Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“You didn’t get the tag on the car, did you?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of it.”

“That’s OK.”

“Another thing—I think that guy Drake gave me a fake name. I checked him out in some of the Internet directories and got nothing.”

“I think you’re right.” Derry paused and arched an eyebrow. “And I think, whoever he is, he has a sense of humor.”

“How’s that?”

Derry smiled. “You’re probably a little too young to remember the show Secret Agent Man. John Drake was the name of the main character.”

“And they say television isn’t educational.”

Derry stole a glance at me. The look suggested we were just two human beings talking. No ghosts haunting us anymore. However, the moment passed.

With the usual formality, Derry shook my hand. “If you hear anything, please let us know. Please keep what we said in mind.”

“Sure.”

After he left, I wondered what I’d gotten into. I should ha

ve given Derry the address book.

I think I would have, except that Melanie was still my client. I wasn’t going to run out on a client, not without getting her side first. Something about the setup didn’t seem right. Killing Garvey, then leaving a box of incriminating files in her own apartment made zero sense to me.

As for Stavos, I didn’t know much about the Mob, but I was under the impression they didn’t kill people without a reason. When it came to this case, I felt like I was too clueless for them to bother with me.

Since I had no meetings or court dates, I dug back into Melanie’s phone book with renewed vigor. A person didn’t just disappear. They left traces somewhere. If she was with a friend, I should be able to find that friend. If she was at a motel, she’d eventually run out of money and have to turn to someone she knew. Donna would have been a logical person, but whether it was shame or pride, something was keeping Melanie from seeking her out.

I stuck with it and managed to make it all the way through S. A lot of the calls were long-distance. Either Melanie had traveled a lot or her friends did. She seemed to know people all over the U.S. and even someone in Canada. I figured I’d rest up before I tackled the multitude of Ts—Thompson, Tillman, Toohey ...

I did some other work and a few administrative chores then left the office around five thirty.

At home, I fed Oscar, then took an evening ride on my old Schwinn. I’d been trying to exercise more regularly, do at least five miles every couple of days. Lately, I’d slacked off a bit, because of the heat and humidity. After the workout, I lugged the bike upstairs, sweaty and panting. Maybe a bit more diligence was in order.

The food situation was reaching a critical point, but I managed to throw together a tuna salad with dill pickle slices for dinner, which I ate while watching the news. The O’s weren’t playing. TV sucked. I thumbed through some magazines, then went onto the balcony. The sun had set, and the air was as moist and heavy as a wet blanket. Like a locker room, only filled with the pungent smell of cut grass and impending rain. Now and then, I heard the low rumble of distant thunder and saw lightning flicker in the dark sky.

I wished Ray were with me. I knew that wasn’t possible. When those months had gone by and he hadn’t called, at first missing him was like a chronic ache in my belly. I forced myself to forget. Then he showed up at my door. Now the ache was back. And again, he couldn’t be here.

I liked living alone, doubted if I could abide sharing my space with anyone, but sometimes I wondered. If I dropped dead tomorrow, who would care? Maybe a few people, but ...

Still things could be worse. What if I were Melanie? Apart from my problems, maybe that was one reason I was so interested in finding her. She was all alone like me—probably scared shitless and in over her head.

Was that where I was with Ray? Over my head? I felt a wave of self-pity wash over me.

“Damn it,” I said. “Snap the fuck out of this.”

It was time for drastic measures. I marched straight to the fridge and went for the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Unfortunately, the carton contained about two spoonfuls, tops.

“Shit.” I sighed. I didn’t really want to go out, but unless I provisioned up, my next dinner was going to be a shriveled hot dog that I probably should have thrown out months ago or another Lean Cuisine. Plus, I needed that ice cream, for medicinal purposes.

I grabbed my purse and headed out. As I walked, I realized a car was pulling up beside me. It had a garish hood ornament. The Lincoln’s back doors were already open and two men were coming at me when I turned to run. I didn’t get far. They each took an arm and dragged me toward the car, one clapping a hand over my mouth before I could utter a peep.

My head felt light, and my stomach had that hard knot you get before you throw up. My pulse raced. I squirmed, but they had my arms locked in place. I kicked as hard as I could, connecting with one guy’s knee. He yelped in pain and his grip on my arm loosened enough for me to wrench free and scratch the other one’s face. As he cried out, his hand dropped from my mouth, although he continued to hold my other arm tight.

“Help!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. I tried to pull away from him. “Help!”