Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 20

By about four thirty, we were done. Outside, the air felt warm and liquid, the heat of the previous day lingering. For exercise, we bypassed the shortcut and walked the dirt shoulder of Route 1 to the lot next door.

The only sound in the predawn stillness was a robin, sending out its two-note singsong from a stand of trees in the cemetery across the street. Under a streetlight, an opossum, about the size of my cat, nibbled on the grass. As we drew closer, the possum froze on its back legs, in alert mode, then scampered off into some brush. Apparently, possums don't always play possum.

When we reached the cars, we paused before getting in. "Well," Duvall said. "It's been real."

"Yeah, sure has."

He peered at me. "You OK? You look beat."

"I'm fine." I gave him my plucky can-do smile, but I was a little punchy from looking through all those boxes. My stomach gurgled.

"OK." Duvall hesitated. "Well, I'll see you around."

"Take it easy." I watched him unlock his car. "Hey, Duvall."

He looked up.

"I never did thank you for your help. I couldn't have gotten in the office without you."

"You're welcome," he said.

We lingered a moment longer, then got in our cars and left.

Normally hectic, Route 1 was quiet and empty now. I resisted the giddy urge to blast down the road, figuring a cop on the graveyard shift was probably lurking somewhere. The darkness seemed like a perfect complement to the dreary landscape, largely comprised of junkyards, industrial buildings, and strip shopping centers, with generic signs advertising beer/wine, deli, and dry cleaning. Now and then, a mom-and-pop budget motel from pre-interstate days could be seen, crouching in dark disuse amid the architectural clutter—crumbling anachronisms that seemed to exist only because no one had the energy to tear them down.

Traffic picked up as I neared the I-95 interchange, particularly panel trucks and tractor-trailers making early morning deliveries, or heading for the Jessup truck stop. Then the lights of a twenty-four-hour diner beckoned and my stomach growled again. In the battle between fatigue and hunger, hunger won.

Frank's Diner was a traditional glass-and-steel affair, the kind of place where every booth has a jukebox, and the waitresses wear plain, starched uniform dresses and call you "hon" in the Baltimore tradition. The fluorescent lights created a surreal glare on the Formica tables and windows. The only sounds were the occasional clink of utensils on plates and the waitress talking to customers. I slid into a booth, checked the menu, and quickly settled on a waffle, bacon, two eggs over easy, an extra side of toast for dipping, and coffee.

The place had four other customers. A jowly man with gray hair and slits for eyes, wearing a T-shirt and a red billed cap with a Chevy logo, sat in a corner booth and sucked down coffee like an emphysema patient taking hits of oxygen. No doubt driving the tractor-trailer parked outside. Two cops—one male, one female—shared a quiet conversation at the counter. I'd have expected them, but not the twenty-something guy dressed in "office casual," tapping on his Palm Pilot. Maybe he was a salesman. Maybe he worked odd hours in an office. You never knew who would be in a diner during the wee hours of a Saturday morning or why. I doubt anybody would have guessed I'd just spent the night in a strip club.

I sipped coffee and thought about what I'd learned. I knew Schaeffer and Garvey had to be part of the identity theft scheme. If only I'd found something concrete. I could have kicked myself for not stealing that list of social security numbers while I had the chance. Why was I so damned honest?