Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 4

The front of Kent's Gym was a huge plate glass window with treadmills and cross-trainers lined up so the whole world could admire the sweaty backsides of everyone using them. The ambiance was chilly and loud, overrun with a post-work-hours crowd that was busy flexing and extending its way to better health on various weight machines. ESPN and MTV competed on two TV sets. In the free weights section, a radio played head-banging music, and a man doing bench presses grunted so loudly with each rep, you would have thought he was giving birth.

I had no idea what Schaeffer looked like, so I asked a young girl reading at the front desk whether he was there. "Wow, he's popular tonight," she said. She had short, spiky black hair and marble green eyes, which did a quick sweep around the room. "He was just here, talking to someone. They might have gone back to the exercise room."

"Okay if I take a look?"

"Sure," she said, like she was surprised I asked. She pointed me toward a hall off the main gym and delved again into her paperback.

I walked down the short hall, past some closed offices, toward the entrance to the dark exercise room. As I approached, a woman inside the room yelled, "You bastard!"

"Keep it down, would you?" A man. Casually, I leaned against the wall near the entrance, as if waiting for someone, then stole a quick peek inside. Three people were in there—two women and one man. One of the women glared at the man. The second woman watched them. It was hard to see their faces, since the only light came from a walk-in storage closet across the room. But I recognized Miss Anger Management in the halter top.

"You're lying," she said.

"Why would I lie about such a thing?" he said.

"He can't be dead. You son of a bitch. You're just trying to protect him."

"We're going to get kicked out if you don't shut the hell up."

In the gloom, I made out her expression in profile, a mixture of disbelief and rage. For a moment, she was still. Then she threw herself at the man, wailing and pounding his chest like an infant having a temper tantrum.

The man was tall and well-built. He seemed able to take it, but he was struggling to catch her flailing arms. The other woman kept taking hesitant steps toward them, then back.

The man finally got hold of each of her wrists. She tried to move them and screeched when she couldn't, then hurled a string of expletives at him that could have peeled paint from the walls. I kept expecting someone to come running to see what was going on, but I guess all the noise up front drowned it out.

Eventually, she stopped. She stood there, glaring at the man and sniffling.

He waited a few moments, then let go of her. "Don't ever do that again," he said.

"Men." She hurled the word at him like an accusation. "I hate you. All of you." She marched toward the door. I went back to leaning casually, and she stormed past without even a glance in my direction.

There was a quieter exchange I couldn't make out between the other two. After a few seconds, I went inside.

The man had close-cropped, dark hair, and a beefy triangle of torso, with broad, well-developed shoulders tapering down to a trim tummy and hips. He surveyed me with a puzzled, wary expression.

"Bruce Schaeffer?" I asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Sam McRae. Melanie Hayes' attorney."

He gave me a cold stare. "Well, that's nice. What the hell do you want?"

I sensed he would have been less polite if I'd been a guy. He had a round, boyish face, but he was no pushover. His arms were corded with muscle. His yellow T-shirt hugged tight, revealing a ripple of perfect abs.