Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

She shifted from one foot to the other. I was getting to her. Or maybe she just had to go to the bathroom. “I don’t know.”

“How did you meet Tom? Did Bruce introduce you?”

Barbara pursed her

lips. “I think I’ve answered enough questions.”

The front door opened and closed. A few seconds later, a tall young man came in. He was attractive with a healthy head of light brown, curly hair and blue eyes that girls used to describe as dreamy. His mild, curious gaze glanced off me, but he didn’t look at Barbara. She kept her eyes averted from him as well, her expression flat. The young man walked to the fridge, opened it, and retrieved a Tupperware drink container. Then he put the spout to mouth, tipped his head back, and took a long swig.

“Dinner’s at six,” she said.

He finished his drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Going out.”

“Suit yourself.”

He shut the refrigerator, a trifle too firmly, and strode out. As we listened to him trot upstairs, she took a deep breath, then released a long, tired exhalation.

I took out one of my cards. “If it’s OK, I’ll leave this with you.”

Her eyes were closed now, as if to shut out reality. I put the card on the counter and let myself out.

f f f

Even if Barbara was scamming workers’ comp for extra bucks, I didn’t picture her making the kind of money she’d need to afford an SUV or high-dollar home entertainment system. Maybe she was in on the identity theft scheme. Did her argument with Bruce have something to do with that? And what about Knudsen? The subject of Tom Garvey seemed to get under her skin. At the gym, she’d acted upset to hear Tom was dead. You’re trying to protect him. That’s what she’d said to Schaeffer. Protect him from what?

Before going home, I decided to run by Schaeffer’s and take another crack at questioning him, or at the very least, see how he reacted to the questions I asked.

I climbed the steps to Schaeffer’s apartment again and knocked on the door. No one answered. I tried again. While I was waiting, the door to my left opened. The red-faced, balding neighbor peered out. This time, he wore Bermuda shorts with his ribbed tank top. Black socks and a pair of women’s nylon slippers. Very tasteful.

“Hello again,” he said. The garlic was, thankfully, absent from his breath this time, but I could smell the beer.

“Hi.”

“Struck out, huh?”

“Guess so. You wouldn’t know where he is this time, would you?”

“Saturday night? Probably working. He’ll be off tomorrow though.”

I smiled. “You seem to know his schedule pretty well.”

“That I do. Like to keep tabs on what goes on. Pays to keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Mmm-hmm. I guess the cops have been pretty grateful for your help. On the murder, that is.”

“Cops?” He looked disgusted. “Who said anything about cops?”

“You didn’t tell the cops you saw a woman here the weekend the murder took place?”

“Hell, no. I never talk to cops. See, it also pays to never get involved.” He laughed, in a dry, breathy rasp. “I didn’t say nothing about his lady callers that weekend.”

“Lady callers?”

“You know.” He winked in a way that made me want to take a hot shower. “Roommate’s out of town. He has a few ladies over. Different times. Everyone’s happy.”

“Sure. Did one of the ladies have brown hair? Come by in the middle of the day on Saturday?”

He looked wary. “You’re not a cop, are you?”