Identity Crisis

by Debbi Mack

  “For what that’s worth.” He switched legs. “Frankly, I’d like to find out more about this Tom Garvey fellow.”

  “Join the club,” I said.

  “What about your client?”

  “She knows very little about him. He wasn’t the kind to talk about himself a lot.”

  Melanie had said Tom would never talk about his childhood or where he came from. He hardly spoke of work and, when he did, it was always in generalities.

  “What about the cops?” I said. “Don’t they have information on him?”

  “If they do, they’re not telling me. According to my source, they have no more information about the mysterious Mr. Garvey than I do.”

  “What about relatives? Friends?”

  “Garvey seems to have been short of both. Apparently, he had no next of kin. Strange since he was pretty young.”

  “I don’t have any next of kin,” I said.

  “No parents? No siblings?”

  “My parents died when I was a kid. An only child.”

  “Who raised you?”

  “A cousin. Couldn’t tell you where she lives now.” I knew Addie was out West somewhere, but her exact address seemed to change with the phases of the moon.

  He shot a curious glance my way. “Huh. Well, I need to start digging into Garvey’s past a bit. I’m a little curious about the Mob connection in this case, too, though I haven’t given it much attention. Doesn’t seem to pertain to the identity thefts.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “All I know is that FBI agent is bound and determined to find some guy named Gregory Knudsen.” Duvall snorted. “He seems to think Knudsen has the answers to all his questions, whatever they are.”

  “When I was at Melanie’s the first time, I found a key for a P.O. Box in my name,” I said. “And inside that box, there was a letter addressed to Gregory Knudsen. Could he have something to do with the identity thefts?”

  He shrugged. “For all we know, he could have killed Garvey.”

  “Garvey had some connection with Knudsen. I think Jergins said they were friends or something. I don’t suppose Jergins has dropped any subtle clues your way about what Knudsen might have to do with all this.”

  Duvall hooted with laughter. “Agent Jergins is about as subtle as a rhino in heat. And he doesn’t exactly share his innermost thoughts with me. He’s driving the detective nuts.”

  I smiled, feeling sorry for Derry who was the type to hold his frustrations inside. If he had a pet, I hoped he wasn’t kicking it every time he came home from work.

  “Last I heard, Jergins was trying to follow up on a lead in Baltimore,” Duvall continued. “Some guy named Ryan Bledsoe who went to school with Knudsen. I heard he didn’t get anywhere with him. All Jergins had to say was FBI, and Bledsoe told him to take a hike.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “I wonder if he does know something.”

  “You could always ask him,” Duvall said. “He lives in Rosedale, I think.”

  Duvall spelled out Bledsoe’s name, as I wrote it in my notebook. We both turned, reluctantly, back to the remaining boxes.

  “Let’s finish it,” I said.

  Chapter TWENTY

  ––––––––

  By about four thirty, we were done. Outside, the air felt warm and liquid, the heat of the previous day lingering. For exercise, we bypassed the shortcut and walked the dirt shoulder of Route 1 to the lot next door.

  The only sound in the predawn stillness was a robin, sending out its two-note singsong from a stand of trees in the cemetery across the street. Under a streetlight, an opossum, about the size of my cat, nibbled on the grass. As we drew closer, the possum froze on its back legs, in alert mode, then scampered off into some brush. Apparently, possums don’t always play possum.

  When we reached the cars, we paused before getting in. “Well,” Duvall said. “It’s been real.”

  “Yeah, sure has.”

  He peered at me. “You OK? You look beat.”

  “I’m fine.” I gave him my plucky can-do smile, but I was a little punchy from looking through all those boxes. My stomach gurgled.

  “OK.” Duvall hesitated. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

  “Take it easy.” I watched him unlock his car. “Hey, Duvall.”

  He looked up.

  “I never did thank you for your help. I couldn’t have gotten in the office without you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  We lingered a moment longer, then got in our cars and left.

  Normally hectic, Route 1 was quiet and empty now. I resisted the giddy urge to blast down the road, figuring a cop on the graveyard shift was probably lurking somewhere. The darkness seemed like a perfect complement to the dreary landscape, largely comprised of junkyards, industrial buildings, and strip shopping centers, with generic signs advertising beer/wine, deli, and dry cleaning. Now and then, a mom-and-pop budget motel from pre-interstate days could be seen, crouching in dark disuse amid the architectural clutter—crumbling anachronisms that seemed to exist only because no one had the energy to tear them down.

  Traffic picked up as I neared the I-95 interchange, particularly panel trucks and tractor-trailers making early morning deliveries, or heading for the Jessup truck stop. Then the lights of a twenty-four-hour diner beckoned and my stomach growled again. In the battle between fatigue and hunger, hunger won.

  Frank’s Diner was a traditional glass-and-steel affair, the kind of place where every booth has a jukebox, and the waitresses wear plain, starched uniform dresses and call you “hon” in the Baltimore tradition. The fluorescent lights created a surreal glare on the Formica tables and windows. The only sounds were the occasional clink of utensils on plates and the waitress talking to customers. I slid into a booth, checked the menu, and quickly settled on a waffle, bacon, two eggs over easy, an extra side of toast for dipping, and coffee.

  The place had four other customers. A jowly man with gray hair and slits for eyes, wearing a T-shirt and a red billed cap with a Chevy logo, sat in a corner booth and sucked down coffee like an emphysema patient taking hits of oxygen. No doubt driving the tractor-trailer parked outside. Two cops—one male, one female—shared a quiet conversation at the counter. I’d have expected them, but not the twenty-something guy dressed in “office casual,” tapping on his Palm Pilot. Maybe he was a salesman. Maybe he worked odd hours in an office. You never knew who would be in a diner during the wee hours of a Saturday morning or why. I doubt anybody would have guessed I’d just spent the night in a strip club.

  I sipped coffee and thought about what I’d learned. I knew Schaeffer and Garvey had to be part of the identity theft scheme. If only I’d found something concrete. I could have kicked myself for not stealing that list of social security numbers while I had the chance. Why was I so damned honest?

  My food arrived, and I dug in with gusto, polishing it off in record time. What about Knudsen? Why was Jergins so interested in him? Why wouldn’t Ryan Bledsoe, that guy in Baltimore, answer any questions? Maybe I’d have more luck. Some people don’t like talking to cops, plus Jergins had the social skills of a tree stump. Anyway, Bledsoe was the only lead I had left, other than the woman with no name at the gym.

  Dawn had broken by the time I got back to the motel. I undressed and fell into bed, not even brushing my teeth.

  For a long time, I lay there, staring at the inside of my eyelids. The coffee hadn’t been a good idea. I was wide awake-exhausted, the same thoughts dancing at the edge of my consciousness with the unwelcome sensation of a recurring bad dream. I’d open my eyes to see by the glowing red numerals of the motel clock radio that another ten minutes had crept by, then close them again. Just when I was starting to think it would never happen, sleep came.

  φ φ φ

  The phone rang. I ignored it until it stopped. I kept my eyes closed, willing myself to relax and drift back to sleep.

  The phone rang again. I opened my eyes. It was almo
st two. I remembered where I was and why I was there. I rolled over and snatched up the receiver. “What?”

  “Sam?” It was Melanie. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

  I grunted in reply.

  “Did you get my note?” she asked.

  “Note?”

  “I guess not, huh? I checked out this morning. I’m staying with my friend, Karen. Her address and phone are in the note.”

  I cleared my throat. My mouth tasted like tobacco-flavored scum.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You OK?”

  “Sure.” My voice was hoarse from secondhand smoke. “I was out late. Just tired.”

  “Did you go to the club?”

  “Yeah.” I saw no harm in sharing what I’d learned, though I figured I’d skip the little details about trespassing. “Found some interesting stuff. Aces High has accounts at First Bank of Laurel. It looks like money is going back and forth between the accounts for reasons that aren’t obvious to me.”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “I’m not sure what it means either. It’s not money laundering, because that involves hiding money under other names. Aces High and Connie Ash were named on all the accounts.”

  “So why move the money around at all?”

  “Got me. I also saw a list of social security numbers and thought I saw mine on it.”

  “Bizarre. Are you sure it was your number?”

  “I can’t be positive. I was kind of going through stuff on the desk while Rhonda was out, and she came back in the office before I could get a good look.”

  “Rhonda?”

  “You know her?”

  “Tom mentioned that name. I don’t think he liked her.”

  I could picture Rhonda being the type who could rub a person the wrong way.

  “I think I’ll head up to Baltimore today,” I said. “I’ve got a lead on Gregory Knudsen. Did Tom ever mention knowing anyone in Rosedale or anywhere in Baltimore?”

  “No.”

  After we hung up, I stretched and yawned. Outside, a maid’s cart rumbled by. Doors were opening and closing. The sun glared through a gap in the utilitarian floral drapes. For the first time, I got a good look at the room. Not fancy, but who cared? Hell, add a fridge and I could live here forever. The carpet might have a few stains, but the place got cleaned regularly—more often than I cleaned my apartment.

  I got up to use the bathroom and saw Melanie’s note. I felt a bit nervous for her. I hadn’t wanted to leave her locked up, but maybe she would have been safer in jail. Maybe—secretly—I was a little concerned about her trying to flee again. I wasn’t her keeper. If she wanted to run, she’d find a way. Stavos had me worried though. If he were willing to torture me to find Melanie, what would he do if he found her?

  I brushed the scum off my teeth and showered, then got dressed. My next move was to find Ryan Bledsoe, who was in Rosedale, wherever that was. Somewhere in the Baltimore suburbs. That’s all I knew. I had a Baltimore map at home. Better still, I could get directions off the Internet. But I wasn’t sure about going there. If I called Russell to ask whether he saw the Lincoln in the parking lot, he’d probably pepper me with questions and unwanted advice. He was a sweet man, but worse than a mother hen. I could go to the office, but Stavos had to know where that was, too. The office would be empty. The apartment building wouldn’t.

  I decided to risk a quick visit to my apartment.

  Half an hour later, I parked outside my building, scanning the lot once more. I didn’t waste any time getting out, locking the car, and making a beeline for the door. I was so intent on getting inside, I didn’t hear him behind me.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I must have jumped like a pro basketball player doing a layup. I swiveled round and saw Ray.

  “Christ Almighty.” My heart was trying to pound its way out of my chest.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Startle is hardly the word. Where’s your car?” Guess I’d been too busy looking for a certain other car to see it.

  “I’m parked farther down. Can we talk?”

  I nodded. Ray followed me upstairs. The morning paper lay before my door, looking unmolested. I kicked it inside and tossed my purse on a chair.

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I trudged into the kitchen and went through the motions. Normally, Oscar would be circling my feet, trolling for food. I missed the little asshole.

  Ray perched on one of the breakfast barstools, looking at me with astonishment. “At the risk of offending you, you look like hell.”

  “Mmm. Long night. So ... you came quite a ways to talk. You want something to eat?”

  “I can’t stay long. I told Helen I was bowling.”

  “Bowling? How very ... down to earth. An interesting excuse.”

  “Not completely out in left field. I’m in a league.”

  “Ah.” Another little factoid I’d never known about Ray. Things we never talked about, because we were so busy fucking.

  Ray paused to examine a salt shaker. “I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe you’re right. Maybe the case should be reassigned to someone else.”

  I looked at him. “But this case means a lot to you.”

  “You mean something, too.”

  Oh, please, I thought. I turned away, pretending to search for something in the cupboard. “I don’t know, Ray.”

  He didn’t say anything. I pulled out a jar of peanut butter and began making toast. I poured two cups of coffee. He took the one I offered him, looking solemn. I got out the milk and sugar.

  Ray poured milk into his coffee. “Were you with someone last night?” he asked, sounding tentative. “Is that why you were up late?”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not it. Look, we were always friends. My biggest fear was this would ruin our friendship.”

  His eyebrows drew together, as if he were trying to solve a complex math problem in his head. “It’s not just about sex, you know.”

  “Really? What else is there?”

  “We have a good time. At least, I thought we did.”

  I smiled, though I felt no great pleasure. “Yes, but ... something’s missing. I don’t feel like I know you.”

  “What’s there to know?”

  “Do we ever really talk about anything other than work?”

  He considered this. “I thought we did. What’s wrong with work?”

  “Nothing. It’s just ... I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like there’s this gap between us and I can’t cross it.”

  Ray nodded. He looked at me. “You’re not exactly easy to get to know either.”

  I thought about that. “I guess you’re right. I suppose we have that in common. Still, I didn’t know you bowled. What’s your average, anyway?”

  “One forty-five.”

  “That stinks.”

  He smiled. “Not in duckpins. It’s very high in duckpins.”

  “See, I didn’t know that.”

  We sipped our coffee.

  “Maybe this is silly,” I said. “But it bothers me that I don’t know what we are. Friends? Lovers?”

  “Both?”

  “Can we be both?”

  His eyes met mine, then looked away. Neither of us wanted to follow up on that thought. I ate my toast, sorry I’d mentioned anything, but glad it had finally come out.

  Ray glanced at his watch. “I guess I should go.” As he slid off the stool, he said, “Thanks for the coffee. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the case yet.”

  I ran my finger along the counter, picking up nonexistent dust. “Well, use your best judgment. Hell, it’s really not that great a case, is it?”

  “Murder and identity theft, with the local police and two federal agencies tripping over each other? Yeah, it’s a real delight.”

  I managed a genuine smile this time. “Maybe you can enlighten me on something.”
>
  “I’ll try.”

  “Two things, actually. What’s the connection between the Mob guy from New York and the case? I take it the murder wasn’t a Mafia hit. Is the Mob involved in the identity thefts?”

  Ray looked bemused. “Not as far as I know. The Mob guy is Jergins’ obsession, but no one else seems to care.”

  “Yet that guy he’s looking for—Knudsen—he has some connection to this, right?”

  “I guess so. Again, Jergins is the one you’d have to ask.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’d tell me,” I said. “The other thing is Bruce Schaeffer. He was out of town the weekend Garvey was killed, right?”

  “Right. His family says he was visiting.”

  “So they might lie for him.”

  “Other people corroborate his story, not just his family.”

  “And Melanie was the only one who saw Garvey that weekend?”

  “Well—” He looked at me.

  “Well, what?”

  “This is something I’ll have to give you anyway, so I’ll tell you. Hers were not the only fingerprints at the scene.”

  “Really?” Nice of the cops to leave that bit of information out. Cops have that nasty habit sometimes.

  “There was another set of prints, unidentified.”

  Fascinating. A mysterious visitor meeting the mysterious Mr. Garvey. Who could that be?

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  ––––––––

  After Ray left, I washed the dishes and looked up Ryan Bledsoe online. When I called, a woman I figured was his wife answered, sounding breathy and distracted. I explained who I was and what I wanted, and she told me Ryan wasn’t there.

  “Could I leave a message?” I asked. On the other end, I could hear a child babbling in the background and a baby squeal. I couldn’t tell if it was in joy or pain.

  “Well, sure, but you might want to call him at the dealership. See, we were supposed to go to the ocean today,” she said, giving the o in ocean the typical, Baltimorean emphasis, “’cept the dealership called him in unexpected. I’m trying to pack and all, so we can hit the road when he gets home. Kirsten? Kirsten, put that down.”