by Debbi Mack
I shook my head. You’re paranoid. That’s what I thought when I saw the Lincoln. Of course, if it was the same car, the driver had done us a favor. What do you call it when you think you’re being stalked by friends, rather than enemies?
I found the soda machine and got a couple of ginger ales. On the way back, I slowed to look at the car again. A Ford Fairlane. Lots of power, no style.
I guess I was tired. I didn’t hear him approach. He was only a few feet away when he said, “Not as old as yours, but a classic in its own way.”
I whirled around. He stood there, looking at me with that same shit-eating grin he’d had in my office.
“John Drake, I presume,” I said, trying to ignore the way my heart was pounding in my chest.
His smile broadened. “I guess you saw through that one.” He wore a light sports jacket and a pair of slacks. Why so dressed up, here in the middle of Nowheresville P-A on a warm summer night?
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
“I’m an interested friend. And it’s a good thing I’m here, or you might not be.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “I take it I have you to thank for getting out of Breezewood without the Mob on my tail.”
“Stavos would probably have caught up with you. Your car isn’t in the best shape.”
“I’m afraid it’s the only one I have. But let’s get back to you. See, I know who Stavos is and why he’s following me. You, on the other hand, I haven’t a clue about.”
“Sam?” Melanie had come outside. She walked up to us. “What’s going on?”
“Are you Melanie Hayes?” the stranger said.
She looked at me, then at him. “Yes.”
He reached inside his jacket.
“Melanie, run!” I yelled.
Melanie’s eyes widened. She started to turn. Meanwhile, the man had already seized her shoulder with his free hand. I tried to grab his other arm, but he pulled it away. His hand emerged from beneath the jacket—holding an envelope.
“My name is Reed Duvall, Ms. Hayes. I’m a private investigator.” He handed her the envelope. “And you’ve just been served.”
Chapter TWELVE
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I finished reading the complaint for the second time. Melanie had fallen, face down, on the bed and hadn’t moved since we returned to the room.
“It’s thorough,” I said.
Melanie lifted her head from the pillow and looked at me with disgust. “Wonderful. Any more good news?”
“Sorry.” I set the complaint aside. “I know this must be hard, but try not to worry. It’s really the bank they’re after. Of course ...”
“What?”
“The bank’s liability depends pretty much on you.”
She groaned. “Well, I never did anything.”
According to the complaint, the plaintiff, a businessman trying to buy property in Prince George’s County was unable to do so because someone, without his knowledge, borrowed twenty thousand dollars in his name—twenty thousand that was never paid back. Allegedly, that person was Melanie Hayes who, either with or without Tom Garvey’s help, got his personal information through her job at First Bank of Laurel. The businessman believed this because the paperwork for the twenty-thousand-dollar loan was discovered, along with similar paperwork for other First Bank of Laurel depositors, in Melanie Hayes’ apartment.
The 30-page complaint threw every claim in the book against the bank, its officers, and anyone with any potential responsibility on down the line to Melanie. Donna was a defendant, too.
No wonder Donna seemed nervous when I asked her about a possible breach of security at the bank. Her job was probably on the line.
My friend, Jamila Williams, signed the complaint. I didn’t know she handled litigation.
“If they’re after the bank, why am I being sued?” Melanie asked.
“It’s standard procedure to name every possible defendant. Like I said, the whole case depends on you, unless they dig up other evidence. The bank will probably argue that you were acting outside the scope of your employment or violating their policy. In other words, they weren’t responsible. If the court agrees, that leaves you—”
“Holding the bag.”
“Yeah.”
Melanie put her head in her hands. “I’m going crazy. The whole world is going crazy.” She pushed herself upright and faced me, her legs crossed Indian-style. “Look,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose with both hands. “So they sued me. Let’s say they win. I don’t have what they’re looking for. I don’t have any money at all.”
I nodded. “It’s the bank that’s got the deep pockets here. They can get a judgment, but collecting on it is a whole ’nother thing. You don’t own real estate, do you?”
“Real estate? Ha. I have a ten-year-old car and about eight hundred dollars in savings. Not a lot to show, after 36 years on earth, huh?”
I shrugged. “My car’s older, and my savings account isn’t much more impressive.”
Melanie laughed. “We make quite a pair.” She looked away, as if sorry she’d said that. “I don’t mean to presume anything. I’d like to hire you for this, if that’s OK.”
“I guess it’s OK,” I said, slowly, thinking aloud. “I was lucky enough to avoid a problem, even though my information got out somehow. Of course, the bank’s legal counsel may offer to represent you ... but, under the circumstances, you may want to get separate counsel—”
“Will you help me?” She blurted.
I paused. I was starting to believe Melanie was set up. Why would she keep all those records? And her story about leaving Maryland made sense.
“All right. But if something comes up—a conflict of interest—you may need to change attorneys.”
She looked resigned. “OK.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about this?”
She lifted her hand and dropped it. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“No thoughts on who might have put those papers in your apartment?”
“Tom?”
“They weren’t there when I first went to your place, and Tom was dead long before that. Anyone else?”
“Maybe it was Bruce.”
“That reminds me. He called you a couple of times last week.”
“Bruce? I wonder why.”
“I wondered the same thing. I spoke to him, when I was looking for you. Based on what he said, he didn’t strike me as a close friend.”
Melanie snorted. “He’s not. He probably thinks I killed Tom.”
“For all we know, he could have killed Tom.”
“When I last saw Tom, he said Bruce had gone away for the weekend.”
“Maybe Bruce arranged for someone else to kill him. Anyway, I think it’s interesting that both times I went to your apartment, I found evidence that could be used against you on the identity theft charge, and I saw Bruce’s number on your caller ID.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “You think maybe he was calling to make sure no one was home, and he put the stuff there?” She shrugged. “He has no reason to talk to me. Sometimes, I get the feeling he might actually be jealous of me. Not in any sexual sense. It’s just that Bruce and Tom were so tight. More than friends. Bruce used to help Tom out with his business. Financial stuff, marketing.”
“Does Bruce work on computers, too?”
“No, that was strictly Tom’s thing. Bruce manages a club or lounge of some sort. He lined up a project for Tom at the club and worked closely with him, setting up the system. He knows people, too.
“Tom had just moved to the area when I met him, and he told me Bruce was helping him make local contacts. I know how hard that can be. I’ve moved around a lot myself. Anyhow, Bruce hooked Tom up with the club’s owner. Real rich guy with a lot of businesses. Has an amazing house on Gibson Island. We went there once for a party.”
“Can you remember his name?”
“Conrad Ash. He goes
by Connie.”
“When I was in your apartment, I found a bar napkin with the name Connie and a phone number written on it. I assumed it was a woman.”
She smiled. “I can’t swear to it, but I think it was probably Connie Ash. He called Tom about various projects, until things started to fall apart. I think the same thing that wrecked our relationship affected his work. They had a big argument at one point, and I think Connie stopped using him after that. Even so, Bruce and Tom kept meeting at the club. They tried to be secretive about it, but it was easy to tell.” She tapped her nose. “Tom would come home, smelling like a smokehouse.”
“What did they do there?”
“Tom said they were working, but never said on what.” She arched an eyebrow. “I wondered if he was gambling or doing drugs because of all his debts. Or if there was another woman.”
Melanie fell silent for a moment, then drew her knees up and hugged them. “So, after we go to the police ... what happens?”
“They’ll book you, fingerprint you, and put you in a holding cell. At some point, they’ll question you. There’s a federal agent involved, and he may want to question you separately.”
“Will they want to hold me before the trial?”
“I’ll try to get you out on your own recognizance, but they may seek bail. You did leave the state, but I can argue you didn’t know what was going on. Hopefully, I can work something out with the prosecutor.”
She brushed her hair back from her face with one hand, looking distracted. “I have to tell you, I’m scared.”
I tried to be reassuring, but I couldn’t blame her. “They may keep you for one night, but like I said, there are factors weighing in your favor here. You have friends, a job.”
“Do I?” She grimaced, and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “I’ve probably lost my job. The only person who knows me well is Donna. I don’t know where I stand with her right now.”
I thought about my phone call to her. “She’s probably in a difficult position.”
“I know. I screwed up again. She’s done so much for me, and look where it’s gotten her.” She wiped the tears away fiercely, before they could reach her cheeks. “Look where it’s gotten me. I deserve everything I get.”
“Don’t say that.” The words came out like an order.
She looked at me, surprised.
“Don’t stop believing in yourself,” I said, more softly. “You can’t.”
When worse comes to worse, that’s all you have, I thought. When the whole world stops believing you, who else is there? Maybe the bank would try to leave Melanie twisting in the wind. Maybe Donna would disavow all knowledge of Melanie’s actions, to paraphrase the old Mission Impossible refrain. If it was going to get ugly, it was up to me to tell Melanie not to lose faith. Sometimes being an attorney is like that. It’s more than legal analysis—it’s like being a shrink, a priest, a spokesperson, and a lifestyle consultant, all in one.
I looked out the window. In the dark, I could see Duvall’s car. After doing his job, he’d beat a hasty retreat to his room.
“I’m going to talk to that process server,” I said, looking at her. “You all right?”
“Sure.” Melanie’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Thanks, Sam.”
I touched her arm. “We all make mistakes. You wouldn’t believe the ones I’ve made.”
Melanie looked at me, red-eyed, but smiling.
“That’s more like it.” I retrieved my pen and notebook from my purse. “Be right back.”
I stepped into the warm night, walked to Duvall’s room, and knocked on the door. The window curtain moved, and a few seconds later, he opened the door.
“How’s my guardian angel?” I asked.
“Doing fine. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“It’s more business than pleasure.”
He gave me a mock look of disappointment. “Well, come in.”
Since this wasn’t the Hilton or even Motel 6, the rooms were sparsely furnished. Duvall sat on the edge of the only bed. I opted for leaning against the dresser.
“You never told us how you knew where we were,” I said.
“It’s called surveillance. I knew you were looking for Melanie, so I kept tabs on you.”
“How did you know I was looking for Melanie?”
“Connections.”
“If you had me under surveillance, where were you last week when Stavos and his guys decided to beat the crap out of me?”
“I had to get client approval for the surveillance since it was going to require so much time.” He looked at me with regret. “By the time I started, you’d landed in the hospital. You look like you’re in pretty good shape now, considering.”
“I’m all right. Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot. Can’t guarantee you I’ll answer.”
“Fair enough. Can you tell me whether you’ve served the other defendants?”
“Sure. Your client was the last one. It’s tough to serve someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
I nodded. So Donna knew about the case when I spoke to her.
“Are you still working on this?” I said. “Or is your job pretty much done?”
“I was hired to investigate who was responsible for the client’s debt,” Duvall said. “Based on what I found, Ms. Williams drew up the complaint and had me serve the defendants. Whether she’ll have more work for me after this, I don’t know.”
“That connection who told you I was looking for Melanie. Someone with the police?”
Duvall looked at me.
“OK,” I said. “I figured I’d ask.”
“We all have to do our jobs.”
“Yes, you certainly did yours, Mr. Drake.”
He gave me his white, even-toothed smile. “It was creative, you must admit.”
“Do you always go around pretending to be someone else?”
“Only if I think someone might recognize me. I mentioned to Ms. Williams that I was going to see you, and she said my name had come up in a recent conversation.”
“You could have been straight with me.”
“How could I know you would cooperate?”
“I didn’t cooperate anyway.”
He shrugged. “That’s the way it crumbles sometimes. Tell me, Ms. McRae, do you always go around browbeating people?”
“Who’s browbeating? We’re just making conversation.”
“About a case. With someone who works for the opposing attorney.”
“No rule against that,” I said. “I can talk to you. It’s Jamila’s client and his employees or agents that are off-limits.”
“Such fine distinctions.”
“Important ones.”
“I love listening to attorneys talk about so-called legal ethics,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back. “It’s interesting to imagine legal and ethics in the same sentence, let alone as a phrase.”
“Almost as interesting as imagining a private detective invoking high moral ground.”
“Ouch. You wound me, madam.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
“Shall we call it a draw and leave it at that?”
“It’s a draw then,” I said. I got up and walked to the door, then turned to him. “But I suspect I won’t be able to leave it at that.”
He grinned. “I certainly hope not.”
Chapter THIRTEEN
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We bailed my car out of the garage and checked out of the motel the next morning at around ten. Duvall had already left. The ride home felt longer than it was, but the car was running. It had only cost me several hundred dollars in repairs, a night’s stay at a cheap motel, and ten years off my life from the close call in Breezewood. I’d have to remember to put preventive maintenance a little higher on my to-do list.
Melanie was quiet. She looked like I was taking her to her execution. I turned on the radio to fill the uncomfortable silence. After stopping for lunch, we
went to the police.
I waited up front while they processed her. Detective Derry came out and motioned me to follow him. He took me down a hall, past a series of offices to a conference room where they seemed to be holding a convention of suits. One of them was Jergins. The rest I’d never seen before.
“This is Ms. Hayes’ attorney, Sam McRae,” Derry said to the group sitting around a long table. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves? You already know Special Agent Jergins.”
Jergins gave me a terse nod. A woman next to him with red poodle-cut hair said she was Special Agent Simmons with the FBI’s Baltimore field office. Assistant Director Trask came next—a gray-haired man whose mouth turned down in a look of faint disapproval or worry. He was also from Baltimore. A special agent from the Bureau’s DC headquarters mumbled his name without looking up from the papers he was reading. I couldn’t believe the manpower the feds were putting into this one. You’d think these guys were after Dillinger.
There was an empty chair between the FBI contingent and two other people, a man and woman.
“Special Agent Joe Petrocelli, ma’am,” the man said in a booming voice. He had a swarthy complexion, a dark buzz cut, and a nose shaped like a pepper.
“Special Agent Marla Holmes.” The woman was about ten years younger, with brown hair, green eyes, and freckles that made her look like she ought to be in an Irish Spring commercial.
“And which part of the FBI are you with?” I said.
“Not FBI, ma’am,” Petrocelli said. “Secret Service.”
“Secret Service?”
“Yes, ma’am. We have jurisdiction over major identity theft cases.”
“The Bureau, of course, will also be investigating this matter,” the mumbling agent from DC said.
“Secret Service has primary jurisdiction,” Petrocelli said. I looked at Agent Holmes. She could have been playing poker in the Irish Spring commercial.
“Your jurisdiction is concurrent with ours over federally insured financial institutions,” the red-haired poodle-cut said.
“I’m sure my counterpart at Treasury will be happy to cooperate with the Bureau on this,” the gray-haired Trask said, his brow furrowed with parallel lines. “Of course, as assistant director, I’ll be coordinating your efforts on this case.”
