Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

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Don’t panic, I thought. Just the sight of the Lincoln made my hands shake. To steady them, I gripped the wheel. It was hard to keep my eyes focused on driving, and I had to remind myself to do that or I’d risk rear-ending someone.

I resisted the urge to duck down a side street in a lame attempt to evade them. That’s probably what they wanted. Get me to a deserted spot, maybe force my car over to the side. Stick with the crowd. Look for a cop.

If I found a cop, what would I say? Help me, officer, I’m being chased by the Mafia. He’d never believe it. Anyhow, there’s never a cop around when you need one, and today was no exception.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Only one car separated me from the Lincoln. The dark windows made it impossible to see who was driving, but I was willing to bet it was Scarface.

A long line of cars passed in the middle lane. On impulse, I swerved into the line in a masterful feat of precision driving and rudeness.

Almost immediately, the Lincoln flashed its turn signal. As it tried to move into my lane, horns honked and the car jerked back to the right. Eventually, it edged its way over, then moved to the extreme left lane and accelerated to catch up with me. It was doing a fine job, too. That was a car that got regular tune-ups.

I waited until it was close, then ducked back into the right lane. Within seconds, my old spot closed up, putting a line of cars between me and the Lincoln.

Up ahead, a light turned yellow. I hit the gas, determined to get through. So did the Lincoln’s driver. The line of cars between us broke apart.

The Lincoln fell back, jockeying to get around the end of the line and fall in behind me again. If I stayed in the right lane, I’d eventually be dumped onto Route 1, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to get to the interstate. You could always find a state cop there, patrolling for speeders. At the first small break, I pulled into the middle lane again. This drew an exasperated look from the guy behind me. I couldn’t blame him.

The Lincoln’s driver was starting to freak now, speeding up and slowing down, trying to figure out where he should be. I pictured Scarface pounding the wheel and calling me all kinds of names.

The Lincoln found a break in the traffic and got behind me again. But a pickup pulled between me and the Lincoln. Good. These guys probably wouldn’t risk shooting strangers to get me. I figured the Mob was a bit more discreet than that. But if they got a clear shot, who knew what they’d do?

Another light turned yellow ahead, a major intersection. Again, I went for it, barely making it through. The pickup slowed to stop. Scarface hit the horn. The Lincoln swerved and, at the last moment, shot around the pickup and blew the red light. Fortunately, no one had moved off the line. Red light runners are so common around here, most sane people wait a few seconds after the light turns green.

Route 1 was ahead, which gave me two lights to get through—one for the northbound lanes, one for southbound, with a mini-block of developed median in between. If I could make it through those and a couple more, I could hit I-95, maybe even lose them.

The light changed as I sped down the hill. Before reaching the intersection, I punched it. About halfway through, I could see the light turn red. I checked the Lincoln.

Cars were inching forward as Scarface ran the light. The second light was yellow. I kept going. Then red. I went through anyway, with one open lane and something big coming. Christ, I thought, that was close. I glanced back.

The Lincoln barreled on. Crossing traffic began to move. Scarface honked again as he blew another red light.

I heard squealing tires, horns, then an explosive crash of metal hitting metal and shattering glass.

I found a place to pull off the road and walked back. The intersection was a mess. Several people had stopped and a few were talking on cell phones. The 911 lines had to be burning up.

A panel

truck had T-boned the Lincoln, sending it sideways into a phone pole. The car sat atilt, wedged between the truck and the pole with its left wheels off the ground, trapping whoever was in the front seat. I moved in for a better view, trying to stick with the crowd as much as possible. Even from a distance, I could smell hot oil and burnt rubber. The truck driver was slumped over the wheel.

Within minutes, a fire truck, an ambulance, and a couple of cops were there. I hung back and watched the uniformed contingent moving with quick assurance through its paces. The cops set up flares and directed traffic. The rescue crew huddled around the vehicles. I waited and watched.

By the time they pulled Scarface from the Lincoln, he had a bandaged head, wore a neck brace, and rode a backboard. He was unconscious. If there’s a God, I thought, let that bastard die.

A cop was talking to people on the corner. Witnesses, presumably. As the only person in the immediate area who really knew what the hell had happened, I guessed it was time to tell my story.

After talking to the cops, I went to the motel and got my things. I was willing to eat the cost of the room for that night, if necessary. Suddenly, the motel didn’t seem all that nice. I didn’t feel like spending the night in a room decorated by hospitality consultants. I wanted to go home and sleep in my own bed. I wanted to see my cat. Stavos had other things on his mind now. I didn’t think he’d bother with me, at least not anytime soon.

I treated myself to dinner at my favorite Chinese restaurant—cashew chicken with fried rice and egg rolls. My fortune cookie read: You will inherit a large sum of money. I just hoped it would happen before this case killed me.

f f f

The next morning, I lay half-awake in bed, mustering the effort to open my eyes when the phone rang. Blindly, I lunged over and picked it up.

“Hello?” It was my first-word-of-the-morning voice, sounding unused as an old garden gate and just as rusty.