Identity Crisis

by Debbi Mack

  It was Gregory Knudsen’s old Maryland driver’s license. He was a real cutie, all right. Brown, wavy hair, cut full on top and long in the back. A 1980s-style mullet that would have been popular around the time the license expired. His face was a display of all-American features, a regular boy-next-door look, well-proportioned, with a broad, nonthreatening smile. The effect was disarming, even from a grainy, blown-up copy of a thumbnail-sized photo.

  “It’s old, but someone might recognize him,” Duvall said.

  “Thanks.” I kept examining the picture. There was something familiar about the face. Then I remembered Barbara Ferrengetti’s son. He looked almost exactly like his dad. A daily reminder of the past. That had to hurt Barbara.

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  ––––––––

  Duvall followed me in his car to Schaeffer’s place. I wondered if having Duvall with me would help or hurt. Would Schaeffer be less inclined to slam the door in the faces of two people who wanted to talk to him, or would he have twice as many reasons?

  As Duvall held the vestibule door for me, I said, “What would you think of starting off the questioning? Last time I spoke to him, he walked away. I think being Melanie’s attorney didn’t help me much.”

  “Don’t know if I’ll do much better, but I’m willing to try.”

  “You’re a guy. He’ll relate better to you.”

  “Sure, all us guys relate so well.”

  “Well, at least you’re not representing the woman he thinks killed his friend. Or so he says.”

  “True. I’ll start, and you jump in whenever you feel like it.”

  “Assuming he bothers to answer the door,” I said.

  To my surprise, Schaeffer did answer the door. His hair looked wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. I tried to get a peek into the place, to see if he had any fancy electronic gadgets like Barbara’s, but Schaeffer leaned into the doorway, blocking most of my view. From what little I saw, the apartment wouldn’t win any home decorating awards. If he had lots of money, he wasn’t spending it on furniture.

  Duvall introduced himself. “I think you’ve already met Ms. McRae.”

  Schaeffer’s glance slid my way. He pulled himself up to full height. “Yeah.”

  “We’re looking for someone you used to know,” Duvall said. “Gregory Knudsen.”

  “What about him?”

  “I said we’re looking for him.”

  “Well, he ain’t here.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, in a gruff voice. “Years ago.”

  “You haven’t seen or heard from him since he left Maryland?”

  Schaeffer directed a level gaze at Duvall. “No.”

  “Did Tom ever mention him?” I asked.

  “Why would he?” he said, without looking at me.

  “I just thought Tom might have mentioned something about him and a certain disc.”

  One corner of his lip curled in a condescending smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Really? Because I understand that Tom and Gregory were blackmailing the Mob.”

  “The police have the Mob guy in custody,” Duvall said. “We know Knudsen worked for him. We also know he was coming after your friend, Garvey. Apparently, there’s a disc involved. And you’re telling us you know nothing about that?”

  “Why not just admit it,” I said. “They knew each other. How?”

  Schaeffer looked uncertain. “I don’t know.”

  “So you’re admitting they knew each other, but you don’t know how?”

  “I never said that,” he said, raising his voice. “If they knew each other, I don’t know about it.”

  “You didn’t know Garvey in high school?”

  “No.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  Schaeffer worked his mouth. “On the job. He was a consultant where I work.”

  “At Aces High? You helped him get that job.” I shook my head. “My understanding is you’re old friends. When did you meet?”

  He glared at me, his face growing red. “What the hell does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if it matters that Knudsen’s been getting mail at a P.O. Box in College Park. I guess it means he must be back in Maryland.”

  “Goody for him.”

  “The cops found the box key in Melanie’s apartment,” I said.

  “So ask her about it.”

  “I did. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “What’d you think she’d say?”

  “But why should she know him?” I paused a beat. “On the other hand, we’ve established that Garvey and Knudsen knew each other. The cops want to find Knudsen, and they’ll probably want to talk to you about that.”

  Schaeffer looked haughty. “Fine. If the cops want me, they know where to find me.” He looked ready to close the door.

  “They might be interested in knowing about that list of social security numbers on your desk at work,” I said, in a desperate attempt to keep the conversation going. “And those statements from First Bank.”

  Schaeffer looked like he’d been punched in the gut. The color drained from his face. His jaw went slack, and he gasped. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Maybe Connie Ash could tell me more about them. His name was on the statements.”

  Schaeffer swallowed, trying to recover his composure. “You’re lying. No way. You’re lying.”

  “Your reaction suggests otherwise.”

  He drew himself up again, rebuilding his strength. “Fuck you. Fuck off.” He slammed the door.

  Duvall and I looked at each other. As we headed to the parking lot, he said, “Now, that’s one guilty son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah, but guilty of what? Of knowing Gregory Knudsen? Big deal.”

  “What about those papers? You saw the way he acted.”

  “Sure, but where are they now? We still have no proof he was involved.”

  “The bank keeps those records, too. At least they’ll have the bank statements.”

  “Schaeffer’s name wasn’t on them,” I said. “But Ash’s name was.”

  Duvall waited as I got in my car. The top was down, which was fine on a sunny, summer day except I wore shorts. As I slid in, the seat practically seared my bare thighs.

  “I’d been thinking Schaeffer and Garvey might have stolen information from Ash’s databases,” I said. “What if Ash were in on it? What if he used Schaeffer and Garvey to steal the money, then stole it from them?”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Those bank statements had Ash’s name on them. Maybe the money in those accounts is the money Schaeffer and Garvey stole.”

  “Motive?” Duvall asked.

  “I don’t know. He had tax problems. Maybe he needed to come up with ready cash.”

  “Why didn’t he put another name on the accounts? Having the accounts in the club’s name doesn’t hide the money very well.”

  “True, unless Schaeffer and Garvey didn’t know about those accounts,” I explained.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Duvall said. “Jamila may want to subpoena Ash’s bank records. Maybe depose Ash and Schaeffer.”

  “If she doesn’t, I will.” Tentatively, I leaned back against the hot seat. An asbestos seat cover would have come in handy.

  “Might be worth looking into Ash’s problems with the IRS,” Duvall said.

  “Might be.”

  “Of course, none of this will be necessary if the bank settles. They might do so to avoid the publicity of a trial.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that. I’d rather focus on the murder charge. Speaking of which, I also found out yesterday from one of Schaeffer’s neighbors that Tom Garvey was alive after Melanie saw him the weekend he died. He had other visitors very late Saturday night.”

  “Maybe this is your lucky weekend.”

  I started the car. “I hope so.”

  φ φ φ />
  I went home and called Melanie with the news about Stavos and Scarface. She was glad to hear she could move home.

  “Karen has a one-bedroom, and I’ve been using her sofa,” she said. “She’s been very nice about it.”

  “There’s more. Mostly good news, I think. You want to meet for dinner? We can celebrate your first night out of hiding.”

  “I could use a night out. OK.”

  We met at a Mexican restaurant in College Park, a mock adobe and tiled-floor simulation of a California mission and a popular hangout for the university crowd.

  I gave Melanie a quick update on what I’d learned over the weekend. After our margaritas arrived, I raised my glass. “Here’s to success in the future. When I clear you in this case, we can come back and really party.”

  Melanie lifted her glass with a whimsical look. “Here’s to getting blasted.” She took a drink, then added, “And forgetting about everything that’s gone before. God knows, I’ve made enough mistakes.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “We don’t all end up involved with criminals. Tom was good at keeping secrets. I never questioned the money he made at first. When the debts started to pile up, I wondered, but I guess I was blinded by some sort of hope he would work out.”

  “There are still a lot of unanswered questions. Like where is Gregory Knudsen and how does he fit in all this? You’re sure you never heard of him?”

  “Positive.”

  “He seems to have some connection to the Mob and the identity thefts. And supposedly, he knew Tom Garvey. He was supposed to have given him the disc.”

  “Tom didn’t say anything about that. He said he had the disc, but that’s all.”

  I pulled the photo Duvall gave me from my purse and unfolded it on the table. “This is a picture of Gregory Knudsen,” I said, pointing to it. “Have you ever seen him?”

  Melanie scrutinized the photo. “Huh.”

  “What is it?”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

  “Oh, my God.” Her voice was faint.

  “Do you know him?”

  “He’s younger and the hair is different, but that’s his face.” She pushed the paper toward me. “That’s Tom.”

  Chapter TWENTY-SIX

  ––––––––

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  “I’m positive.” Melanie looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  I realized then I’d never met Tom Garvey. He hadn’t shown up in court for the protective order hearing. I had no reason to recognize him.

  “If the cops are still looking for Knudsen, they must not know he’s dead,” I said.

  “But if he assumed another name, wouldn’t they find out?” Melanie asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If all his identification were in the name Tom Garvey, and Bruce identified him, why would they question it?”

  “What about relatives? Wouldn’t they need to notify someone?”

  “Duvall said he had no next of kin.”

  Melanie shook her head. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I better let Derry know,” I said, digging for my cell.

  I called Derry, Ray, and Reed Duvall. No one answered, so I left messages.

  Ferrengetti also had to know that Knudsen and Garvey were the same. When she spoke to Schaeffer at the gym, she’d acted upset that Garvey was dead. Why would she be upset that the man who got her pregnant and left her was dead? Maybe she still loved him—or maybe something else was going on. Something that involved money. And Schaeffer.

  You can change your name, I thought, but you can’t change your past. No matter how far you run, it always seems to catch up with you. Something had caught up with Gregory Knudsen, a.k.a. Tom Garvey. Maybe understanding that was the key to finding his killer.

  φ φ φ

  I slept in the next day and felt a lot better for it. It was going to take time for me to recover from my all-night escapade at Aces High, but I felt like I was three-quarters of the way there. I was supposed to relax, but I hadn’t had a relaxed moment since leaving the hospital. I couldn’t believe it had been less than a week.

  After breakfast, I looked over the notes from my various interviews. Rhonda had mentioned the books were weird. Could it have been for reasons other than Bruce’s bad bookkeeping? Assuming Ash was more involved with his businesses than everyone thought, he’d been lying to me. But why then would he put his own name on those bank accounts?

  I could press Rhonda for more details about Ash. It was too early for the club to be open, so I went online and found a listing for R. Jacobi. She lived in Laurel, not far from Bruce Schaeffer.

  I dialed the number and got a machine. Rhonda’s gravelly voice came over the line.

  “Hi. I can’t get to the phone right now ...”

  I tuned out the rest of the message. The beep brought me around, and I stammered out my name and “please call me,” or words to that effect.

  I hung up and replayed Rhonda’s recorded greeting in my head. It was the way she said “phone.” I hadn’t noticed before, but she had that Baltimore accent, same as Ferrengetti. Was it a coincidence she worked with Schaeffer and lived close to him? Lots of people from Baltimore move to Laurel. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  I couldn’t be sure about Jacobi, but I knew Ferrengetti lied to me. It was time to confront her. On the way, I could swing by the club, just in case Rhonda had gone in early.

  φ φ φ

  The place looked different. Could have been the cop cars in the parking lot and the crime scene tape strung everywhere.

  I banged on the door for a bit before Derry answered.

  “Hi,” I said. “There can’t be a good reason for this.” I waved my hand at the tape.

  “There very rarely is.” He arched an eyebrow. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “I was hoping to talk to one of the assistant managers if she’s here.”

  “She’s not, but someone else is. Bruce Schaeffer with half his head blown off. Looks like suicide.”

  “Oh.”

  “You understand why I can’t let you in.”

  “That’s just fine,” I said. I didn’t need to see Schaeffer’s brains on a wall. “God, I just spoke to him yesterday. He wasn’t happy to talk to me, but I wouldn’t have pegged him as suicidal.”

  “Obviously, it’s too early to say, but we’re finding some interesting things in here,” Derry said. “The gun he used is the same caliber used on Garvey. Or should I say Gregory Knudsen?”

  “You got my message.”

  “Yeah. Kind of supports the notion that Garvey—or Knudsen—was involved in identity theft. We also found boxes of files like the one in your client’s apartment.”

  I stared at him. “Really? What’s in them exactly?”

  “Don’t know. I’m handling the homicide part of this. Someone else will have to take a look after we bring them in.”

  “A lot of boxes?”

  “At least five or six so far.”

  I tried not to look as stunned as I felt. If those boxes had been there two nights ago, Duvall and I would have seen them.

  “Who found him?”

  “Custodian. In the office.”

  I shook my head. “Looks like there’s a job opening at Aces High.”

  “Mmm.” Derry’s mustache twitched in response.

  “Does Agent Jergins know about Knudsen yet?”

  “I left a message this morning. He’s not going to like it.” I swear Derry grinned.

  “What’s the deal with him, anyway? Why’s he so interested in Knudsen?”

  Derry paused, then shrugged, as if he couldn’t think of a good reason not to tell me. “Stavos and his minions were skimming money from the big bosses. Knudsen overheard them and recorded their conversations. He blackmailed Stavos, but had to hit the road when Stavos figured out who was doing it. He burned the conversations on a CD, which he must have brought with him to Maryland.”


  “And Knudsen changed his name to protect himself from Stavos,” I said.

  “Probably. Of course, try hiding from organized crime. It’s not all that easy to just disappear. I guess when the heat started to come down on Knudsen, he must have turned to the FBI. By that time, he’d changed his name. Jergins was assigned the case, but never had a chance to meet Garvey, or the man he thought of as Garvey, who was supposed to have a disc Knudsen gave him. When we didn’t find the disc at the murder scene, Jergins figured Knudsen had it.”

  “Why is Jergins so interested? Is the disc evidence in a prosecution?”

  “No. As I understand it, Jergins wanted to use the information to force Stavos to rat on the Mob.”

  “I see. Either cooperate with the feds, or they’d send the information to Stavos’ big boss.”

  “In which case, Mr. Stavos would become history,” Derry said.

  Cute. A blackmailer for greed turning evidence over to a blackmailer for justice. One had to admire the symmetry.

  After I left Aces High, I took another detour toward Gibson Island.

  With the wind ruffling my short hair, I raced down the road, singing a high-pitched tune over the roar of my car’s motor. The air was damp and close, and at sixty miles an hour, it slapped at me like a moist towel.

  I wondered about Ash. Could he have used Knudsen and Schaeffer to steal the money, then killed them? He could have planted those files to make them look guilty. But why would he set up Melanie?

  What about Ash’s tax problems? Maybe the situation with Garvey’s 1099 had something to do with him not really being Garvey. Maybe Ash was a victim here. If I asked him a few more questions, the worst he could do was tell me to pound sand. Well, maybe it wasn’t the worst he could do. Thing was, even though Ash struck me as indolent, rich, and irresponsible, I couldn’t imagine him killing anyone.

  A blue line of water appeared in the distance, with the Gibson Island guard station looming in the foreground. I was thinking up an excuse for the guard, when I noticed a silver Lexus racing off the island. Ash’s car. It flew by me in a silver blur.