Identity Issues (The Samantha Series)

by Whitsitt, Claudia

  He smiled. I needed a moment to compose myself, and his manner helped. My blood pressure dropped back to within normal limits.

  "Now, let’s turn back the clock so that you can fill in some of the blanks for me."

  I answered all of his questions. When we finished, McGrath switched gears.

  "I have a few more concerns I need to go over with you," he said.

  I waited.

  "Where is the water now?"

  "My friend, a scientist for a drug company, has the remaining bottles."

  "Give me his contact information, and I’ll make arrangements to transport them to our lab."

  I recited Charlie’s phone number and address.

  "What’s your address?"

  Not what I expected. "Why?"

  "I am going to have a patrol car drive by your house and keep an eye on things. I don’t have any reason to suspect suspicious behavior, but I want you safe in light of Rosita Stitsill’s recent admissions about her husband and until we confirm the facts about the tritiated water. When I met you at the Margarita, you mentioned a husband and children."

  "Good memory."

  He grinned. "I’m a detective."

  "I’m still married, and I still have five kids."

  "Where are they right now?"

  "My kids are with my in–laws for the summer at their cottage in Berrien Springs. My husband is overseas."

  "Does your husband know what you’ve just told me?"

  "No. I sort of surprised myself. I got more involved in this whole thing than I ever expected to. I didn’t tell Jon. Initially, because I didn’t want to worry him. He’s gone so much, and he wouldn’t understand. And then I kind of got in over my head."

  "You’re alone?"

  "Rex, my golden retriever, is home with me."

  "That’s something. How long will your husband be away?"

  "Three weeks. Sometimes, he finishes a day early, but more often he gets hung up for an extra day or two."

  "How often does he call?"

  "It depends on our schedules. Basically, it’s hit or miss."

  "Under the circumstances, I don’t want you alone," McGrath told me.

  "I’ll admit it. I’m nervous and exhausted right now."

  "Could you stay with someone?"

  "I hate to put anyone else in danger… if there is any danger."

  "There may be reason for concern," he admitted.

  I nodded my agreement. "One more thing, Detective," I said. "I promised Rosita Stitsill that I would only contact you if there was a problem with the water. She’s quite fearful of the police for reasons I don’t completely understand. When you decide to contact her, let me pave the way."

  "Let’s get the water tested through our crime lab first, then, if there’s reason, we can proceed."

  I nodded, although conflicted. Waiting for the crime lab to test the water seemed like redundancy at its finest. I feared it would take much longer than my comfort level allowed. McGrath seemed unaware of the urgency I felt. I knew I needed to trust him, but I hated the delay of bringing Rosie up to speed. I thought about it. McGrath was right. We needed to verify the tritium before alarming her. This was a police matter now.

  McGrath interrupted my thoughts. "Do you have protection, Sam?"

  "Excuse me?" I asked.

  "Do you have a gun?" He couldn’t stifle his smile.

  Okay, I blushed. Flame–red. What the hell is wrong with me? "My husband owns a gun. It’s hidden in his back closet."

  "Do you know how to use it?"

  "Not really."

  "What do you have planned for the rest of the day?"

  "Nothing etched in stone. Why?"

  "Today is my day off. I’m going to the gun range later. I’d like to take you with me and teach you how to use that gun. I’d feel better if you were equipped to handle an emergency."

  "Do you do this with everyone, Detective?"

  "Never. I’m making an exception for you. Things may not be quite right here. I’d feel better if you were equipped to handle an emergency."

  "It’s that uncomplicated," I said.

  "That’s all I’ve got for you right now."

  I smiled nervously.

  "Would you feel comfortable if I accompanied you home, checked out your husband’s gun, and then gave you a brief lesson on gun safety and handling?"

  "As long as you feel certain you can respect the fact that I’m a married woman."

  "Yes, ma’am." He smiled.

  We dropped our mugs into the ‘dirty’ bin and headed out to our vehicles. Jim McGrath followed me home.

  Chapter Twenty–Nine

  "THE VERY IDEA of holding a gun makes me sick to my stomach," I confessed as I unlocked the front door. Rex greeted us. I patted his head and gave him a gentle shove. He quickly sniffed out McGrath, then wagged his tail in welcome.

  "It’s quite common for people who are inexperienced with guns to feel nervous about them. Do you know what type of weapon your husband owns?" he asked.

  "No, but I held it once. It’s surprisingly heavy."

  "Not like on TV. Not a breeze to grip or to shoot. At least, not the ones that do any serious damage. Years ago, cops carried nine millimeters. Not anymore, though. These days, the bad guys have more firepower than we do."

  "How scary is that."

  He nodded. "Yes, ma’am."

  "Are you having a hard time deciding how to address me?"

  He arched an eyebrow.

  "Well, you just called me ma’am. You flirt, then you do the professional thing."

  "My brain keeps flashing back to our meeting at the Frozen Margarita. I was attracted to you that night. I apologize."

  "Again. Remember that I’m a happily married woman. With kids." I glanced at Rex. "And a dog." And yes, the attraction is mutual, dammit.

  Rex licked McGrath’s hand. McGrath smiled. A pained smile, but a smile nonetheless.

  "Why don’t I see if I can find Jon’s gun?"

  "Sounds like a plan."

  "Can I get you anything?"

  "No, thanks. I’ll just keep Rex company."

  I climbed the stairs. Jon’s gun case, locked down tight, was lodged safely in the rear of his closet. I found the key.

  I dragged the case out of the closet and lugged it downstairs.

  "I’d forgotten just how heavy this thing is. Here, I’ll let you check it. I’ll need a tutorial, since I know nothing about weapons."

  "Hopefully, you won’t need to use it, but I’d rather you be safe than sorry, if you know what I mean." McGrath opened the gun safe and removed the revolver.

  "It’s a .357," he said, "a Smith and Wesson."

  "I’ve heard of them."

  "It’s a serious weapon. A .357 can do some real damage if you know how to use it. I’ll give you a lesson at the range. First, though, we’ll deal with gun safety. Number one, don’t point the weapon at anyone unless you intend to fire it. Second, keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire the weapon."

  "Makes sense so far." I gave him a wide–eyed look.

  McGrath smiled. "And third, as a general rule, keep the gun unloaded. But, for now, since a threat may exist, I’m going to suggest you keep it loaded when you’re home alone. Just be careful. Now, I’ll open the chamber and make sure that it’s empty. We’ll practice loading and unloading after I clean it. Has it been fired recently?"

  "Of course, not."

  "I’m asking because it’s important that your weapon is cleaned and properly maintained before it’s fired. We don’t want it to jam if you need to use it."

  "If you say so." I breathed shallowly, too nervous for words.

  "You need to be able to do this. Why don’t we clean it at your kitchen table?"

  I grabbed a section of newspaper and spread it over the table as we sat down.

  I watched McGrath set out a small rod and attach a simple brush to the end. He put a small amount of Hoppe’s #9 Powder solvent into a small dish I’d given h
im. Then, he cleaned the barrel with the brush.

  "Looks simple enough. May I try?" I accepted the gun, feeling clumsy. I needed both hands to handle it with any grace at all. I set it on the table and picked it up by the barrel, holding the barrel in one hand while positioning the brush in the other.

  McGrath said, "Even when you’re cleaning it, point the barrel away from your body. It’s an important habit to ingrain in yourself."

  "Alright," I murmured.

  I moved the brush within the barrel. Then, McGrath handed me a patch of cloth with some of the powder solvent on it.

  "Take this and wrap it around the brush," he said. "Move it in the barrel, back and forth, ten times or so. That should do it. By the way, does your husband have a CCW permit for this?"

  I glanced at him. "I’m sure it’s all legal, if that’s what you mean. He’s a rule follower, my Jon."

  "Well, that’s good news. We’ll need to see about you. You need to be legal, too."

  "Sure," I answered, thinking I needed a CCW permit like I needed an additional hole in my head.

  With lots of self–talk I reminded myself not to point the damn thing at my head. I scared myself sometimes.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  McGrath left shortly after two, so I had an hour to unwind before heading to the range. Now that I’d handled the gun, even though just to learn its parts and clean it, I felt reassured and less afraid. I stacked turkey and Swiss on rye, poured a glass of iced tea, and kicked up my feet. McGrath and I had agreed to meet at his gun range, The Firing Line, at three–thirty.

  After lunch, I called the kids, who’d arrived safely at the cottage. I spoke to the entire crew, missed them for about two minutes, then came to my senses and appreciated my in–laws for keeping them happy and healthy.

  I pulled into the Firing Line parking lot and took in the scene. Ordinary people just like me carried bowling bags into the building. Duh. Not bowling bags. Gun bags.

  I expected to see long haired, beer–bellied, fifty year old men clad in fringed leather jackets gathered in the lot. Wrong. The patrons were regular folks.

  I couldn’t decide whether to go inside or not. My anxiety spiked. Again.

  I smoothed down my tank top and checked myself in the mirror. A tap on my driver’s side window startled me. I jumped like a scared rabbit, slamming my knee into the steering wheel.

  Offering McGrath my best what–a–fool–am–I grin, I rolled down my window.

  His eyes crinkled with good humor. "Long time, no see."

  I smiled, unnerved. "Looking forward to our session," I said.

  "Ready to head inside?" Despite his grin, McGrath shifted to business.

  "I’m a tad intimidated by this whole process. But here I am, so that’s a good first step."

  I unlocked the door, exited the car without another humiliating blunder, and slung my bag over my shoulder with the keys tucked safely inside. I noticed that McGrath carried one of those cute bowling bags just like everyone else. I took in his toned body and broad shoulders. Then, I forced my attention to less controversial matters.

  The outside of the range had been well landscaped, not at all what I’d imagined. The place boasted blooming tulips, trimmed hedges, a paved walkway, and a welcome sign over the door.

  Inside, McGrath and I filled out a ton of paperwork. We paid our fees, signed waivers, and agreed to pay an extra $15 if we shot holes in the ceiling by mistake.

  I heard a pop, pop, pop sound coming from the back of the building, and I smelled the faint odor of firecrackers.

  After we navigated the preliminaries, we made our way to the rear of the building.

  McGrath had weapons with him. And ammunition. He grabbed two sets of ear protectors before we walked to lane #10, where two doors opened to create a narrow track that provided privacy from the other shooters.

  "I’m going to explain what we’re about to do," McGrath said, "and then we’ll put the ear protectors on before we shoot. Okay, Sam?"

  "Good idea." My nervousness kept me smiling.

  "Remember your safety rules?" McGrath shouted above the roar of rounds being fired at targets on either side of us.

  "My short–term memory is pretty darned good." I recited them back to him.

  "Good." He smiled at me like a proud papa.

  I relaxed a little.

  "We’ll start with what I call the pre–flight checklist. It consists of the things you need to do before you fire a shot." McGrath paused, meeting my gaze.

  I felt flushed. What the hell?

  "You need a steady stance, a high hand grasp, a firm grip, front sight, and smooth rearward roll of the trigger," he continued. "We’ll go through each of these steps, one by one. But those five steps will be your mantra."

  Being a good student, I repeated back to him, "Steady stance, high hand grasp, firm grip, front sight, and smooth rearward roll of the trigger. Got it."

  "Pick up the gun. Check and see if it’s loaded."

  I picked it up, remembering to point it down at the floor.

  "Good, Sam. Now, when you get ready to shoot, you need to enlist a power stance. What that means is, I want you balanced forward to back, left to right, so that your body is stable. You’ll be better able to hit your target if you’re properly balanced."

  When he put his hands on my hips, my brain short–circuited. Married. Married.

  As I giggled, McGrath cocked his head. "Are you going to be okay with all of this?"

  "Sure," I said. "Maybe in about five thousand years. I’m a little freaked out, but I’ll be alright." Look out, Annie Oakley.

  I took a deep breath, willing myself to focus. I was here to learn how to shoot a gun. I pushed away McNasty thoughts, balancing myself to assume the power stance McGrath had described to me.

  "Okay, got it. Now, what?" I asked.

  Fifteen minutes and several instructions later, I squeezed off my first shot. Minimal recoil. McGrath reeled in the target, and he circled a spot with a red marker near the bottom where I’d made contact.

  "Good girl. You hit the target."

  I grinned at him. "Woo hoo." Silly, proud me.

  "Let’s try it again."

  I assumed my ready stance. "Should I shoot?" I asked.

  "Not yet. Hold still, Sam."

  Before I knew it, his arms were up around my shoulders, bicep against bicep, elbow tucked into elbow, hand over hand. My head lolled back, almost touching his shoulder.

  I pulled off the next round a little too quickly and shot the ceiling. "Oops, sorry. That’ll be an extra $15, ma’am," I joked.

  "It’s not uncommon. You anticipated the kick and raised the gun as you pulled off the shot," McGrath said, sounding all detective. "Try again."

  I don’t know how I made it through the next sixty minutes. We shot off a zillion rounds. My arms ached, my throat felt dry as dust, and I’d stopped shooting well.

  "Tired?" McGrath smiled as he relieved me of the gun, checking the chamber to remove the last of the rounds.

  "A little."

  "Good job." McGrath tucked the weapon into his bag and zipped it up tight.

  "Really? You think so?" I sounded like a five year old.

  "You did very well." He led the way back to the lobby as I rolled my tense shoulders. "There’s a beer and burger joint up the road a bit. You up for it?"

  If he flashed that smile at me one more time, he could have his way with me. "A professional bite, right?"

  "Yes, ma’am."

  What could it hurt? "I’m totally up for it. Let’s go."

  Chapter Thirty

  I FOLLOWED MCGRATH to a burger place that sat alongside the river. Round tables with plastic molded chairs littered the patio. A slatted awning let in the warm afternoon rays. In the Midwest, we refer to this kind of day as the ‘perfect day’—sunny and mild with the gentlest of breezes. Overflowing baskets of petunias added color to the view overlooking the meandering waters.

  McGrath and I picked the table nearest to the wate
r so that we could watch the canoes wind their way past. We both ordered drafts and quarter pounders with fries.

  "I like this place," I told McGrath.

  "The guys and I come here after work. It’s low key and the crowd’s friendly."

  "You must welcome a calm atmosphere after work. I know I do. Problem is, with five kids, I don’t get out much."

  "How is it with both the kids and the husband gone?" he asked.

  "To tell you the truth, I haven’t had five minutes to absorb it. They left, I met with you, and the rest is history. It’s been a whirlwind getting the kids ready to go to the lake with their grandparents, what with winding up the school year. Now it’s important for me to learn to fire a gun. It’s all a bit unsettling."

  "Things will calm down for you now, right?"

  "I certainly hope so."

  Our burgers arrived, juicy, piping hot and smelling of outdoor grill. I hadn’t realized how hungry target practice had made me. I spent the next several minutes focused on my food.

  "Well, Jim McGrath, tell me about yourself," I said after taking a sip of my beer and blotting my lips with a napkin.

  Jim eased back in his chair, smiling. "How far back do you want me to go?"

  I shrugged.

  "I was born and bred in Ohio. Came here for college. Joined the Marines right after I got my degree and served a two year stint."

  He paused for a serious draw on his brew, then continued. "Came back here out of the service. Back to my college sweetheart. We took the next logical step, got married, and fell into a dull routine."

  "How did you wind up a cop?"

  "I attended the academy after I returned from overseas. Applied. Was accepted. Landed a position here in Lexington Heights after I finished my training. Been here ever since."

  "And your marriage?" I remembered the answer that McGrath had given me at the Frozen Margarita, but I decided to ask again.

  "Didn’t work out, but that was a long time ago."

  "Since then? Anyone serious?"

  He met my gaze. "Not yet."

  "What are you interested in?"

  He grinned. "As far as a woman?"

  "Yeah, what exactly are you into?" I asked, feeling very serious.

  "I’m into my job mostly. I’ve been on a dating hiatus for quite a while now."