Identity Crisis

by Debbi Mack

  “Hey, if she hated you, she wouldn’t have sprung for your bail.”

  “She shouldn’t have. It’s ’cause of my parents, you know.”

  “Speaking of which, maybe you should call them.” I shook my head. “I don’t care what they say, these motels aren’t cheap. We should just drive to the nearest Motel 6 or something.”

  “Sam, what do your parents think about your career?”

  “Huh?” The change in topic threw me.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask such a personal question.”

  “It’s OK. Actually, my parents died when I was young.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nine.”

  “How awful.”

  “Well—” I shrugged. What was I supposed to say?

  “My parents have never approved of my choices.” Melanie sniffed. “They had it all worked out for me. I’d go to the right private college, meet some bright young man with a future, get married, and proceed to waste my overpriced education on a life of volunteer work and entertaining my husband’s business associates. Ha. Thank God I didn’t fall into that trap, huh? I would have missed out on all this fun.”

  I leaned my chair back. “So why not call them?”

  Melanie’s smile vanished. “Because they said if I didn’t do what they wanted, they’d disown me. So I walked away. And I’ve never looked back.”

  Neither of us spoke for a while.

  “Maybe things have changed,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Donna keeps in touch. When she told them I was going to the University of Maryland—” She looked away, her face reddening. “They didn’t ... they said they didn’t care.” She thrust a hand to her chest, which heaved with anger. “I took the initiative. I applied for college. I’m paying for it. And they don’t care.” She paused. “Screw them.”

  “So Donna—”

  “Donna ... God, she’s like a mother to me.” Melanie took a deep breath. “She’s really something. But I have to show her I can stand on my own.”

  She looked at me. “You are amazing. I wish I had my act together like you.”

  I resisted the urge to burst out laughing. “Don’t kid yourself. My act isn’t all that together.”

  “But you didn’t even have parents and look at you. A lawyer with your own business. That’s something.”

  I guessed that it was. I also had a married boyfriend. I had a never-ending parade of bills and a constant struggle to keep up with them.

  We left the apartment and cruised Route 1, until we found a decent-looking budget motel within walking distance of restaurants. Getting out, she said, “Wait a minute. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Aren’t they after you, too?”

  That had occurred to me. “Maybe it would be a good idea to get a room here. The rates are good.”

  “We could share again.”

  I balked. I didn’t want to offend Melanie, but I crave privacy. “Actually, I’m thinking about running by the club tonight. Check up on what Schaeffer and Garvey did there. I may stay late, and I don’t want to wake you.”

  She shrugged. “OK.”

  I felt bad. Sharing would save her—and me—some bucks. But, at the end of the day, I just feel most relaxed when I’m alone, free of the need to make nice—even with a significant other.

  We got adjoining rooms in back so my purple car wouldn’t be on display. I left Melanie and ran by the office to pick up some stuff. I managed to sneak by Sheila’s desk without questions or a lecture. Jamila had called. I wanted to talk to her anyway, so I returned the call while it was fresh in mind. She was stunned to discover that Melanie was my client.

  “Well,” she said. “It’s a small world after all, huh?”

  “Not only that,” I said, “but she’s the client who disappeared.”

  “The one whose ex-boyfriend was murdered?”

  “The same.”

  “Man.” Jamila sounded incredulous. “You can really pick ’em, huh?”

  “Yeah, I have a knack for it. And, by the way, since when do you handle litigation?”

  She sighed. “I don’t. I hate it, but I got stuck with this thing, because I was the only one who knew the case and no one else would touch it.”

  “That much of a dog?”

  “Not really. Everyone’s throwing up their hands and saying, ‘I don’t know anything about this area of the law.’ Well, who does? No one’s an expert on identity theft law.”

  “By the way, remember that ten grand someone tried to borrow in my name? It’s probably connected to your case. I have accounts at First Bank.”

  “Really?” she said. “This gets more interesting all the time. So are you dropping the client?”

  “Well, no,” I said, drawing the word out. “She’s still my client. There’s no conflict of interest here. I haven’t lost any money because of the information leak.” At least, I didn’t think so. I was still waiting for my credit report.

  For a moment, she was silent. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s still your client. Even though she may have tried to steal from you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Why?”

  “The circumstances aren’t right. I was in her apartment after she disappeared and that box wasn’t there. I came back later and the box was there. I think someone set her up.”

  “How do you know she didn’t put the box there?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. I gave her the CliffsNotes version of the last few days’ events. “She disappeared because she was scared. I don’t think she would have come back to the apartment under those circumstances, certainly not to place incriminating evidence in plain view in her apartment. I can’t prove she didn’t do it, but I don’t think she did.”

  “And you left her at a motel? Shouldn’t you keep her with you?”

  “I have a room there, too, but I can’t be her babysitter. As long as she stays out of sight, I think she’ll probably be OK.”

  “You don’t think she’ll run?”

  “I don’t think so. I really think she was desperate.”

  “Hmmm.” Jamila sounded unconvinced.

  “Have you spoken to the bank’s counsel?” I asked.

  “Yeah. They think they can get kicked from the case. They’re claiming no responsibility for your client’s actions.”

  I knew it. Shit. “My client has no money.”

  “Maybe she does and you don’t know it.”

  I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.

  “You know,” Jamila added. “The bank could choose to settle.”

  “That’s always an option.”

  “I guess it depends on how strong a case they think they have.”

  “Or how willing they are to throw money at the problem to make it go away,” I said. “I’m sure they’d like to keep the security breach quiet.”

  “Mmmm.” I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “God, I hate litigation,” she said.

  “I sympathize. If that boyfriend of hers were still alive, Melanie might have avoided all this.”

  “Mighty thoughtless of him, to let himself get whacked like that.”

  “Yeah. The big jerk.”

  “I’d better run. I’ve got a conference call.”

  I made my next call to Aces High, after getting the number from directory assistance. Several rings later, a woman picked up.

  “Hi, is Conrad Ash there?”

  “Who?”

  “Connie Ash. The owner.”

  “The owner?” she said, sounding surprised. “Nah, he ain’t here.”

  “OK, thanks.”

  I hit the button to disconnect, using my free hand to pull the little notebook from my purse. I found Connie’s name and number from the napkin and tried it. A man answered.

  “Is this Connie Ash?”r />
  “Who is this, please?” The voice was pleasant, but terse.

  “My name is Sam McRae. I’m an attorney. I understand Tom Garvey used to work for you—”

  “A lawyer?” Maybe it was my imagination, but the voice seemed to get tinged with something less than pleasant. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m representing the person charged with his murder.”

  No response at first. “He’s been murdered?” He sounded astonished.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re representing who?”

  “His ex-girlfriend.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I understand he once worked for you.”

  “Yeah. When you said you were a lawyer, I thought maybe he had some beef with me. Man, I can’t believe someone killed him.”

  “Why would he have a beef with you?”

  “Oh, man. I just didn’t want to do business with him anymore, you know? You just never know. People sue people for the craziest things these days.”

  “Could we arrange a time to meet?” I hate phone interviews. I like to see the people I’m talking to.

  He was so quiet I wondered if he had hung up until he said, “OK.”

  “If you’re available this weekend—”

  “I’m available tonight, if you want to come by the house.”

  “That would be great.” I’d never been to Gibson Island, so he gave me directions. He said he would give my name to the man at the guard station, where I would have to check in. Some people live in apartments with doormen. This guy lived on a guarded island.

  I went home. A brief scan of the lot outside my apartment building revealed only the usual workaday crowd—hot and tired men and women in wilted suits and uniforms. However, their step had the subtle lift that comes with thoughts of Friday night and the weekend ahead. No black Lincoln.

  I fed Oscar, then packed a few items in a paper bag while checking the parking lot like an obsessive-compulsive for the Lincoln. When Oscar was done eating, he jumped on the sofa to crash. I needed to arrange for someone to look after him. I could try to sneak him into the motel, but he probably wouldn’t like that, and would protest at the top of his lungs no doubt. Plus I’d have to bring the litter box and food. More stuff to lug around.

  I went downstairs to Russell’s. He answered my knock wearing a black and yellow paisley satin smoking jacket with a pair of loose-fitting yellow satin pajama pants and holding a scotch and soda. He looked like Hugh Hefner’s gay younger brother.

  “Russell, can you do me a favor and take Oscar for a couple of days?”

  Russell scowled. “Why? Where the hell are you going? You’re supposed to be resting, not gallivanting about.”

  “I have to leave. It’s just a couple of days.”

  “Well, you know how Bitsy will feel about that.”

  Bitsy was Russell’s Scottish terrier, or “Scottish terror,” as I called her. In fact, I was surprised she wasn’t yapping at Russell’s heels. Must have been asleep, thank God. Damn dog could puncture eardrums with that bark of hers.

  “Oh, I don’t think Oscar will hurt little Bitsy—if she behaves herself,” I said.

  “Aren’t you a stitch?”

  “Just keep Oscar in a room. He won’t care, as long as you give him food and water. And keep a litter box in there, of course.”

  Russell wrinkled his nose. “Jesus Christ—a litter box. Why the hell don’t you just give me the key and I’ll go upstairs and feed him there.”

  “Because ...” I hesitated. “I’m worried. I don’t want to leave him alone. They might hurt him. Those guys who beat me up.”

  Russell stared. “You think they’re coming here again? Jesus ... what the hell have you gotten into?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  He heaved a sigh. “All right. Bring the little bastard down.”

  “Thanks, Russell. You’re the best.”

  “I know.” He tilted his head back with the air of a matinee idol and stared down his nose at me. “But you’ll never get to find out why.” He shut the door.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  ––––––––

  If you have to be anywhere in Maryland during the summer, it should be on the water. The state’s claim to fame is the Chesapeake Bay, the haunt of boating enthusiasts and home to the blue crab, which everyone seems so keen on eating. There’s nothing very interesting about the bay. It’s a big, flat body of water with a lot of flat land around it. I’d rather have a nice cottage by a scenic river.

  I guess Gibson Island has the best of both worlds, in a sense. Strictly speaking, it’s not an island, since it’s connected to the mainline by an isthmus, but Gibson Almost-Island doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. It has the mouth of the Magothy River on one side, the bay on the other. In between, you’ll find a lot of fancy houses and people with money.

  After checking in with the guard, I followed the isthmus onto the so-called island. From the road, I caught glimpses of houses discreetly tucked behind tall trees, ranging in size and style from country rancher to mini-Buckingham Palace. I turned in at a gated driveway, wove briefly through a grove of oak trees, and emerged in the shadow of a huge house. The road ran in a wide, lazy curve to the entrance, revealing a bluish-green glimpse of water as I took the turn.

  The house had an odd, thrown-together look—a stucco exterior with a Spanish tile roof, a kind of Tudor design around the windows, and a front porch, columned southern style and flanked with overgrown hydrangea and roses. If an average person lived there, the place would be ugly. Since the owner had dough, it qualified as unique and eclectic.

  I parked beside a gleaming silver Lexus, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. The faint echo of its notes faded out, so the only sound was the hum of a bumblebee. The sweet fragrance of roses saturated the air. I was thinking about ringing the bell again, when the door opened. A fortyish man who looked like a model for Land’s End stared back at me. Square-jawed, with neatly combed, brown hair, he wore a golf shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I guessed he wasn’t the butler.

  “Sam McRae?” he asked, with a look of pleasant curiosity. “Connie Ash.” We shook hands, and he invited me in.

  The dark wood lobby looked bigger than my apartment. Dual staircases ran along the walls and a massive crystal chandelier hung from the center of a ceiling two stories high. Ash took me back through a series of rooms furnished in Danish modern, creating as jarring a contrast internally as I’d seen outside. I’m not a big fan of traditional furniture—seems stuffy to me. I could appreciate Ash’s desire to decorate for comfort rather than style, although with his money he could’ve at least redone the house to match the furnishings.

  We ended up in a Florida room with a panoramic bay view through floor-to-ceiling windows. A back porch extended off the room for the length of the house. Ash gestured toward a wet bar in the corner.

  “Drink? Beer, wine, something stronger?”

  “Maybe a soda.”

  He shrugged. “Name it, I’ve probably got it. I keep a good stock on hand for parties.”

  “Ginger ale?”

  “Sure.” He took out two tumblers, poured me a ginger ale, and a bourbon and water for himself. “Shall we sit outside? It’s been muggy the last few days, but tonight it’s actually decent.”

  The porch furnishings were wicker chairs and a red lacquer table. I took a seat. A mild breeze blew off the water, making a set of bamboo chimes clink a haphazard tune. The lawn stretched in a lush green slope to the water’s edge, fringed with cattails. From behind one cluster, a pointy-billed blue heron appeared, taking slow, deliberate steps with angular, stilted legs, while scanning the water for dinner.

  “This is nice,” I said.

  “Isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.” He sank into his chair with a contented sigh. “So ... Tom Garvey’s dead and you want to ask me some questions. I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you. He worked for me for a while, that’s
it.”

  “What kind of work was it?”

  “Bringing my computer systems up to date, working on websites, troubleshooting—a little of everything.”

  “I understand he and Bruce Schaeffer worked together.”

  “It was Bruce who talked me into hiring him. Begged me, practically. Bruce manages a club for me.”

  “Aces High, the strip club?”

  “Right.” If he was embarrassed about my bringing up the nature of the club, he didn’t show it. “Anyhow, I guess Tom must have coordinated with him on his work there.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “I didn’t really care how they did it, as long as it got done.” He swirled the drink in his glass and took a healthy sip.

  “And did it get done?”

  “Yeah, far as I know ... at least, at first. In fact, I had him handle some of my other businesses, too.”

  “But you became dissatisfied with his work?”

  “The managers really. They liked him, but sometimes Tom would forget appointments. Or sometimes he was late. Or he’d say you need more RAM or ROM or whatever, but it’d take him two weeks to fix it. Maybe I was too nice. I figured I’d cut the guy some slack—figured he was busy. Plus, he was good at what he did, so I was willing to put up with some eccentricity.”

  He paused, examining his drink. “Then things really took a turn. Not only was everything taking forever, but I heard he was coming in looking like hell, barely functioning. I thought maybe he’d been working too many hours, staying up too late.” He lifted his glass. “Maybe partying a bit too much. Hell, I’ve been there. Anyhow, one day, I got a call from the manager at one of my dealerships. Tom came in so sloppy drunk, he spent more time harassing the help than doing his work.” He shook his head. “Good help is hard to find. I let him go.”

  “I understand you had an argument with him,” I said. “What was that about?”

  “It was after I fired him. We had words. He was PO’ed, but I said, look—” He interrupted himself with another swallow, polishing off his drink. “It’s business, you know? Care for another?”

  I held up the ginger ale, still almost full. “Still working on this one.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I think I’ll indulge.” He got up with glass in hand and a sway in his gait that made me suspect he might have indulged before I arrived.