Identity Crisis

by Debbi Mack

  “Struck out, huh?”

  “Guess so. You wouldn’t know where he is this time, would you?”

  “Saturday night? Probably working. He’ll be off tomorrow though.”

  I smiled. “You seem to know his schedule pretty well.”

  “That I do. Like to keep tabs on what goes on. Pays to keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I guess the cops have been pretty grateful for your help. On the murder, that is.”

  “Cops?” He looked disgusted. “Who said anything about cops?”

  “You didn’t tell the cops you saw a woman here the weekend the murder took place?”

  “Hell, no. I never talk to cops. See, it also pays to never get involved.” He laughed, in a dry, breathy rasp. “I didn’t say nothing about his lady callers that weekend.”

  “Lady callers?”

  “You know.” He winked in a way that made me want to take a hot shower. “Roommate’s out of town. He has a few ladies over. Different times. Everyone’s happy.”

  “Sure. Did one of the ladies have brown hair? Come by in the middle of the day on Saturday?”

  He looked wary. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “Lawyer.” I found one of my cards and gave it to him. “I represent the lady with brown hair. Cops think she killed the guy.”

  “No.” He looked shocked. “I remember her plain as day. I heard them talking when she left. They was jawing for a while. She was kinda upset about something.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Positive. Saw him through the peephole.”

  “You said he had another visitor? A lady?”

  “Two, I think. They came by real late.”

  “Two ladies?”

  “Well, sure.” He issued another high, thin laugh. “You know. Double your fun.” He gave me that wink again. I wanted to rub myself down with Clorox.

  “What did they look like?”

  He licked his lips. “Well, now, I didn’t actually see them. I heard one of them laughing. Just happened I was up. I get up three times a night to take a whiz.”

  More information than I needed. “When was this?”

  “It was that Saturday night. Sunday morning, really.”

  “And you never saw who it was?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. By the time I got to the peephole, they’d gone.”

  “So you couldn’t say for sure that it was two women?”

  “Well, I didn’t see ’em, but that laugh was kinda sexy, you ask me.”

  For all I knew, a high-pitched guy’s voice might give the old man a hard-on. “Did you notice any strange noises before they left?”

  “Before they left, I was asleep.”

  “Something woke you up?”

  “Told you. Got up to take a whiz, like usual.”

  I wondered. What if a gunshot next door had awakened him? A gunshot could sound like a car backfiring. Late at night, people would be asleep and wouldn’t necessarily hear. In this neighborhood, even if they heard gunshots and knew they were gunshots, they wouldn’t necessarily do anything about it.

  “Did he have any other visitors?”

  “Nah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I was here all day. Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks so much for talking to me,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  He smiled, shook his head, and closed the door.

  This put a new spin on things. Derry’s witness must be another neighbor. I had a witness who could testify that Garvey was alive when Melanie left him.

  I went down to the mailboxes. The one for the old man’s apartment was marked with a skull decal. Cute. I know where you live, old man, I thought. I would tell Derry and Ray about him. I’d subpoena his ass, if necessary.

  I left the apartment complex and backtracked to the main road. I was thinking about whether to check for Bruce at Aces High, when I heard a squeal of tires behind me. A quick look in my rearview mirror brought me an unwelcome sight. It was Stavos’ Lincoln, picking up speed and heading for me.

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  ––––––––

  Don’t panic, I thought. Just the sight of the Lincoln made my hands shake. To steady them, I gripped the wheel. It was hard to keep my eyes focused on driving, and I had to remind myself to do that or I’d risk rear-ending someone.

  I resisted the urge to duck down a side street in a lame attempt to evade them. That’s probably what they wanted. Get me to a deserted spot, maybe force my car over to the side. Stick with the crowd. Look for a cop.

  If I found a cop, what would I say? Help me, officer, I’m being chased by the Mafia. He’d never believe it. Anyhow, there’s never a cop around when you need one, and today was no exception.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Only one car separated me from the Lincoln. The dark windows made it impossible to see who was driving, but I was willing to bet it was Scarface.

  A long line of cars passed in the middle lane. On impulse, I swerved into the line in a masterful feat of precision driving and rudeness.

  Almost immediately, the Lincoln flashed its turn signal. As it tried to move into my lane, horns honked and the car jerked back to the right. Eventually, it edged its way over, then moved to the extreme left lane and accelerated to catch up with me. It was doing a fine job, too. That was a car that got regular tune-ups.

  I waited until it was close, then ducked back into the right lane. Within seconds, my old spot closed up, putting a line of cars between me and the Lincoln.

  Up ahead, a light turned yellow. I hit the gas, determined to get through. So did the Lincoln’s driver. The line of cars between us broke apart.

  The Lincoln fell back, jockeying to get around the end of the line and fall in behind me again. If I stayed in the right lane, I’d eventually be dumped onto Route 1, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to get to the interstate. You could always find a state cop there, patrolling for speeders. At the first small break, I pulled into the middle lane again. This drew an exasperated look from the guy behind me. I couldn’t blame him.

  The Lincoln’s driver was starting to freak now, speeding up and slowing down, trying to figure out where he should be. I pictured Scarface pounding the wheel and calling me all kinds of names.

  The Lincoln found a break in the traffic and got behind me again. But a pickup pulled between me and the Lincoln. Good. These guys probably wouldn’t risk shooting strangers to get me. I figured the Mob was a bit more discreet than that. But if they got a clear shot, who knew what they’d do?

  Another light turned yellow ahead, a major intersection. Again, I went for it, barely making it through. The pickup slowed to stop. Scarface hit the horn. The Lincoln swerved and, at the last moment, shot around the pickup and blew the red light. Fortunately, no one had moved off the line. Red light runners are so common around here, most sane people wait a few seconds after the light turns green.

  Route 1 was ahead, which gave me two lights to get through—one for the northbound lanes, one for southbound, with a mini-block of developed median in between. If I could make it through those and a couple more, I could hit I-95, maybe even lose them.

  The light changed as I sped down the hill. Before reaching the intersection, I punched it. About halfway through, I could see the light turn red. I checked the Lincoln.

  Cars were inching forward as Scarface ran the light. The second light was yellow. I kept going. Then red. I went through anyway, with one open lane and something big coming. Christ, I thought, that was close. I glanced back.

  The Lincoln barreled on. Crossing traffic began to move. Scarface honked again as he blew another red light.

  I heard squealing tires, horns, then an explosive crash of metal hitting metal and shattering glass.

  I found a place to pull off the road and walked back. The intersection was a mess. Several people had stopped and a few were talking on cell phones. The 911 lines had to be burning up.

  A panel
truck had T-boned the Lincoln, sending it sideways into a phone pole. The car sat atilt, wedged between the truck and the pole with its left wheels off the ground, trapping whoever was in the front seat. I moved in for a better view, trying to stick with the crowd as much as possible. Even from a distance, I could smell hot oil and burnt rubber. The truck driver was slumped over the wheel.

  Within minutes, a fire truck, an ambulance, and a couple of cops were there. I hung back and watched the uniformed contingent moving with quick assurance through its paces. The cops set up flares and directed traffic. The rescue crew huddled around the vehicles. I waited and watched.

  By the time they pulled Scarface from the Lincoln, he had a bandaged head, wore a neck brace, and rode a backboard. He was unconscious. If there’s a God, I thought, let that bastard die.

  A cop was talking to people on the corner. Witnesses, presumably. As the only person in the immediate area who really knew what the hell had happened, I guessed it was time to tell my story.

  After talking to the cops, I went to the motel and got my things. I was willing to eat the cost of the room for that night, if necessary. Suddenly, the motel didn’t seem all that nice. I didn’t feel like spending the night in a room decorated by hospitality consultants. I wanted to go home and sleep in my own bed. I wanted to see my cat. Stavos had other things on his mind now. I didn’t think he’d bother with me, at least not anytime soon.

  I treated myself to dinner at my favorite Chinese restaurant—cashew chicken with fried rice and egg rolls. My fortune cookie read: You will inherit a large sum of money. I just hoped it would happen before this case killed me.

  φ φ φ

  The next morning, I lay half-awake in bed, mustering the effort to open my eyes when the phone rang. Blindly, I lunged over and picked it up.

  “Hello?” It was my first-word-of-the-morning voice, sounding unused as an old garden gate and just as rusty.

  “Sam?” It was Reed Duvall.

  “Hi.”

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Naw. You just caught me in the middle of sanding my throat.” I glanced at the clock radio. It was almost ten.

  “You must be some crack investigator,” I said. “’Cause I’m unlisted and I’ve never given you my number.”

  “Got it from Jamila.”

  “Ah, Jamila.”

  “I’ve been doing some research. Jamila said it was OK to share this new information.”

  “About what?”

  “Connie Ash.”

  “Connie Ash? And?”

  “And he’s part of the case now. Along with the IRS.”

  “IRS?” I was beginning to feel like a parrot. “Is this going somewhere?”

  “There’s more. Why don’t we meet somewhere?”

  “You couldn’t just tell me now?”

  “I could, but let’s meet. Feel like breakfast?”

  “I could go for some food.”

  “Silver Diner? In about an hour?”

  “Make it two, OK? I need a shower.”

  “Tell me you don’t take showers that long.”

  “I don’t. It’s going to take me an hour and a half to crowbar myself out of bed.”

  “Here’s an added incentive. I don’t know all the details, but it seems to involve tax fraud.”

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  ––––––––

  For the second time in two days, I had breakfast at a diner. This one was part of a chain. Like Frank’s, Silver Diner had tabletop jukeboxes and Formica-and-stainless-steel decor, but the help consisted more of college students on summer break than professional wait staff. It was one of those nouveau diners, where meatloaf and mashed potatoes shared space on the menu with mesquite and lime marinated grilled salmon.

  The line was out the door, so we snagged a couple of stools at the counter with its up-close view of the kitchen. Over the shelf where orders appeared for pickup, you could see a line of men in white, exchanging brief remarks in Spanish as they shoved more plates under the heat lamps. I inhaled the wonderful smell of bacon and eggs sizzling on the grill.

  After we got coffee, Duvall said, “Your friend Christof Stavos has been in an accident.”

  “I know.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

  I told him about my run-in with Stavos and associates. “I hope that wasn’t part of your big news.”

  “No, no, no. Just leading up to it. My PGPD connection told me about the accident, so I went to the hospital. Looked like a cops convention.”

  “I thought only Jergins was interested in Stavos.”

  A waiter scurried by with eggs over easy in one hand and creamed chipped beef on toast in the other. Some traditions die hard, even in a nouveau diner.

  “Well, they changed their minds or maybe they just wanted to keep an eye on Jergins. I don’t know, but everyone was there—the Secret Service, Derry ...”

  A waitress took our orders with a quick, practiced hand. She snapped the order form off the pad, pushed it across the shelf, then made a beeline to the coffeepots.

  “I tried to sit in on the interrogation,” Duvall said. “But someone spotted me, and they kicked me out.”

  “That wasn’t very hospitable.”

  “No. I didn’t miss much though. They took all of five minutes.”

  “Stavos probably insisted on having a lawyer present.”

  “That, plus the nurse insisted that they only take five minutes. From the looks of this nurse, I would have made it four-and-a-half.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know. You’re telling the story, and I still haven’t heard anything about Ash and the IRS.”

  “I’m getting there. I don’t know what they asked Stavos, but I know Jergins’ concern in this case is finding Gregory Knudsen. It has something to do with a disc Stavos is looking for.”

  “I know about the disc. Stavos thought Melanie or I might have it.”

  “Jergins wants it, too.”

  “And?”

  Duvall shot me a glance as he took a long sip of coffee. “And ... now the other cops are interested in Knudsen, too. Including the IRS.”

  “IRS agents were at the hospital?”

  Duvall nodded. “There was one in the room when they questioned Stavos. Along with Jergins, some other FBI agent, the Secret Service, and Derry.”

  “You’re sure he was an IRS agent?”

  “That’s what my friend says, and I have no reason to think he lied.”

  “What the hell would a tax collector be doing there?” I asked. “And what does Ash have to do with this?”

  “Some kind of screw-up with his contracting, I heard. Something about a 1099. My friend isn’t privy to all the info, but that’s the rumor.”

  “Maybe it’s not important to the investigation, if your friend doesn’t know for sure.”

  “My friend isn’t a detective. He just passes along what he hears.”

  “Maybe your friend was misinformed.”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “A 1099 is an income reporting form. I’m trying to picture how this would pertain to a murder investigation.” I stopped, a thought forming. “Unless it relates to the identity theft case.”

  “Tax forms and identity. I can imagine a connection.”

  “But what is it?”

  Our food came—a ham and cheddar omelet for me, a stack of pancakes for Duvall, with a side order of bacon to share. The waitress topped off our coffee.

  Duvall picked up his cup and blew at the steam. “A lot of people who work at strip clubs are contractors.”

  “But how many of them are old friends with Bruce Schaeffer?”

  “Garvey was a contractor,” he said.

  “Maybe this has something to do with the bookkeeping problems Rhonda Jacobi told me about. Maybe there was some kind of financial funny business going on and both Garvey and Schaeffer were involved.”

  “So where does Knudsen fit?”<
br />
  “He knew Schaeffer. Schaeffer and Knudsen were friends in high school.” I told him about my conversations with Bledsoe and Ferrengetti. “I don’t know, but that woman, Barbara Ferrengetti, was screaming at Schaeffer about money and how Schaeffer was trying to protect Garvey. She had his child. Knudsen’s child, that is.”

  “And Knudsen had mail coming to that P.O. Box.”

  “Right. And the key to the box was in Melanie’s place, where Garvey used to live.” I shook my head. “I just don’t know. I can’t keep it all straight.”

  “Schaeffer and Garvey and Knudsen.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Wonder why that letter was in the box.”

  “Maybe that’s where Knudsen sent the disc.”

  “But then the police should have found it.”

  I hesitated. “I guess.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There were two other guys in the car with Stavos,” Duvall said. “One of them was a rubber room candidate from the Bronx named Nicky Koutras. I say was because there’s no Nicky Koutras anymore. He and the other guy in the front seat bought it.”

  I felt myself exhale, my shoulders relaxing as if they’d been carrying a weight for the past couple of weeks. “Did this Nicky Koutras have a big scar on his face?”

  “Yeah,” Duvall said. “I thought you might like to know.”

  φ φ φ

  As we headed out to the parking lot, Duvall said, “So what’re you up to on this fine Sunday?”

  “I’m going to see Schaeffer. He won’t want to talk to me, but I’m past the point of caring. Maybe he knows something about Knudsen.”

  “Think he’s going to tell you, if he does?”

  “Probably not, but if I don’t try, I’ll never know.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Any particular reason?”

  “If he was involved in the identity thefts, I’d like to know, too. Which reminds me—” Duvall gestured for me to follow him to his car. “I wanted to give you one of these.” He opened the passenger door and retrieved a manila folder from which he pulled a piece of paper.

  “I managed to dig this up,” he said, handing it to me. “Thought it might come in handy, so I made a few copies.”