“Take it easy.” I watched him unlock his car. “Hey, Duvall.”
He looked up.
“I never did thank you for your help. I couldn’t have gotten in the office without you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
We lingered a moment longer, then got in our cars and left.
Normally hectic, Route 1 was quiet and empty now. I resisted the giddy urge to blast down the road, figuring a cop on the graveyard shift was probably lurking somewhere. The darkness seemed like a perfect complement to the dreary landscape, largely comprised of junkyards, industrial buildings, and strip shopping centers, with generic signs advertising beer/wine, deli, and dry cleaning. Now and then, a mom-and-pop budget motel from pre-interstate days could be seen, crouching in dark disuse amid the architectural clutter—crumbling anachronisms that seemed to exist only because no one had the energy to tear them down.
Traffic picked up as I neared the I-95 interchange, particularly panel trucks and tractor-trailers making early morning deliveries, or heading for the Jessup truck stop. Then the lights of a twenty-four-hour diner beckoned and my stomach growled again. In the battle between fatigue and hunger, hunger won.
Frank’s Diner was a traditional glass-and-steel affair, the kind of place where every booth has a jukebox, and the waitresses wear plain, starched uniform dresses and call you “hon” in the Baltimore tradition. The fluorescent lights created a surreal glare on the Formica tables and windows. The only sounds were the occasional clink of utensils on plates and the waitress talking to customers. I slid into a booth, checked the menu, and quickly settled on a waffle, bacon, two eggs over easy, an extra side of toast for dipping, and coffee.
The place had four other customers. A jowly man with gray hair and slits for eyes, wearing a T-shirt and a red billed cap with a Chevy logo, sat in a corner booth and sucked down coffee like an emphysema patient taking hits of oxygen. No doubt driving the tractor-trailer parked outside. Two cops—one male, one female—shared a quiet conversation at the counter. I’d have expected them, but not the twenty-something guy dressed in “office casual,” tapping on his Palm Pilot. Maybe he was a salesman. Maybe he worked odd hours in an office. You never knew who would be in a diner during the wee hours of a Saturday morning or why. I doubt anybody would have guessed I’d just spent the night in a strip club.
I sipped coffee and thought about what I’d learned. I knew Schaeffer and Garvey had to be part of the identity theft scheme. If only I’d found something concrete. I could have kicked myself for not stealing that list of social security numbers while I had the chance. Why was I so damned honest?
My food arrived, and I dug in with gusto, polishing it off in record time. What about Knudsen? Why was Jergins so interested in him? Why wouldn’t Ryan Bledsoe, that guy in Baltimore, answer any questions? Maybe I’d have more luck. Some people don’t like talking to cops, plus Jergins had the social skills of a tree stump. Anyway, Bledsoe was the only lead I had left, other than the woman with no name at the gym.
Dawn had broken by the time I got back to the motel. I undressed and fell into bed, not even brushing my teeth.
For a long time, I lay there, staring at the inside of my eyelids. The coffee hadn’t been a good idea. I was wide awake-exhausted, the same thoughts dancing at the edge of my consciousness with the unwelcome sensation of a recurring bad dream. I’d open my eyes to see by the glowing red numerals of the motel clock radio that another ten minutes had crept by, then close them again. Just when I was starting to think it would never happen, sleep came.
f f f
The phone rang. I ignored it until it stopped. I kept my eyes closed, willing myself to relax and drift back to sleep.
The phone rang again. I opened my eyes. It was almo
st two. I remembered where I was and why I was there. I rolled over and snatched up the receiver. “What?”
“Sam?” It was Melanie. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
I grunted in reply.
“Did you get my note?” she asked.
“Note?”
“I guess not, huh? I checked out this morning. I’m staying with my friend, Karen. Her address and phone are in the note.”
I cleared my throat. My mouth tasted like tobacco-flavored scum.
“Sam?”
“Yeah.”
“You OK?”
“Sure.” My voice was hoarse from secondhand smoke. “I was out late. Just tired.”
“Did you go to the club?”
“Yeah.” I saw no harm in sharing what I’d learned, though I figured I’d skip the little details about trespassing. “Found some interesting stuff. Aces High has accounts at First Bank of Laurel. It looks like money is going back and forth between the accounts for reasons that aren’t obvious to me.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”