Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“There’s no alarm. I scoped the place out a while back. I can’t find anything that looks like an alarm system, plus they never registered one with the county. Don’t worry, I think we’re OK.”

I sighed. “I hope you’re right. I’m putting my license on the line.”

“Me, too. It’s as illegal for me to be here as it is for you.”

“So why are we doing this?”

“I don’t know about you,” he said. “But I think there’s something in that office.”

“I know.” I stopped, wondering how much more I should say. He noticed my hesitation and smiled.

“Awkward, isn’t it?” he said. “We’re both ostensibly looking for the truth, but with opposing interests.”

“Facts are facts.”

“Sure, but some facts would be more convenient for you than others. Like evidence to exonerate your client.”

“For all we know,” I said, “there may be evidence in there to implicate her further.”

“So what do you suppose we’ll find behind that door? The lady or the tiger?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But we’re both here now, and I have a feeling neither of us is leaving until we find out. So let’s just do it.”

“Spoken like a true pragmatist.”

We left the bathroom and walked down the dim hall to the office. The door turned out to be locked, and I silently thanked Duvall for being there. He fiddled at it with the picks, making quick work of it. Once inside, he flipped the light switch.

I went right to the desk. The papers I’d seen were gone, so I checked the drawers, then the in-box. Not there—the bank statements, the piece of paper with the sticky. An almost palpable stab of irritation shot through me. I checked again. Nothing.

“Dammit,” I said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Ohhh,” I groaned. “There was some stuff here earlier. Stuff I wanted to get a closer look at. It’s gone now.”

Duvall’s gaze swept the room like a surveillance camera. “Last time I was here, I think there were more of those boxes,” he said, pointing at the ones piled on the other side of the room.

“When was that?”

“About a week ago.”

“What were you doing here?”

“Trying to find your client. Apparently, she didn’t have a whole lot to do with this place. Not a big surprise, but I thought maybe that woman manager might know who she was.”

“You mean Rhonda Jacobi?”

“Yeah. She couldn’t tell me much, but while I was here I saw something interesting.”

“A box with the word Lobkowicz on the side?”

He looked at me. “Right. Same thing that was on the box of files in your client’s apartment.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think Tom Garvey and Bruce Schaeffer were the identity thieves, not Melanie. I think there may be more files in some of these boxes. How about you?”