Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“The police have the Mob guy in custody,” Duvall said. “We know Knudsen worked for him. We also know he was coming after your friend, Garvey. Apparently, there’s a disc involved. And you’re telling us you know nothing about that?”

“Why not just admit it,” I said. “They knew each other. How?”

Schaeffer looked uncertain. “I don’t know.”

“So you’re admitting they knew each other, but you don’t know how?”

“I never said that,” he said, raising his voice. “If they knew each other, I don’t know about it.”

“You didn’t know Garvey in high school?”

“No.”

“How did you meet him?”

Schaeffer worked his mouth. “On the job. He was a consultant where I work.”

“At Aces High? You helped him get that job.” I shook my head. “My understanding is you’re old friends. When did you meet?”

He glared at me, his face growing red. “What the hell does it matter?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it matters that Knudsen’s been getting mail at a P.O. Box in College Park. I guess it means he must be back in Maryland.”

“Goody for him.”

“The cops found the box key in Melanie’s apartment,” I said.

“So ask her about it.”

“I did. She doesn’t know anything.”

“What’d you think she’d say?”

“But why should she know him?” I paused a beat. “On the other hand, we’ve established that Garvey and Knudsen knew each other. The cops want to find Knudsen, and they’ll probably want to talk to you about that.”

Schaeffer looked haughty. “Fine. If the cops want me, they know where to find me.” He looked ready to close the door.

“They might be interested in knowing about that list of social security numbers on your desk at work,” I said, in a desperate attempt to keep the conversation going. “And those statements from First Bank.”

Schaeffer looked like he’d been punched in the gut. The color drained from his face. His jaw went slack, and he gasped. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Maybe Connie Ash could tell me more about them. His name was on the statements.”

Schaeffer swallowed, trying to recover his composure. “You’re lying. No way. You’re lying.”

“Your reaction suggests otherwise.”

He drew himself up again, rebuilding his strength. “Fuck you. Fuck off.” He slammed the door.

Duvall and I looked at each other. As we headed to the parking lot, he said, “Now, that’s one guilty son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, but guilty of what? Of knowing Gregory Knudsen? Big deal.”

“What about those papers? You saw the way he acted.”

“Sure, but where are they now? We still have no proof he was involved.”

“The bank keeps those records, too. At least they’ll have the bank statements.”