Identity Crisis

by Debbi Mack

  “What they did to you,” I said. “That’s what it comes down to. You wanted revenge.”

  Rhonda froze me with her stare. In the dark, her pupils were huge, her eyes glassy. “You make it sound so fucking simple. The legal system’s a joke. The school paid my family off years ago, but I get to live with this.” She placed a hand against her scarred cheek. “Well, it wasn’t enough. So I created my own form of justice.”

  “If everyone did that, we’d have anarchy.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand.” She scowled in disapproval. “What do you know? You little fucking Girl Scout. You’ll take money to be a mouthpiece, but what do you really do that solves problems? I took steps.” Spit flew from her mouth. “I solved the problem.”

  She turned away. “We’ll have to kill her,” she said to Skip.

  “No,” he replied.

  Rhonda started to say something, but stopped short, her eyes wide. Skip was pointing the gun at her.

  “I’ve been trying to protect you, but I was wrong.” He looked calm, his voice even.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  Rhonda’s face was wild with fear or madness—it was hard to tell which. “We rid the world of evil. They were evil.”

  “You’re sick,” Skip said. “I realize that now. I should never have told you about them. I should have let it drop. What’s done is done, but I can’t let this go any farther. You need to be stopped.” He cocked the gun.

  Rhonda cowered, her eyes gleaming, saliva dribbling from her open mouth.

  “Wait!” I yelled. I didn’t trust myself to grab the gun. The slightest movement and it could go off, and Rhonda would probably catch the bullet. “Don’t do it. Maybe you had your reasons for protecting Rhonda. But don’t do this. You’re not a killer.”

  Skip stood there a moment, then lowered the gun. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t. I—”

  A brief blast of siren broke the night’s stillness. Police cars, which must have approached silently, were suddenly upon us, blue and red lights flashing.

  As the door on one car flew open, Skip abruptly brought the gun up, pointed it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. I averted my eyes just before the blast, feeling sick to my stomach.

  Rhonda wailed, a guttural cry like a wounded animal, and threw herself at the body. A burnt gunpowder smell infused the air. I kept my face turned away, listening to Rhonda sobbing and babbling. I felt wet, a little chilly even. I thought I was breaking out in a sweat, until I realized it was raining.

  Someone touched my arm. I jumped.

  “Hey, hey.” It was Duvall. He kept his hand on my arm. “Take it easy.”

  I released a sigh. “Oh, God.”

  “When I got your message, I decided to call in reinforcements,” he said. “I got in touch with my friend in the department, asked him to have everyone come in silently. I didn’t know what we’d find, but I wondered if he might be here.” He inclined his head toward Skip’s body. “He was Rhonda’s half-brother.”

  Chapter THIRTY-TWO

  ––––––––

  “The bank,” Duvall said. “When you told me about what you found in the office, I got to thinking—what about the cameras? Whoever came in would show up on the bank’s cameras.

  “It took a while to pinpoint exactly when it happened and who handled the transaction, so we could narrow down which tapes to review. Right away, I recognized him. Himmelfarb is a distinctive name, so it wasn’t hard to find a relative—an aunt, up in Towson. She explained the whole thing to me. Rhonda’s mother was seeing Skip’s father. She got pregnant with Rhonda, but I guess she knew the dad would never leave his family, so she went it alone. The dad kept seeing her, and life went on.

  “Skip found out when he followed his dad one day. According to the aunt, their relationship was never the same after that. He shunned his father, not only for having the affair, but for not telling him he had a sister. Skip and Rhonda became friendly. The aunt thinks Skip felt guilty, because he got to live in a nice house with a regular family, while Rhonda and her mom got the short end of the stick.”

  I nodded. The rain fell harder now. The squad cars’ blue and red flashing lights swept across the apartment buildings in a psychedelic clash. A few feet away from me, Skip lay on the ground, half his brain missing, turning cold and white as codfish. Cops had Rhonda by the elbows, leading her from the scene.

  Duvall opened an umbrella and stood close enough to shelter us both. “After the accident, Rhonda dropped out of school. The whole thing screwed her up. She had therapy for a while, but her mom couldn’t afford to keep that going. Skip’s dad tried to help, but he couldn’t get too involved—not without blowing things at home.

  “Skip finally told his mom about it. That pretty much tore the family apart. He told his aunt he’d never talk to his dad again as long as he lived. Last she heard, Skip was going to get a job and try to help Rhonda out the best he could.”

  “Sounds like he was trying to be the father Rhonda never had,” I said.

  “I’d say so.”

  “I wonder how they ended up at Aces High.”

  “When I first spoke to Rhonda, she let it slip that she’d heard about the job from an employee,” Duvall said. “Skip must have been working there. When he saw Schaeffer and Knudsen and realized who they were, he probably told Rhonda. Skip was always keeping his eyes and ears open, so he might have overheard them talking about the scam they were pulling and seen an opportunity to take revenge.”

  “Or maybe Rhonda came up with the plan,” I said. “Either way, I don’t think murder was supposed to be part of it. But from what Rhonda told me, once she pulled the trigger on Knudsen, I think she was ready to do it again to Schaeffer.”

  Duvall shook his head. “I guess Skip felt so guilty, he was willing to protect Rhonda at his own risk. Maybe he saw those guys as being like his dad—screwing Rhonda over and getting away with it.”

  “It must have been awful for him,” I said. “Wanting to protect Rhonda, but not wanting to be party to murder.” I shivered.

  “You know,” Duvall said, the beginning of a wry smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  I smiled. “How ’bout a nice, hot cup of coffee?”

  Duvall nodded. “If that’s the drink you want, that’s what you get.” He put a hand on my arm. “Let’s go. I’ve got more to tell you. About Tom Garvey.”

  φ φ φ

  Ray came by after work the next day. He even called first.

  “Dinner’s on me,” he said. “It’s the least I can do. And you deserve to celebrate, now that they’re dropping the charges against your client.”

  I knew that wasn’t the only reason we were doing this, but I said, “Damn straight. You owe me, Mardovich.”

  So we had dinner together, like other nights—except I knew it was our last. At least, our last as lovers.

  He took me back to my place.

  I invited him in and we sat on the sofa together, holding hands. I knew what I had to do, but the words wouldn’t come at first. Finally, I opened my mouth and forced myself to say it. “I ... I can’t do this anymore, you know that.”

  He nodded. He kept running his thumb over the fingers of one of my hands, studying them, as if for a test.

  “I guess it hasn’t been easy for you.”

  “It hurts. When you have to be with them, it hurts. When I couldn’t reach you, that hurt, too. I thought I could handle it. I knew it was just for fun.” I paused. I could feel my eyes getting wet and blinked to keep the tears at bay. When I trusted myself to speak again, I said, “But it can’t be anything ... more. We’ll never ... be able to celebrate our birthdays together or take trips together or ...”

  I had to stop again. While I was gathering my wits, he said, “I know. I think of you. I know you must get lonely. I feel bad about that.”

  “And it’s not your fault you can’t be with me,” I said. “You have a wife and kids.” I though
t about Skip and his father and how disappointed Skip’s mother must have been when she found out. His cheating on her all those years, having a child by another mother—it must have felt like her world had fallen apart.

  “So, there’s more than just us to think about,” I continued. “And you love Helen, right?”

  He didn’t say anything. He continued to stroke my fingers with his thumb.

  I heaved a sigh. “So ...”

  He nodded. Finally, he looked at me. His face was a mask, but his eyes were sad.

  “I should go.”

  “OK.”

  I didn’t draw back when he moved in to kiss me for the last time. When we finally pulled apart, he ran his fingers through my hair. Through some tacit understanding, we rose in unison, hand-in-hand, and walked to the door, our hands linked.

  Outside, he paused. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

  I managed a smile. “See ya.”

  Our hands slid apart as he walked away. I returned to the sofa, sat in the same place, and stared at the empty spot where he’d been. I must have done that for ten minutes before I allowed myself to cry.

  φ φ φ

  Melanie, Donna, and I celebrated a few days later. Donna insisted on paying. We went to a French restaurant and ordered champagne. I tried escargot for the first time. And frog legs. They really do taste like chicken.

  After dinner, we considered whether to have cherries jubilee for dessert or another bottle of champagne.

  “Whoo!” Melanie flapped a hand in front of her flushed face. “I’m feeling that first bottle still. But what the heck, if you guys want more—” She fell back in her seat and giggled like a kid.

  “Well,” I said. “After-dinner coffee might be preferable.”

  “Oh, listen to you,” Donna said, her eyes bright. “Such a responsible adult. How about cognac and coffee? Or Irish coffee?”

  “You think they serve Irish coffee in a French restaurant?” Melanie’s face scrunched into a mock-thoughtful expression.

  “I’ve never had cognac,” I said.

  Donna’s eyes widened. “Cognac it is.”

  “And coffee,” I said. “If it’s OK with the guest of honor?”

  I looked at Melanie. She grinned back. It was the first time I’d seen her look really happy.

  “Whatever you guys want is OK with me,” Donna said. “I’m just glad the bank is settling, and we can forget about all this.”

  “And I’m glad I have my job and my life back.” Melanie sighed. “I have one more year to go at Maryland, and I can move on and do something.”

  I had something to celebrate, too. My credit report had come out clean. I guess Tom died before he had a chance to fully exploit my personal info.

  Melanie looked at Donna. “I’ve made so many mistakes. And you’ve been good enough to help me out. I won’t let you down again.”

  Donna shook her head. “You didn’t let me down.”

  “Well, before we do anything else,” Melanie said, standing up with a slight wobble. “I’m going to find the ladies room. Excuse me.”

  Donna watched as she ambled off. “I’m so glad it worked out,” she said. She looked at me and added, “Thanks, Sam. Thanks for everything.”

  “Donna, there’s something I’m curious about.”

  “What’s that?”

  I paused. “Back when Melanie was arrested, I was told that she had a record for shoplifting. I wondered how she could get a job with a bank?”

  “I helped her, but she deserved a break. I knew she could be trusted, so I approved the hire.”

  “Do you do background checks on all the hires?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you did a background check on Tom Garvey, what did you find?”

  “The usual things.” She began smoothing the unwrinkled tablecloth. “What do you mean?”

  “Was there anything peculiar?”

  She shrugged. “Uh ... no. I mean, he didn’t have a record and that’s mainly—”

  “Did you notice he was seventy-six years old?”

  Donna stopped working the cloth. Her shoulders slumped. Slowly, her gaze drifted up to meet mine.

  “A private investigator, working in that civil case against Melanie,” I said, answering her unstated question. “He found out Knudsen got the information he needed to assume Tom Garvey’s identity from his death record. Maybe he was in a rush or maybe he just didn’t think about using someone closer to his age.”

  Donna leaned back and watched a bus boy clean a nearby table. She looked like she’d rather be doing that. “I have no excuses. I could tell you I was busy, that there was pressure on me to bring our system up to speed. It doesn’t matter. I should have been more careful, but I didn’t even look at his age. Such a simple thing, and I overlooked it.”

  “You approved his hiring?”

  She nodded, a lifeless, puppet-like movement. “God.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “If I had only been more careful, the whole thing wouldn’t have happened. He wouldn’t have gotten into our system, he wouldn’t have met Melanie, and she’d never have gone through all this.” Her voice cracked on the last words.

  “That’s why you wanted to pay for Melanie’s representation,” I said. “You felt responsible.”

  “I’ve always cared about Melanie. More so since she and her parents ... I didn’t realize my mistake until after the bank was sued. When I went back and checked more thoroughly, I couldn’t believe what I’d done.”

  Donna put her hand on my wrist. “Please, just don’t tell her, Sam. Don’t tell her how I was the one who screwed up. It’s bad enough I could have lost my job, but ... I don’t want to lose her.” Her eyes were bright with tears. “She’s like a daughter to me.”

  I patted her hand. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Duvall had also said he wouldn’t say anything. Leave well enough alone, I thought. Knudsen and Schaeffer were dead, their killer caught. I had served my client well and, in its own way, justice had been done. Leave well enough alone.

  Melanie came back, still swaying a bit. “Uhh,” she said, plopping into her chair. “You know, guys, maybe we should get dessert and coffee. That champagne ... hey, Donna, what’s wrong?”

  Donna, who was wiping her eyes, smiled at Melanie. “Nothing at all. I was just telling Sam how happy I am that it’s over. I’m so happy for you.”

  Melanie touched Donna’s arm. “That’s sweet. Thanks.” To me, she said, “And thanks to you—again.”

  I inclined my head. “You’re welcome.”

  We ordered dessert.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ––––––––

  I would like to thank Pat Altner, Jack Bludis, Carla Buckley, Carolyn Males, Ellen Rawlings, Louise Titchener, and other writers and friends who provided helpful suggestions and encouragement along the way. My thanks to Rennie Hiltz for providing details on medical treatment for internal bleeding. My thanks also to Brian McKenna for providing so many details about strip clubs—stuff I never would have known just by walking into one—and doing such a wonderful job on the original cover art. Thanks also to Kit Foster for his additional work on the cover since the novel became a New York Times ebook bestseller. Any errors or omissions on these subjects are my own. And extra special thanks go to Marcia Talley and my other good friends in the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime, as well as to publications specialist Laurie Cullen, without whose help I might never have gotten this edition published.

  Finally, while this story takes place in real geographic areas and some settings are real, most of them are fictionalized. Any resemblance between a fictionalized place and a similar real one is completely accidental.

  SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No one gets anywhere in life without help from others. I’ve always felt lucky to have such a wonderful husband, family, and friends. I’m starting to think that, rather than just being lucky, we choose wisely, and that makes all the difference.

  When first I decided to
self-publish this book, I never intended to make a living as a self-published author. Things have changed, and now it’s possible for almost anyone to do so. However, if you intend to write quality books and establish a real readership, this requires taking the time and effort to produce and market one’s books, as well as establish oneself as an author.

  I’d like to thank the following people for having faith in me and providing the financial support needed to publish this edition of the book: Ned Adams, Mac Cassity, Debra Hoover-McDonald, Rick Iacangelo on behalf of Mary Louise Iacangelo, Jeanette Lombardi, Nancy Mack for herself and on behalf of Joyce Mack, Karen McQuestion, Julie Simpson, and Kris van der Sande.

  I’d like to add very special acknowledgments for Paul Downie and Trevor Veail. To actually find readers in another country and meet them has been a highlight of my writing career.

  I’d also like to thank Beverlee Smith and Connie Gisone from my Street Team of readers for leaving their honest reviews of the book.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Debbi Mack has published three other novels in the Sam McRae mystery series: Least Wanted, Riptide and Deep Six. She’s also published a young adult novel, Invisible Me, and a thriller, The Planck Factor. Debbi has also had several short stories published in various anthologies and been nominated for a Derringer Award.

  A former attorney, Debbi has also worked as a journalist, reference librarian, and freelance writer/researcher. She’s currently working on a new series of novellas, the first of which has the working title Damaged Goods. Along with writing crime fiction, Debbi is branching out into screenplay writing, writing in other genres, and contemplating other projects. Her website is debbimack.com.

  Thank you for choosing to buy this book. If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll do me the favor of leaving a short review on your favorite book retailer’s site. Nothing makes an author’s day like knowing they’ve made a reader happy.

  I also hope you’ll consider trying another one of my books. I’ve listed them below.

  The Sam McRae Mystery Series