Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

Chapter ONE

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I’ve never been a morning person, and if there’s one thing I don’t need before my first cup of coffee, it’s a visit from the cops. But at 8:45 on a Friday morning, two of them waited for me at my law office.

I shut the door on the steam heat—typical July weather in Maryland—and shook my sticky blouse loose. Seven years in practice had taught me many hard lessons. One of them should have been never to wear dry-clean-only blouses in the summer.

Sheila, the seventy-plus receptionist and secretary for the accounting firm where I sublet space, gave me a brief wave while answering the phone through her ever-present headset. Her long, bony fingers clacked away at the keyboard without skipping a beat.

Both men stood as I approached. I recognized Detective Martin Derry of the Prince George’s County police. I wondered what the homicide investigator wanted with me.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning, Ms. McRae.” Derry had light blue eyes, the color of lake water in January. “I need to speak to you about one of your clients.”

Derry’s companion was tall and gangly, as if loosely constructed of mismatched bones. His frizzy reddish-blonde hair was short, making his head seem too small and his nose and ears too big. He peered at me with his head cocked to one side, like a pigeon.

“Let me have five minutes, OK?”

Derry nodded, and I trudged up the steps to my office. I didn’t have any clients charged with homicide. Since I’d left the public defender’s office, most of my criminal clients were yuppies with first-time DWIs or habitual traffic offenders, so I was dying to find out what he wanted. Whatever it was, it could wait five more minutes.

I went through the daily routine of opening the Venetian blinds, turning down the thermostat on the ancient window unit, and booting my computer. I started a pot of dark roast coffee, placing my mug on the burner to catch it as it dripped out. When I felt ready, I invited them in.

They each did a cop’s visual sweep of my office before they sat down. No doubt, they were impressed by the plush furnishings—a used desk, two guest chairs, a metal filing cabinet, a small hutch for my supplies, and tables for my fax, copier, and Mr. Coffee, most of which I’d bought at a state surplus outlet. My one indulgence was a new high-backed desk chair.

“This is Special Agent Carl Jergins, FBI,” Derry said.

“Sam McRae,” I said, extending my hand. Jergins worked my arm like a pump. FBI? I wondered what was up.

Derry sat stiffly upright. Dark-haired and mustached, he had a solemn, squarish face. In a charcoal gray suit, starched white shirt, and red tie, Derry was one of those people who manage to look dapper, no matter what. We’d met years before when I’d defended the man accused of killing his fiancée. Derry treated me with complete, almost excessive, professionalism. I tried to ignore the charged feeling in the air when he was around.

“We understand you have a client named Melanie Hayes,” Derry said.

I stared at him. “She’s not—” I couldn’t finish the thought.

“No. It’s her ex, Tom Garvey. He was found shot to death.”

“Oh, my God.”

“We know you represented her in a domestic violence matter,” Derry said, watching me closely as he spoke. “You understand why we need to talk to her.”

I nodded. “When did this happen?”

“Over the weekend,” Derry said.