Mack - Identity Crisis

Identity Crisis

Debbi Mack

2d revised edition

(including excerpts from the sequel

Least Wanted and The List by J.A. Konrath)

All Rights Reserved

Copyright 2009 Debbi Mack

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Debbi Mack, www.debbimack.com

Cover design 2009 by Brian McKenna

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my husband, Rick Iacangelo, who provided the unconditional support and encouragement that helped make it a reality.

This book is also dedicated to my father and fellow writer, Frank Andrew Mack, who never got to see the book, but always believed in me.

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 clubsstuff I never would have known just by walking into oneand doing such a wonderful job on the cover art. 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.

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

Ive never been a morning person, and if its one thing I dont need before my first cup of coffee, its a visit from the cops. But at eight forty-five on a Friday morning, two of them waited for me at my law office.

I shut the door on the steam heattypical July weather in Marylandand shook my sticky blouse loose. Seven years in practice had taught me many hard lessons. One of them should have been never to wear dry-cleanable blouses in the summer.

Sheila, the seventy-plus receptionist and secretary for the accounting firm where I sublet space, gave me a brief wave while answering the phone through her ever-present headset. Her long, bony fingers clacked away at the keyboard without skipping a beat.

Both men stood as I approached. I recognized Detective Martin Derry of the Prince Georges County police. I wondered what the homicide investigator wanted with me.

Good morning, I said.

Morning, Ms. McRae. Derry had light blue eyes, the color of lake water in January. I need to speak to you about one of your clients.

Derrys companion was tall and gangly, as if loosely constructed of mismatched bones. His frizzy reddish-blonde hair was short, making his head seem too small and his nose and ears too big. He peered at me with his head cocked to one side, like a pigeon.

Let me have five minutes, okay?

Derry nodded, and I trudged up the steps to my office. I didnt have any clients charged with homicide. Since Id left the public defenders office, most of my criminal clients were yuppies with first-time DWIs or habitual traffic offenders, so I was dying to find out what he wanted. Whatever it was, it could wait five more minutes.

I went through the daily routine of opening the Venetian blinds, turning down the thermostat on the ancient window unit, and booting my computer. I started a pot of dark roast coffee, placing my mug on the burner to catch it as it dripped out. When I felt ready, I invited them in.

They each did a cops visual sweep of my office before they sat down. No doubt, they were impressed by the plush furnishingsa used desk, two guest chairs, a metal filing cabinet, a small hutch for my supplies, and tables for my fax, copier, and Mr. Coffee, most of which Id bought at a state surplus outlet. My one indulgence was a new high-backed desk chair.

This is Special Agent Carl Jergins, FBI, Derry said.

Sam McRae, I said, extending my hand. Jergins worked my arm like a pump. FBI? I wondered what was up.

Derry sat stiffly upright. Dark-haired and mustached, he had a solemn, squarish face. In a charcoal gray suit, starched white shirt, and red tie, Derry was one of those people who manage to look dapper, no matter what. Wed met years before when Id defended the man accused of killing his fiance. Derry treated me with complete, almost excessive, professionalism. I tried to ignore the charged feeling in the air when he was around.

We understand you have a client named Melanie Hayes, Derry said.

I stared at him. Shes not... I couldnt finish the thought.

No. Its her ex, Tom Garvey. He was found shot to death.

Oh, my God.

We know you represented her in a domestic violence matter, Derry said, watching me closely as he spoke. You understand why we need to talk to her.

I nodded. When did this happen?

Over the weekend, Derry said.

Ill be present when you question her. It was not a request.

Derry bobbed his head in brief acknowledgment. When was the last time you spoke to Ms. Hayes?

Last Friday.

On the phone or in person?

In person. She came to the office.

And you havent spoken to her since?

No. Why?

Derry leaned back in his chair. He appeared to think about whether to answer the question.

Theres a problem, he said. She seems to have disappeared.

Disappeared?

She hasnt been home and hasnt shown up for work all week.

An angry sizzle interrupted my thoughts. The odor of burnt coffee filled the room. My cup was overflowing onto the hot plate.

Shit. I jumped up and exchanged the cup for a carafe. Coffee was everywhere. In haste, I ripped a couple of pages from a writing pad and daubed at the mess, grinning sheepishly at the cops.

Derrys mustache twitched into a brief grimace. Jergins stared.

Well, I have no idea where she could be, I said, swiping at drops that had landed on my blouse.

Both cops studied me, maybe waiting for more. I hate that. I sat down and drank my coffee. The air conditioner clicked and roared in the background.

Jergins cleared his throat, leaning forward. Ms. McRae, he said, in a gruff, rat-a-tat voice, its extremely important that we get in touch with Ms. Hayes as soon as possible. Her life may be at risk.

Why? And whats the FBIs interest in this? I looked directly at the bony fed.

Jergins nostrils flared as if he detected a bad smell. From the look in his beady eyes, youd have thought I was the source.

Has your client ever mentioned the name Gregory Knudsen?

No. Who is he?

What about Christof Stavos?

What about him? I asked, a little annoyed that hed ignored my question.

Have you heard that name? Ever?

Nope. Never ever.

Jergins did that pigeon move with his head again.

I resisted the urge to imitate him.

He said, Mr. Stavos is a sick and dangerous man. Its absolutely essential that Ms. Hayes get in touch with us as soon as possible. For her own safety, if nothing else.

Why? I asked. Who is he?

Wiseguy from New York.

The phone rang.

I decided to let the voice mail get it. Mafia? What would someone like that want with my client?

Jergins leaned back, allowing himself a dramatic pause. Did your client leave anything with you? A CD, maybe?

No.

And she never mentioned Knudsen?

Like I said, no.