Identity Crisis

by Debbi Mack

  “Sure. But I keep wondering what the Mob has to do with this. And how is my client involved? If I don’t act, is she going to end up being another story on the eleven o’clock news?”

  Jamila’s glance darted toward the door. “Judge Ridgway just came in. We should say hello.”

  “Goody.”

  She shot me a look. “You’ve got to learn to work these people, sweetie.”

  I sighed. “I know. It’s such a friggin’ drag.”

  “And another thing. You can’t take responsibility for everything that happens to a client and stay sane in this business.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I knew it all too well. Still, I was concerned about Melanie. For one thing, I simply couldn’t picture her as a killer.

  φ φ φ

  I don’t like domestic violence cases, but for Melanie I made an exception. Maybe it helped that, like me, she was 36 and single. She was tall and slender with brown hair cut in a short bob. Her intelligence and forthrightness impressed me. She had an air of quiet resolve—no hysterics, no second-guessing about whether she was doing the right thing. She had everything you look for in a client—a rational and cooperative attitude plus the ability to pay. Not that the case brought in much money, but it never hurts when a client can pay.

  Getting the order hadn’t been difficult. Tom had been drunk and abusive. When he’d hit Melanie, there’d been a minor scuffle. She’d called the police, and they’d arrested Tom.

  Afterward, he’d moved in with a friend in Laurel. Things were fine for a while, then the phone calls started. He started coming by her apartment.

  She refused to talk to him. She hoped he would give up, but he wouldn’t.

  “I want him to leave me alone,” she said, staring out my office window at the brick storefronts of Laurel’s historic Main Street. She seemed anxious the last time I saw her. I tried to be reassuring. Unfortunately, getting the orders in these cases is one thing and getting the abusers to comply is something else.

  φ φ φ

  Later that afternoon, I tried to reach Melanie at home, without success. I didn’t have a cell phone number, so I tried First Bank of Laurel, where she worked as an assistant manager. Melanie wasn’t there. I asked for Donna Thurman, her boss. I had done some work for Donna before, and she’d given Melanie my name.

  Donna came on the line. “Yes?” she said, her vocal chords sounding as taut as piano wires.

  “Donna, it’s Sam McRae. Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Well ...”

  She sounded busy, so I got to the point. “Have you seen Melanie lately?”

  I thought I heard her gasp at the other end. Maybe it was just the phone line.

  “Sam,” she said, “I’m ... I’m in the middle of something. Can we meet at your office later?”

  “Sure.”

  Around four thirty, Donna came by. Somewhere in her sixties, she was a petite, silver-haired wonder with skin tanned to a carcinogenic brown from frequent sailing trips on the Chesapeake with her husband. Donna was the kind of person who, rather than soften with age, grew more angular. Instead of slowing down, she seemed to be picking up speed, as if her life were a game of Beat the Clock.

  She wore a short-sleeved yellow suit and, normally, would have looked terrific. However, when she came into the office, I could tell something was wrong. I’d never seen her so subdued and drawn. I wondered if she was sick.

  “Thank heavens it’s Friday,” she said, collapsing into a chair with a muted grunt. “Sam, I’m so worried about Melanie. She hasn’t been at work all week. She hasn’t called. It’s not like her. I even thought about filing a missing person’s report. Then the police came.”

  “I guess you don’t have any idea where she might be.”

  She shook her head.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “Last Friday, at work.”

  “Did you talk to her over the weekend?”

  “No.”

  “It’s frustrating, but there’s not much we can do at this point. I hope she shows up.”

  Donna hunched forward, her expression suggesting there was more on her mind. “That FBI agent. He said something about the Mob being involved. The whole thing is so bizarre—and scary. I’ve been trying to figure how to tell her parents.”

  “Her parents?”

  “I’ve known them for years. They moved to Arizona a while ago, but I keep in touch with them. I remember when Melanie was born.”

  “Could Melanie have gone there due to a family emergency?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she said, “but Melanie hasn’t spoken to her parents in years. Besides, I think I would have heard about it.”

  “What about brothers and sisters?”

  “Melanie’s an only child.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she decided to take a vacation or something.”

  “She wouldn’t do that without telling us.”

  “Well, you know her better than I do. I didn’t realize you were so close.”

  “I helped her get this job.” Donna looked sheepish. “To be honest, it’s a little embarrassing for me at work, what with her disappearing like this.”

  “I take it Melanie never mentioned any of the stuff the police asked about?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Did she ever talk about Tom?”

  “Not much, though I could tell they were having problems. You know, how it is. Sometimes, you can just tell. Now and then, she’d mention his drinking and his building debt. Tell you the truth,” she said, arching a knowing eyebrow, “I wasn’t all that surprised. The better I got to know him, the more I realized he was all surface, all charm.”

  I let her vent for a bit about Tom. She hadn’t approved of his moving in with Melanie, and the fact that it hadn’t worked out didn’t help matters. I still wasn’t sure why she’d wanted to meet me, but Donna was a good client—a friend—so I let her take her time getting to the real reason for her visit.

  Donna shifted restlessly. “I’d like to ask a favor.”

  “Yes?”

  “I ran by Melanie’s apartment yesterday. Her car was there, but she didn’t answer my knock. After what the police said, I started wondering ... what if she couldn’t get to the door? What if she was passed out ... or worse?”

  I’d also wondered if Melanie might be dead, but I hadn’t wanted to bring it up. “I guess we can’t rule that out, but don’t jump to conclusions. It’s possible she wasn’t home.”

  “But what about her car?”

  “She could have taken a cab or a bus.”

  “Maybe she saw me through the peephole and didn’t answer the door.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  She hesitated. “Probably ashamed to talk to me. Since things fell apart with Tom ... well, we haven’t spoken to each other much.” She paused, then asked, “Could you run by her place and check on her? It’s not far from here.”

  I nodded. “Sure. I don’t know if I’ll have any more luck, but at least I can say I tried.”

  “I appreciate that, Sam.” Donna smiled, looking abashed. “I guess I must seem like a silly old woman. I know she’s grown and able to take care of herself. Maybe it’s because I never had kids of my own. She’s all alone, and I do almost consider her like a daughter.”

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s probably fine.” I hoped I was right.

  φ φ φ

  After work, I stopped at my place to feed Oscar, my fifteen-pound, black and white cat, and grabbed something to eat. Dinner was two pieces of toast with peanut butter and salad-in-a-bag. I’m not much of a cook, and it hardly seems worth it to dirty dishes just to feed myself. I finished the meal with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream straight from the carton. I rinsed the silverware and the plate and headed for Melanie’s place.

  My ’67 Mustang sputtered on the first turn of the ignition key and the second, then finally roared to life. It was an old relic, painted a Welch’s grape purple and in n
eed of a tune-up and a patch job on the muffler, which made noises that attracted curious glances from five hundred yards. It could probably have used a trip through the car wash, too. But it ran—noise, dirt, and all.

  Melanie lived in the Whiskey Bottom neighborhood of North Laurel, a collection of très suburban brick townhouses and apartments just across the county line. Maybe there’d been a lot of moonshining in that area at one time because the booze theme could be found on most of the street signs, which had names like Moonshine Hollow, Bourbon Street, Brandy Lane, and Barrelhouse Road.

  I found a space near the attractive three-story apartment building swathed in greenery and accented with beds of bright red begonias. Donna said Melanie had a red Geo with a crystal hanging from the rearview mirror. It was still there. The heat of the day radiated from the blacktop as I crossed the lot. The air was heavy with humidity, but four young teens—two girls and two boys—were outside, engaged in a bit of friendly competition, shooting hoops at a freestanding basket. Watching them made me sweat.

  Melanie had mail in her box. Not a lot, but maybe a couple of days’ worth. The building had an open foyer, and her apartment was one of four located on the second floor.

  I climbed the steps. No newspaper lay on the mat before her door. I heard a TV set, but couldn’t tell from where. I knocked and waited, then knocked again. No one answered.

  Just for kicks, I checked under the mat for a spare key and found one. What a lousy place for it. There aren’t many options for apartment dwellers, but I wouldn’t put my key under the mat.

  I picked it up, feeling a little odd about walking into someone’s apartment uninvited. But Melanie would thank me later if she was in there, dying on the floor. I used the key in the deadbolt, which unlocked with no problem. It also fit the knob. Turning it, I stepped inside.

  The door opened into a combined living room/dining area. Closed curtains made the place gloomy. Even so, I could see a chair turned onto its side and things strewn over the floor. Someone had ransacked the place.

  Chapter THREE

  ––––––––

  I stood at the door, looking and listening. The neighbor’s television continued to buzz in the background, but I didn’t hear anything else. Finally, I took a few tentative steps inside.

  At first, I thought it was the work of vandals. Her stereo and VCR lay on the floor, the housing on each ripped off. Same for the TV set.

  At the same time, everything looked too neat. The stuff on the floor wasn’t thrown about, but arranged in piles. A few videos here, books there—as if someone had cleared everything off to dust, then didn’t bother to put it back.

  I wondered if the cops could have done this. Assuming they’d gotten a search warrant, this seemed like overkill for them. Then I saw her CD collection.

  Someone had opened all the jewel cases and tossed them aside in a heap. I thought about what Agent Jergins said about Christof Stavos looking for a CD. The thought that the Mob could have been there made my stomach clench.

  I did a quick survey of the apartment. Every room was much the same. Dishes, pots, and pans were stacked on any available surface in the kitchen. The dressers and closet in the bedroom had been emptied, their contents heaped on the floor. Thankfully, I didn’t find Melanie dead or disabled. Of course, that wasn’t proof positive that she wasn’t.

  I checked each room again, more methodically this time, looking for something like a travel brochure, a credit card receipt, anything. In the kitchen, I picked through some stuff that looked like it came from a “junk” drawer—take-out menus, scissors, a bar napkin, rubber bands, and a small ball of string.

  I took a closer look at the napkin. It was from Aces High, a strip joint a few miles up Route 1. The logo was an Ace of Spades with a half-naked woman, eyes closed and lips parted in the throes of ecstasy, sprawled across it. Someone had written “Connie” and a phone number on it. A friend of Tom’s, I supposed. Apparently, drinking and debt weren’t his only vices. I wrote the name and number in a small notebook I carry.

  The bathroom didn’t offer much. The bedroom was a mess. I decided to assume for the sake of not taking all night that what I was looking for wasn’t in her clothing. Chances were it was on her dresser or in the wastepaper basket. I checked both and came up empty.

  A small, dark blue address book, with an envelope tucked inside like a bookmark, lay on the bedside table next to the phone. The envelope was unsealed. Inside was a receipt for a post office box and a key. The stamp indicated a College Park zip code. According to the paper, the renter was Stephanie A. McRae.

  I stared at the receipt, not quite believing what I saw. An ugly thought occurred—what if Melanie, pretending to be me, had rented the box. What if she’d applied for that credit line? How would she have gotten access to my personal information? Why would she do it?

  I knew one thing—I had to see what was in that box. This didn’t look good, but I didn’t want to draw any conclusions until then.

  The phone rang. Faintly, I heard the answering machine’s recorded message, a pause, and then tones. Realizing it must be Melanie, checking for messages, I snatched the phone up.

  “Hello? Hello?” I said. No response. Only charged silence, then the mechanical clicks and pops of disconnection.

  “Damn it,” I said. I hung up and tried *69, but it wouldn’t go through. So much for that.

  The phone was a cordless with caller ID built in. The last caller was Unknown. Helpful. I fiddled with the buttons and managed to find out that someone named Bruce Schaeffer called a couple of days ago. The name sounded familiar, and I made a note of it.

  I examined the address book again. It had occurred to me that Melanie might be staying with a friend or had told someone else where she was going. I flipped through it quickly. None of the names in it meant anything to me except Donna’s.

  If I took the address book, was I disturbing a crime scene? I didn’t know for sure that this was a crime scene. Finding Melanie might be as easy as making a few phone calls. And if I found her, I’d advise her to go to the police. So I was doing the police a favor by taking it. That’s what I told myself. I stowed the book in my purse, along with the envelope.

  I locked up behind me when I left and replaced the key under the mat. The early evening sky was a light bluish-gray haze. The humid air felt like warm Jell-O against my skin.

  It was after hours at the post office so first thing in the morning, I’d check the box. As I headed home, I remembered who Bruce Schaeffer was—Tom Garvey had moved in with him after Melanie kicked him out. He called a few days ago, after Tom died. Why would he call Melanie? Could they have started a relationship? Maybe after she broke up with Tom. Maybe before. Stranger things have happened.

  I pulled over and looked up Schaeffer’s address in Melanie’s file. He was a few minutes away. It was a long shot, but I could at least ask if he knew where Melanie was.

  φ φ φ

  Schaeffer lived in what was euphemistically known as “affordable” apartments, literally on the other side of the tracks. The look-alike buildings were brick boxes—16 units to a box—with shutterless windows as stark as lidless eyes. The lot was full, but I managed to find a space at the far end, near a Dumpster that smelled like something died in it. I parked, walked to his building, and clanked up the metal stairs.

  I heard the banging long before I reached the third floor—someone pounding on a door. The chances it was Schaeffer’s were only one in sixteen, but sure enough that’s where she was. With odds like those, I should have been playing the horses at Laurel Racetrack instead of looking for leads on a missing client.

  The woman was taking a break when I got there, leaning against Schaeffer’s door, her face twisted into a scowl. She was about my age, short and rail thin, wearing a halter top, cutoffs, and red plastic flip-flops with butterflies on them. Her light brown hair was pulled back, held loosely with one of those hair clips that look like something you’d use to seal a bag of potato chips. She gl
ared at me, as if I were to blame for her problems.

  “No one home?” I asked.

  “Oh, probably there is,” she said, in a dull voice. “Bastard isn’t answering.” She pounded the door again, several times. I was surprised her fist didn’t leave dents. Finally, she swore and flipped the bird at whoever might be inside.

  “I wouldn’t waste my time,” she said, and flounced off before I could think of a reply. After a few moments, I knocked on the door, more softly. Schaeffer might have been there, but not answering. In the mood the woman before me had been in, I wasn’t sure I blamed him.

  As I waited, the door to the adjoining apartment opened a crack. A red-faced, balding man in boxers and one of those ribbed tank tops reserved for guys over seventy peered at me with impassive, bloodshot eyes.

  “Hi,” he said. He had a breathy voice. The smell of alcohol and garlic wafted toward me.

  “Hello.”

  “Quite a scene.”

  “You noticed, huh?”

  “Been noticing lots of stuff. This place is turning into Grand Central Station. Dangerous, too. You know, just this week, they found a man shot to death in there.”

  So Tom died in the apartment. “How awful,” I said.

  He belched loudly. “You bet it is.”

  More alcohol and garlic. I tried not to breathe too deeply.

  He rambled on about our horrible society, and how no one is safe anymore. I smiled and nodded politely, and was about to excuse myself when he said, “You looking for Bruce? He’s probably working out.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Now, what was the name of that gym?”

  “Kent’s Gym. Right down 197.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Of course. Kent’s Gym. Thanks.”

  Creepy guy. I could feel him staring after me as I walked downstairs.

  The Mustang coughed to life with some encouraging gas pedal footwork on my part. I couldn’t make a left when I hit the main road, so I went right and maneuvered over quickly to pull a U-turn at the next median break.

  Behind me, someone honked his horn, long and loud. I looked back and saw a big, black car with dark windows trying to move to the left lane, holding up traffic in the process. I could picture a blue-haired lady or an old man in a hat hunched behind the wheel. I made the U-turn and noticed the black car did the same.