Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 3

I stood at the door, looking and listening. The neighbor's television continued to buzz in the background, but I didn't hear anything else. Finally, I took a few tentative steps inside.

At first, I thought it was the work of vandals. Her stereo and VCR lay on the floor, the housing on each ripped off. Same for the TV set.

At the same time, everything looked too neat. The stuff on the floor wasn't thrown about, but arranged in piles. A few videos here, books there—as if someone had cleared everything off to dust, then didn't bother to put it back.

I wondered if the cops could have done this. Assuming they'd gotten a search warrant, this seemed like overkill for them. Then I saw her CD collection.

Someone had opened all the jewel cases and tossed them aside in a heap. I thought about what Agent Jergins said about Christof Stavos looking for a CD. The thought that the Mob could have been there made my stomach clench.

I did a quick survey of the apartment. Every room was much the same. Dishes, pots, and pans were stacked on any available surface in the kitchen. The dressers and closet in the bedroom had been emptied, their contents heaped on the floor. Thankfully, I didn't find Melanie dead or disabled. Of course, that wasn't proof positive that she wasn't.

I checked each room again, more methodically this time, looking for something like a travel brochure, a credit card receipt, anything. In the kitchen, I picked through some stuff that looked like it came from a "junk" drawer—take-out menus, scissors, a bar napkin, rubber bands, and a small ball of string.

I took a closer look at the napkin. It was from Aces High, a strip joint a few miles up Route 1. The logo was an Ace of Spades with a half-naked woman, eyes closed and lips parted in the throes of ecstasy, sprawled across it. Someone had written "Connie" and a phone number on it. A friend of Tom's, I supposed. Apparently, drinking and debt weren't his only vices. I wrote the name and number in a small notebook I carry.

The bathroom didn't offer much. The bedroom was a mess. I decided to assume for the sake of not taking all night that what I was looking for wasn't in her clothing. Chances were it was on her dresser or in the wastepaper basket. I checked both and came up empty.

A small, dark blue address book, with an envelope tucked inside like a bookmark, lay on the bedside table next to the phone. The envelope was unsealed. Inside was a receipt for a post office box and a key. The stamp indicated a College Park zip code. According to the paper, the renter was Stephanie A. McRae.

I stared at the receipt, not quite believing what I saw. An ugly thought occurred—what if Melanie, pretending to be me, had rented the box. What if she'd applied for that credit line? How would she have gotten access to my personal information? Why would she do it?

I knew one thing—I had to see what was in that box. This didn't look good, but I didn't want to draw any conclusions until then.

The phone rang. Faintly, I heard the answering machine's recorded message, a pause, and then tones. Realizing it must be Melanie, checking for messages, I snatched the phone up.

"Hello? Hello?" I said. No response. Only charged silence, then the mechanical clicks and pops of disconnection.

"Damn it," I said. I hung up and tried *69, but it wouldn't go through. So much for that.

The phone was a cordless with caller ID built in. The last caller was Unknown. Helpful. I fiddled with the buttons and managed to find out that someone named Bruce Schaeffer called a couple of days ago. The name sounded familiar, and I made a note of it.