Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 21

After Ray left, I washed the dishes and looked up Ryan Bledsoe online. When I called, a woman I figured was his wife answered, sounding breathy and distracted. I explained who I was and what I wanted, and she told me Ryan wasn't there.

"Could I leave a message?" I asked. On the other end, I could hear a child babbling in the background and a baby squeal. I couldn't tell if it was in joy or pain.

"Well, sure, but you might want to call him at the dealership. See, we were supposed to go to the ocean today," she said, giving the o in ocean the typical, Baltimorean emphasis, "'cept the dealership called him in unexpected. I'm trying to pack and all, so we can hit the road when he gets home. Kirsten? Kirsten, put that down."

"How late will he be there?"

"They close at six, but you should call him right now, I think."

"I'm heading up there anyway," I said. "Maybe I could swing by the place and talk to him."

"If you think that's best," she said, sounding a little uncertain. "Will this take long?"

"No, I just prefer to talk to people in person."

"It's that we're supposed to be in Ocean City right now. If it weren't for work, we would be. I know he's trying to leave as soon as possible."

The baby let out another whoop. She pulled the phone from her mouth, but not far enough to keep me from hearing her clearly. "Kirsten, stop that. Don't wave that thing at little Dodo." She came back, picking up where she'd left off as if nothing had happened. "He might even leave early, I don't know."

I couldn't stop myself. "Dodo?"

"His name is Tommy, but Kirsten calls him Dodo." She started rattling on about kids and their pronunciation and so forth. I checked the clock.

She paused for breath, and in the interest of cutting the child development lesson short, I asked, "Where's the dealership?" so fast, it sounded like one word.

She gave me the name and an intersection. Even as we spoke, I was looking it up online. "Thanks for your help."

"Sure. He's supposed to be there 'til six. Maybe call first, to make sure he hasn't left."

"OK, thanks. Bye."

"Bye." As she hung up, I heard her cry out, "Stop that, stop that now." Sounded like it was going to be a fun trip to the beach.

Simpson Motors was on Pulaski Highway. Like Route 1, Pulaski was a showcase of Rust Belt economy—more junk yards, more tire and transmission shops, more fast food, and more decaying motels, interspersed with modern box stores like Home Depot and Circuit City. The dealership was at a busy corner, marked by a string of pennants in carnival colors, looking limp and dissolute in the afternoon heat. Rows of new cars glared with the monotonous pattern of the sun's reflection.

Inside the glassy, air-conditioned showroom, a few customers drifted around, idly checking the display models, while men in suits watched them the way lions might watch zebras. I headed toward a small knot of suits hanging around the offices drinking coffee and acting like they'd just met at a dull party. The way a couple of them looked at me, you would have thought I was the hired stripper.

"Hi, I'm looking for Ryan Bledsoe," I said.

Heads turned toward a guy in a dark gray suit and a skinny black tie, with brown hair moussed into a modern do that said, "This is not your father's auto salesman." Bledsoe must have been in his thirties, but he looked about ten years younger. He blinked at me from behind glasses with thin, rectangular frames, giving him a mild-mannered, slightly geeky persona.