more I thought about it, the more bothered I became about the list of social security numbers. I wished I’d had time to copy them.

Asking Rhonda probably wasn’t an option. I could try sneaking in for another look. Too risky, especially if Rhonda spent a lot of time in the office.

Of course, if I came back at closing time, snuck in, and hid until everyone left, I’d have the whole night, not only to look through the stuff on the desk, but to check out some of the boxes. Maybe there were more files hidden in all that mess.

Sam McRae, attorney at law—specializing in DWIs, bankruptcies, personal injury, and breaking and entering.

Putting the insane thought from my mind, I drove to the motel. The light was off in Melanie’s room, and I thought about checking in on her. Through a crack in the curtains, I could see her stretched across the bed, fully clothed, but asleep, looking pale in the bluish-white glow of the TV. I went to my room and tuned in one of the classic movie channels. The Best Years of Our Lives was on. I decided to put the in-room coffee maker to good use, although the product would be something less than premium.

Teresa Wright was making breakfast for a confused and hungover Dana Andrews and I was on my second cup of coffee when I called Aces High to find out what time they closed. 2 a.m.

I finished my coffee. This is crazy, I thought. But I had to get back into that office.

I went back and forth on it, considering the pros and cons and ethical problems. In the end, I decided to do it for my own satisfaction, if nothing else. If my social security number was on that list, I had to know.

At 1:30, the movie ended with Teresa and Dana in each other’s arms. I checked my luggage. Luckily, I’d chosen a dark shirt for my change of clothes—a T-shirt with a pocket, no less. I stuck my small notebook and a pencil in the shirt pocket, my keys and wallet in my pants. I’ve often wondered how men manage with just pockets. At that moment, I realized all you had to do was not carry half your worldly possessions with you. By 1:45, I was out the door and on my way to Aces High.

I left my car in the lot of the industrial park next door, taking my flashlight from the glove compartment—just in case. I slid through an opening in the chain-link fence between the two properties.

The building was quiet now. If you concentrated, you could hear the faint sound of interstate traffic, but that was it. Only a few cars were in the parking lot. I crept close to the fence, to avoid the lights, until I reached the shrubbery across from the emergency exit. I stopped behind the tall plants, hoping no one would decide to use them as a bathroom anytime soon.

About fifteen minutes later, a panel truck lumbered into the lot and pulled up to the open back door. The driver got out and went inside. A few minutes later, Skip came out with the bouncer and the driver. The three of them got to work unloading boxes marked Fragile—Glass.

I waited, watching them and timing their movements. I didn’t know how many trips they’d have to make, but I assumed not many. At one point, when all three were inside, I ran to the door and looked in. The hall was empty. I could hear voices, but they didn’t sound close.

Before I could change my mind, I darted down the hall and ducked into the rest room. I got into a stall and sat on the toilet, bringing my legs up so they couldn’t be seen if somebody came in. The door closed on its own, but I flipped the lock anyway. I sat there, waiting and hoping for the best.

Chapter NINETEEN

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The first thing I noticed was the smell. Made me wish I could have hidden in a supply closet instead. I considered the pros and cons of squeezing into a closet versus the more spacious, but stench-filled, bathroom stall.

I thought about a lot of things as I crouched on the toilet, waiting for everyone to leave. In order for this to work, I was assuming that Ash hadn’t bothered to set up an inside alarm system. I hoped his presumed indifference extended to outside door alarms, too. When I was done here, I’d have to get away fast. It could be a silent alarm, so I’d have to move quickly, no matter what. Get to my car. Drive. I’d be the only car on the road, probably. The cops would spot me in a second. I’d need to find a side road, pull over. Then what? Hide in the bushes somewhere for an hour?

That was assuming I’d be able to get out without a key. Do they still have locks that require a key on the inside?

Even if the cops pulled me over, what would they find? I didn’t intend to take anything, so there would be nothing in the car to link me to the club. Plus, for good or ill, a white, female in her midthirties didn’t exactly fit the police profile of breaking and entering suspects. Still, I couldn’t help but feel ridiculous. I was taking quite a chance.