Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“But what is it?”

Our food came—a ham and cheddar omelet for me, a stack of pancakes for Duvall, with a side order of bacon to share. The waitress topped off our coffee.

Duvall picked up his cup and blew at the steam. “A lot of people who work at strip clubs are contractors.”

“But how many of them are old friends with Bruce Schaeffer?”

“Garvey was a contractor,” he said.

“Maybe this has something to do with the bookkeeping problems Rhonda Jacobi told me about. Maybe there was some kind of financial funny business going on and both Garvey and Schaeffer were involved.”

“So where does Knudsen fit?”

“He knew Schaeffer. Schaeffer and Knudsen were friends in high school.” I told him about my conversations with Bledsoe and Ferrengetti. “I don’t know, but that woman, Barbara Ferrengetti, was screaming at Schaeffer about money and how Schaeffer was trying to protect Garvey. She had his child. Knudsen’s child, that is.”

“And Knudsen had mail coming to that P.O. Box.”

“Right. And the key to the box was in Melanie’s place, where Garvey used to live.” I shook my head. “I just don’t know. I can’t keep it all straight.”

“Schaeffer and Garvey and Knudsen.”

“Oh, my.”

“Wonder why that letter was in the box.”

“Maybe that’s where Knudsen sent the disc.”

“But then the police should have found it.”

I hesitated. “I guess.”

“One more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“There were two other guys in the car with Stavos,” Duvall said. “One of them was a rubber room candidate from the Bronx named Nicky Koutras. I say was because there’s no Nicky Koutras anymore. He and the other guy in the front seat bought it.”

I felt myself exhale, my shoulders relaxing as if they’d been carrying a weight for the past couple of weeks. “Did this Nicky Koutras have a big scar on his face?”

“Yeah,” Duvall said. “I thought you might like to know.”

f f f

As we headed out to the parking lot, Duvall said, “So what’re you up to on this fine Sunday?”

“I’m going to see Schaeffer. He won’t want to talk to me, but I’m past the point of caring. Maybe he knows something about Knudsen.”

“Think he’s going to tell you, if he does?”

“Probably not, but if I don’t try, I’ll never know.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Sure,” I said. “Any particular reason?”

“If he was involved in the identity thefts, I’d like to know, too. Which reminds me—” Duvall gestured for me to follow him to his car. “I wanted to give you one of these.” He opened the passenger door and retrieved a manila folder from which he pulled a piece of paper.