Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 5

Saturday morning is one of the few times I find driving on Route 1 bearable. No traffic to speak of, so there's plenty of room to maneuver around the potholes and bumps and scars in a road that hasn't been paved in God knows how long. Normally, Route 1 is like one of those driver ed movies—cars making sudden lane changes, darting out randomly from hidden entrances, left and right. That morning though, I cruised past the shopping centers of Beltsville, sailed right through the two sets of lights at Rhode Island Avenue, where traffic usually snarls, and breezed into College Park without even getting stuck behind a Metrobus.

I was up early because I'd awakened at four that morning with Ray on my mind for the first time in almost a month. I'd thought about him quite a bit during the month after we last saw each other. When I didn't hear from him, I decided I had a choice between driving myself crazy and not thinking about him. I chose the latter.

After an hour of alternately staring at the ceiling and the inside of my eyelids, I figured it was time to rise and shine, or at least rise. I showered, fed Oscar, scarfed down a bowl of Cheerios, and brewed a double-strength cup of dark roast to go. Then I grabbed the P.O. Box key and headed out.

The post office was on Calvert Road where it dead-ended at the railroad tracks. My route took me past the University of Maryland, my alma mater, a hilly green sweep of campus dotted with colonial brick buildings. Across Route 1 from the campus, the matching brick buildings of fraternities lined a horseshoe-shaped street. Calvert was a residential road that connected with the old U.S. highway in the nerve center of the college town where the bars were. They used to have lines out the door when you could drink beer at eighteen in Maryland. Now, the drinking age was twenty-one. Some of the bars closed, but the rest hung on, continuing to do a solid business with a still young-looking crowd.

I turned onto Calvert and, after countless stop signs, reached the post office. It was a few minutes before 10:00, so I listened to the car radio, tapping my fingers to the music on the wheel and feeling highly caffeinated blood coursing through my veins. At ten on the dot, they unlocked the front door and I went inside.

At the box, I paused before inserting the key and opening the little door.

Two letters were inside. Again, I hesitated before reaching for them. It's like I expected someone to run up and slap cuffs on me if I did. For checking my own P.O. Box that I didn't know I had, for God's sake.

Neither letter had my name on it. One was a piece of junk for "Boxholder." The other bore the name of Gregory Knudsen.

That guy the FBI man mentioned. What did he have to do with Tom and Melanie?

Maybe Knudsen was the identity thief. Could he have been working with Tom Garvey? Or Melanie? The box was in my legal name, clearly a woman's name, but apparently, other people could have mail delivered to it.

I still didn't have any answers. I was only assuming the P.O. Box was connected with my credit situation, but I couldn't think of any other reason for it.

I looked at the envelope again. Just a regular white business envelope. No return address. A New York City postmark from a couple of weeks ago.

I considered opening it. That was tampering with someone else's mail, a federal offense. Wonderful. I checked the flap. Someone had done a crummy job of sealing it, only licking the middle. One slip of the thumb and ...

Reluctantly, I put the envelope back in the box. It could be evidence and was not my mail. I probably shouldn't have this box key, I thought.

I didn't really want to talk to the postal clerk—what would I say? The best place to go with this was the cops, but I didn't feel like getting into it with them either. They'd ask a lot of annoying questions, like, "Why didn't you call us when you saw her apartment was tossed?"