Identity Crisis

by Debbi Mack

  I wasn’t quite sure. Maybe I was afraid they’d find something incriminating. Maybe it was the fact that I wouldn’t have been there to begin with, if it hadn’t been for Donna. Anyway, I made a command decision not to call, not sure of the ethical aspects, but based on my gut. So now what?

  I decided my best bet was to put the key back where I found it. I didn’t want to impede a police investigation, but I had no duty to assist them either. After I returned the key, I could check with Derry, see if they had searched Melanie’s place while I had it, and come clean if I had to. He wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t think it would put me any higher on his shit list than I already was.

  φ φ φ

  At Melanie’s apartment, I let myself in as before. I went to the bedroom and replaced the key and receipt. I was on my way out when I noticed a box on the dining room table.

  It was the kind of box you might want to use for moving or storing files—I know, because it actually was full of files. Printed on the side was Lobkowicz along with a fancy crest of some sort. If it had been there the day before, I would have noticed.

  The folders had names on them and were filed in alphabetical order. I checked one at random. It held correspondence with a bank, something about establishing a credit line.

  I slid the folder back into place. I didn’t want to go any farther, but I couldn’t stop now. I had to check the ones beginning with M.

  Malone, Martinez, Mazzuli. Then McCabe, McNally. And there it was.

  I pulled out the file with my name on it and found the paperwork for my ten-thousand-dollar line of credit. Shit. Less than 24 hours ago, someone had left that box. The someone who’d tried to rip me off.

  On my way out, I checked the answering machine. No messages, but Bruce Schaeffer’s number was on her caller ID again. He had called at 11:24 p.m., long after I spoke to him. Interesting. Her mailbox hadn’t been touched. Her red car was in the same spot.

  Anyone could have brought that box in. The key wasn’t hard to find. Or maybe the locks were picked.

  Why did Bruce phone Melanie again? Was there a connection between his call and the box’s appearance? Was it a coincidence?

  I wondered how many of the questions Melanie could answer.

  φ φ φ

  I spent a lot of time that weekend phoning people in Melanie’s book. In an attempt at efficiency, I ignored the professional entries—doctors, dentists—and anything identified by an institutional name only. As for the rest, I figured I’d start with A and keep going.

  Personal phone books have this tendency to collect names the way furniture collects dust and, in my quest, many of those names were about as useless. Some people I called weren’t home—I left messages when I could. Some hadn’t seen Melanie for years, and some barely knew her to begin with. A couple of people knew her from school, some from the bank. They expressed concern, but couldn’t help me. I kept going.

  By Monday, I’d slogged through to the Ms. I’d developed a short explanatory speech that sounded stale by the third call. I got all sorts of reactions, from skepticism to concern, hostility to apathy. I felt sorry for telemarketers. I was glad to stop and turn my attention back to legal work.

  I was wrapping up for the day, when I heard a knock.

  “Yes?” I said.

  The door opened and a man I didn’t recognize stuck his head inside. The disembodied head wore a shock of light brown hair and a genial expression.

  “Excuse me, Ms. McRae? I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.”

  I got up and approached him. “For a consultation?” If he was a potential client, the answer was yes. If he was a salesman, my preference was to beat feet home to some take-out Chinese and the ball game.

  The door opened all the way, revealing a sturdy frame—not fat, not skinny, maybe a slight beer belly—clothed in a pair of chinos, a Madras shirt, and moccasins. He stuck out a squarish hand.

  “My name is John Drake. I’m a friend of Melanie Hayes’ parents. Were you busy? I could come back.”

  “No, that’s OK.” Feeling curious, I invited him in.

  Drake relaxed into a guest chair, crossing a leg over one knee. He looked a bit like an overgrown version of a kid in a Rockwell painting, complete with cheek of tan and unruly cowlick.

  “Melanie’s mother called a few days ago. Her folks are concerned, because they’ve been told she’s missing. Since I live in the area, they asked me to try to contact her.”

  “Oh?” The wariness that rose in me was almost palpable. “How do you know her parents?”

  “I’ve known Melanie since she was a kid.”

  “That’s interesting.” He looked like he was close to Melanie’s age. “So they looked you up? Or have you kept in touch with them since they moved to New Mexico?”

  Drake smiled broadly. His teeth were as even and white as Chiclets. “Arizona,” he corrected me. “They live in Arizona.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  Drake’s smile faded, but his green eyes continued to look amused. “I’m doing her folks a favor.”

  “Sure. But I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “I understand from someone at the bank that you’re her attorney.”

  That could only be Donna.

  “Correct,” I said. “You’ll understand if I’m a little protective when it comes to a client.”

  “Certainly. Really, I have no dark motives.” He spread his hands, as if he were opening himself like a book. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Unfortunately, I have no idea where she is.”

  “Ah.” He looked terribly disappointed. “I was hoping you might have heard from her.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “She didn’t give you a possible alternate address or phone number to contact her at?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not to impose, but could you possibly recheck your file?” Something seemed to catch in his throat, and he began to cough.

  “No need,” I said. “I’ve been trying to find Melanie myself. Believe me, if I had a lead in my file, I would know about it.”

  Drake coughed harder. “Excuse me,” he said. “Got a ... bit of a tickle. Have any water?”

  I inclined my head. “There’s a water cooler down the hall. Help yourself.”

  He got up and left, hacking loudly. Maybe he really did have a tickle. Or maybe it was an old trick. It was a short hallway, but it still gave a person time to get something from your desk or off your Rolodex. I had two people pull that on me, using different ruses—a reporter who was looking for a name and phone number, and a prospective client who lifted my wallet. Fool me twice, shame on me all over. Maybe I was being paranoid. Still, something wasn’t right with this guy, although I wondered what he could be looking for that he’d be able to find in that little bit of time.

  I decided to meet him at the door on his way back.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short,” I said. “I have plans.”

  “That’s quite all right. I appreciate your time.” I don’t think he believed me any more than I did him.

  “Perhaps if you gave me a phone number,” I said. “If I hear anything, I could call you.”

  His expression was neutral, but the eyes still seemed amused. “Good idea.” He felt his shirt pocket. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to write with.”

  I got a pad and pen from my desk and he wrote a number down. After he left, I waited at the window until I saw him heading down the front walk. Then I got on the phone to Donna.

  “John Drake?” she said. “Never heard of him.”

  “This guy says he’s known Melanie since they were kids.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  “And you never told him that I was Melanie’s attorney?”

  “I’ve never even met him. Oh, Sam.” She paused. “You don’t suppose that could be ... that couldn’t be the one the police were talking about, could it? The dangerous man?”

  “I don’t
know.” I didn’t think so, but my pulse had quickened. Could that really be Stavos?

  “He didn’t seem dangerous,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean a thing, does it?”

  “Sam, did you have a chance to run by Melanie’s?”

  I paused. “Oh, yeah. She wasn’t home.” I decided to leave it at that.

  “I’m so worried.”

  So was I. If this was the man Jergins was talking about, he’d managed to find out I was Melanie’s attorney. And if he was that dangerous, would he be satisfied asking a few questions? I didn’t think so. I just wondered what his next move would be.

  Chapter SIX

  ––––––––

  Detective Derry stopped by the office the next day. Jergins was with him, looking sullen and officious.

  “Things aren’t looking good for your client,” Derry said.

  “Now what?”

  “Garvey’s body was found in his apartment. A witness says Ms. Hayes was there that weekend, the weekend he was shot.”

  That creepy neighbor of Schaeffer’s, I thought. “So?”

  “Didn’t she have a protective order against this guy? Why would she want to see him?”

  It was a fair question. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t prove she killed him.”

  Derry took a deep breath. “I didn’t say it proved anything.”

  “Maybe it was someone who looked like Melanie.”

  “Anything’s possible. The witness identified her from a photo we found in her apartment.”

  “You searched her place?”

  He nodded. “Yesterday.”

  He didn’t mention the box or the state of the apartment, and I wasn’t going to bring it up.

  “Was there any reason for that, other than a witness’ statement?”

  “Fingerprints,” Derry said. “We found her prints at the scene.”

  “How do you know they’re hers?” I had to ask.

  “The bank where she works routinely takes its employees prints.”

  I was at a loss to understand or explain it, but I didn’t owe anyone any explanations. “What do you want from me?”

  “I just wanted to let you know we’re getting a warrant for Ms. Hayes’ arrest,” Derry said.

  I nodded. What could I say? I’d have done the same thing in their place.

  “So if you have any knowledge of Ms. Hayes’ whereabouts, now would be the right time to tell us,” Jergins barked.

  I could understand if the FBI didn’t offer courses in diplomacy, but I was starting to wonder if it should. Even Derry didn’t look happy about Jergins’ outburst.

  “If I had any knowledge of Ms. Hayes’ whereabouts,” I said, keeping my voice deliberately calm. “I would have told you by now.”

  Jergins squinted and scowled at me.

  “We thought it would be a good idea to check with you,” Derry said, sounding almost conciliatory. “Just in case.”

  “I understand. What about the murder weapon? Were her fingerprints on that?”

  “We’ll discuss that at the appropriate time, Ms. McRae,” Jergins said, interrupting.

  Derry’s eyes slid Jergins’ way. His cheeks reddened, and I didn’t think it was from embarrassment.

  “Really?” I said. “And when did you start working for the homicide unit?”

  “There’s an appropriate time and place for everything.” Jergins’ face was tight, making his big ears stand out even more. “We’ll discuss the murder weapon at that time and place.”

  “Now, I wonder when that would be. Maybe at the sentencing hearing?”

  Derry turned away. I didn’t know, but I could have sworn he stifled a smile.

  “With all due respect, Ms. McRae,” Jergins said. “We don’t know that Ms. Hayes will hire you to represent her.”

  “Why not?”

  “You represented her on a domestic violence matter. That doesn’t mean she’ll want you for this.”

  I looked at Derry. He was staring at something on my desk. I realized it was Melanie’s address book, still sitting beside the phone.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” I said, addressing my comments to both men, trying to bring Derry back into the conversation, “she’s still my client.”

  “Mr. Garvey’s dead,” Jergins said. “The case is moot, and you know it.”

  “Sure, the court case is moot, but I don’t consider the entire matter closed,” I said. “After all, your interest in her was sparked by that case. I haven’t closed the file. So it’s still an open case, from my standpoint, and she’s still my client.” Not bad, I thought. Pretty smooth, even.

  Derry kept looking at the book. The plain, dark cover had nothing to connect it with Melanie, but I couldn’t remember if her name was on the inside.

  Jergins sneered. “Very convenient. Keeps that attorney-client privilege intact.”

  “You know the privilege doesn’t let me help clients commit crimes.”

  “I know that. Maybe we should get a warrant and make sure you know that, too.”

  I gaped at him.

  Derry coughed. “Can I talk to you a minute?” he said to Jergins. “Excuse us.”

  They left the office. A few minutes later, Derry returned, alone. “He’s going to wait in the car.”

  “Is this supposed to be some weird variation on ‘good cop, bad cop’? What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

  Derry shrugged. “Lacks a few social skills. Guess he has a thing about defense lawyers.”

  “You think?”

  “He also thinks you know something you’re not telling us.”

  “But you know better, right?”

  “I think you’re telling us everything you know,” he said. “I certainly hope so.”

  “I am.” He seemed to have lost interest in the address book. Guilt gnawed at me, but the book didn’t have any answers, at least not yet.

  “The man he mentioned, Christof Stavos,” he said. “He is dangerous.”

  “I know. It’s been bothering me. You really think he might hurt Melanie?”

  “It’s possible. Or maybe you.”

  “Why would he have any interest in me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe for the same reason that Jergins thinks you’re holding something back.”

  “Christof Stavos has a thing about defense attorneys, too?”

  Derry toyed with his shirt cuff. “Were you talking to someone at Bruce Schaeffer’s apartment?”

  That blabbermouthed neighbor must have told them about me. I never gave my name, but Derry may have recognized the description.

  “Yeah, I went there. I was hoping Schaeffer would know something about Melanie. Didn’t pan out.” I paused, then laughed uncomfortably. “There is something else. It’s kind of silly.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I told him about the black Lincoln and the visit from John Drake the day before. Derry’s brow furrowed, the lines growing deeper as I spoke.

  “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.