Identity Crisis Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Identity Crisis | A Sam McRae Mystery | Debbi Mack | 4th edition, 2d printing

  Renegade Press

  For my fiction readers, I offer this | FREE DOWNLOAD

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  Chapter TWENTY-SIX

  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chapter TWENTY-NINE

  Chapter THIRTY

  Chapter THIRTY-ONE

  Chapter THIRTY-TWO

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  Chapter TWENTY-SIX

  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chapter TWENTY-NINE

  Chapter THIRTY

  Chapter THIRTY-ONE

  Chapter THIRTY-TWO

  Identity Crisis

  A Sam McRae Mystery

  ––––––––

  Debbi Mack

  4th edition, 2d printing

  Renegade Press

  Renegade Press

  P.O. Box 156

  Savage MD 20763

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2017 Debbi Mack

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Debbi Mack, www.debbimack.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  ––––––––

  Identity Crisis by Debbi Mack

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9906985-9-3

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Rick Iacangelo, who provided the unconditional support and encouragement that helped make it a reality.

  This book is also dedicated to my father and fellow writer, Frank Andrew Mack, who never got to see the book, but always believed in me.

  For my fiction readers, I offer this

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  Chapter ONE

  ––––––––

  I’ve never been a morning person, and if there’s one thing I don’t need before my first cup of coffee, it’s a visit from the cops. But at 8:45 on a Friday morning, two of them waited for me at my law office.

  I shut the door on the steam heat—typical July weather in Maryland—and shook my sticky blouse loose. Seven years in practice had taught me many hard lessons. One of them should have been never to wear dry-clean-only blouses in the summer.

  Sheila, the seventy-plus receptionist and secretary for the accounting firm where I sublet space, gave me a brief wave while answering the phone through her ever-present headset. Her long, bony fingers clacked away at the keyboard without skipping a beat.

  Both men stood as I approached. I recognized Detective Martin Derry of the Prince George’s County police. I wondered what the homicide investigator wanted with me.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Morning, Ms. McRae.” Derry had light blue eyes, the color of lake water in January. “I need to speak to you about one of your clients.”

  Derry’s companion was tall and gangly, as if loosely constructed of mismatched bones. His frizzy reddish-blonde hair was short, making his head seem too small and his nose and ears too big. He peered at me with his head cocked to one side, like a pigeon.

  “Let me have five minutes, OK?”

  Derry nodded, and I trudged up the steps to my office. I didn’t have any clients charged with homicide. Since I’d left the public defender’s office, most of my criminal clients were yuppies with first-time DWIs or habitual traffic offenders, so I was dying to find out what he wanted. Whatever it was, it could wait five more minutes.

  I went through the daily routine of opening the Venetian blinds, turning down the thermostat on the ancient window unit, and booting my computer. I started a pot of dark roast coffee, placing my mug on the burner to catch it as it dripped out. When I felt ready, I invited them in.

  They each did a cop’s visual sweep of my office before they sat down. No doubt, they were impressed by the plush furnishings—a used desk, two guest chairs, a metal filing cabinet, a small hutch for my supplies, and tables for my fax, copier, and Mr. Coffee, most of which I’d bought at a state surplus outlet. My one indulgence was a new high-backed desk chair.

  “This is Special Agent Carl Jergins, FBI,” Derry said.

  “Sam McRae,” I said, extending my hand. Jergins worked my arm like a pump. FBI? I wondered what was up.

  Derry sat stiffly upright. Dark-haired and mustached, he had a solemn, squarish face. In a charcoal gray suit, starched white shirt, and red tie, Derry was one of those people who manage to look dapper, no matter what. We’d met years before when I’d defended the man accused of killing his fiancée. Derry treated me with complete, almost excessive, professionalism. I tried to ignore the charged feeling in the air when he was around.

  “We understand you have a client named Melanie Hayes,” Derry said.

  I stared at him. “She’s not—” I couldn’t finish the thought.

  “No. It’s her ex, Tom Garvey. He was found shot to death.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “We know you represented her in a domestic violence matter,” Derry said, watching me closely as he spoke. “You understand why we need to talk to her.”

  I nodded. “When did this happen?”

  “Over the weekend,” Derry said.

  “I’ll be present when you question her.” It was not a request.

  Derry bobbed his head in brief acknowledgment. “When was the last time you spoke to Ms. Hayes?”

  “Last Friday.”

  “On the phone or in person?”

  “In person. She c
ame to the office.”

  “And you haven’t spoken to her since?”

  “No. Why?”

  Derry leaned back in his chair. He appeared to think about whether to answer the question.

  “There’s a problem,” he said. “She seems to have disappeared.”

  “What? Just vanished?”

  “She hasn’t been home and hasn’t shown up for work all week.”

  An angry sizzle interrupted my thoughts. The odor of burnt coffee filled the room. My cup was overflowing onto the hot plate.

  “Shit.” I jumped up and exchanged the cup for a carafe. Coffee was everywhere. In haste, I ripped a couple of pages from a writing pad and daubed at the mess, grinning sheepishly at the cops.

  Derry’s mustache twitched into a brief grimace. Jergins stared.

  “Well, I have no idea where she could be,” I said, swiping at drops that had landed on my blouse.

  Both cops studied me, maybe waiting for more. I sat down and drank my coffee. The air conditioner clicked and roared in the background.

  Jergins cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Ms. McRae,” he said, in a gruff, rat-a-tat voice, “it’s extremely important that we get in touch with Ms. Hayes as soon as possible. Her life may be at risk.”

  “Why? And what’s the FBI’s interest in this?” I looked directly at the bony fed.

  Jergins’ nostrils flared as if he’d detected a bad smell. From the look in his beady eyes, you’d have thought I was the source.

  “Has your client ever mentioned the name Gregory Knudsen?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “What about Christof Stavos?”

  “What about him?” I asked, a little annoyed that he’d ignored my question.

  “Have you heard that name? Ever?”

  “Nope. Never ever.”

  Jergins did that pigeon move with his head again.

  I resisted the urge to imitate him.

  He said, “Mr. Stavos is a sick and dangerous man. It’s absolutely essential that Ms. Hayes get in touch with us as soon as possible. For her own safety, if nothing else.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Who is he?”

  “Wiseguy from New York.”

  The phone rang.

  I decided to let the voice mail get it. “Mafia? What would someone like that want with my client?”

  Jergins leaned back, allowing himself a dramatic pause. “Did your client leave anything with you? A CD, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “And she never mentioned Knudsen?”

  “Like I said, no.”

  He nodded, still not looking satisfied.

  “So, who is this guy, Knudsen?” I said. “And what’s on the CD?”

  Jergins said nothing.

  “Let’s get back to your client,” Derry said. “Did she ever mention anything about leaving town? Even a hint that she might?”

  I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. “Not that I recall.”

  Derry appeared to ponder my response then said, “I guess we’ve taken enough of your time.”

  Jergins looked like he wanted to subpoena every piece of paper in the room.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “What’s going on? Obviously, someone’s been murdered, but is there more?”

  Derry glanced at Jergins, who remained mute.

  “There’s got to be,” I said. “Or why would the FBI be involved?”

  Another look passed between the men.

  Derry said, “Right now, I’m concerned about investigating a homicide.”

  As opposed to what? I wanted to ask.

  “This mobster—what was his name? Stavos?—he’s also a suspect?” I asked.

  Silence.

  Forget it, I thought. I might as well go outside and ask a fire hydrant.

  As they stood up, Derry said, “You’ll let us know if you hear from Ms. Hayes.”

  “Of course.”

  Jergins pulled out a business card and thrust it toward me. It said he was with the field office in Baltimore.

  “You hear anything about Knudsen, you let me know,” he said, in his clipped monotone. Probably picked it up watching too many reruns of Dragnet.

  After they left, I checked my voice mail. Someone named Christy from my credit card company had called. I was up to date on my bill, and the message didn’t say anything about their “great new services.” Curious, I dialed the number and connected directly with Christy, who sounded like a college student working the phones during her summer break.

  “Stephanie Ann McRae?” she said. The credit card was in my full name rather than the acronym I use as a nickname. “I’m calling to confirm your recent application for a line of credit,” she continued, sounding as if she were reading from cue cards.

  “But I haven’t applied for more credit.”

  A few seconds of silence. “You haven’t? Oh, wow. Have you lost your card recently?”

  “No, no. I would have reported that.” I pulled my purse out of my desk, just to check. The card was still in my wallet.

  “Well, it looks like someone has applied for a credit line in your name,” Christy said. “I’m glad we were able to catch this. The amount is unusually large.”

  “How large would that be?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  Chapter TWO

  ––––––––

  “It’s one of those things you think will never happen to you,” I said. “I still can’t believe it. I’m just glad they caught the problem. Do you know how long it would’ve taken to clear my credit?”

  “Mmm-mmm,” Jamila murmured, about the best she could manage with a spicy meatball hors d’oeuvre in her mouth.

  I had a ginger ale in one hand and a small plate loaded with shrimp and little quiches in the other. This left me with no hands to eat either the shrimp or the quiches. I set my drink on a handy table, hoping that none of the waiters patrolling the banquet room would scoop it up when I wasn’t looking.

  Close to a hundred people had shown for the mixer, which surprised the hell out of me. The bar association doesn’t usually schedule events during the summer. The theory, I guess, is that most people take summer vacations. It was a sad commentary on our profession that we were there.

  “So I’m finally checking my credit history,” I said. “They say you should do it every year. I’ve always found a reason to put it off until now. Hopefully, the jerk hasn’t applied for ten more credit cards with my information.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I almost didn’t come. I don’t want to see any of these people. Present company excepted, of course.”

  Jamila gestured with her Diet Coke. “Roger’s trashed.” She referred to the partner she worked for at Haskins & O’Connell, one of the biggest firms in the county.

  I looked across the room at Roger. He was smiling, talking amiably to some guy in a nine-hundred-dollar suit, and looking as dull as ever. “How the hell can you tell?”

  “Cause he keeps licking his lips.” Jamila straightened and did another quick survey of the room. “You see any judges? There are supposed to be some judges at this damn thing.”

  “I don’t know. I just came for the free food.”

  Jamila smiled and continued to look around. As usual, she was dressed to the nines. Her dusky brown complexion was a perfect complement to her tan suit, and she’d applied her makeup with surgical precision. She aspired to partnership at H&O and, eventually, a judgeship with the Circuit Court for Prince George’s County. Maybe even the federal court in Greenbelt.

  In P.G. County, a Washington, D.C., suburban area with a majority black population, her appointment to such a position was a distinct possibility if she kept her nose clean and went to the right parties. Jamila had been a good friend of mine since law school, but with any luck, nobody would hold that against her.

  “I’m sorry about your problem,” she said. “Can you believe, the same thing happened to one of my clients? Only no one caught it, and he’s in the hole twe
nty thousand dollars.”

  “Damn.”

  “He was supposed to close on some property next month. Now the lender’s trying to back out. We’re hoping to fix things before the closing date, but you know what our chances are of doing that?”

  “Pretty slim.”

  “We may have to put off the closing,” Jamila said. “Or even cancel it. All because of some little shit who ... I’m sorry. I don’t mean to go on about my problems. We were talking about you.”

  “It’s OK.” I reached for my drink, but it had been spirited away. “What gets me is, I’m so careful. I tear up my junk mail. I never give out my social security number to strangers. I rarely buy anything on the Internet. But that’s not enough anymore.”

  Jamila said something about recent criminal laws against identify theft that got drowned out by guffaws.

  “Don’t you have to find people before you can prosecute them?” I asked, raising my voice above the din.

  “That’s what I’m saying. We had to hire a private investigator. Reed Duvall. Ever hear of him?”

  I shook my head. “Most of my clients can’t afford me, let alone a detective.”

  “He’s supposed to be good. A little unconventional, but they say he gets the job done.”

  “I wonder if he could find my missing client.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The police are looking for this woman I represented in a domestic violence hearing. We were going to go back to court to enforce the order. Now, her ex is dead and the police can’t find her.”

  “Oh.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Hey, it’s innocent until proven guilty, remember?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  I filled Jamila in on what the cops told me, leaving Melanie’s name out of it.

  “The FBI,” she said. “Shit.”

  “The whole thing looks weird as hell, no question. Thing is, I have no duty to do anything. I don’t have to find her.”

  “If she shows up, tell her to go to the cops,” Jamila said.