Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 27

Ash was out of sight. I put my foot to the floor. The wind roared, as the speedometer needle passed eighty, inching toward eighty-five. I was getting every penny's worth of the work that had gone into fixing my car. The old heap actually had a lot of giddyup. I swore to maintain the thing religiously from then on.

The silver Lexus gleamed in the distance, moving into the right lane and signaling to get off at the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. I followed, pushing it on the turn, my tires kicking up dust as they hit the dirt shoulder. He had a good lead on me, but parkway traffic was light. I mashed the pedal again.

Ash got off at the exit for Baltimore-Washington International Airport. I followed him past the hotels and down a side road toward long-term parking. As he entered the lot, I pulled over and watched him park. He got out and hauled a large suitcase and a shoulder bag from the trunk, then strode toward a bus shelter. A shuttle bus circling through the lot stopped at the shelter, and he got on. The bus rolled off toward the terminal. So much, I thought, for that.

I found a pay phone off the parkway and called the PG police. I was starting to feel like one of their operatives. Derry wasn't back, so I left a message about Ash. The rest was up to him.

Maybe Ash planned to leave town all along. Maybe not. One way or the other, I couldn't do a thing about it.

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Barbara answered the door in pajama pants and a cropped white T-shirt. I could hear the TV in the background. One of those morning talk shows where cheating boyfriends and drug-addicted daughters come to confess their sins before an audience clapping like trained seals.

"What do you want now?" she said.

"Why didn't you tell me Greg Knudsen and Tom Garvey were the same person?"

She smiled. "So what about it?"

"So it's quite an oversight."

"I don't have to talk to you." She started to close the door.

"It's either me or the cops."

She held up, squinting at me. "Whadda you mean?"

"They might be interested in hearing about your argument at the gym with Bruce Schaeffer. They might like to know about your financial situation since Knudsen, the prodigal father, came back to town."

"Prod-what?"

"Bruce Schaeffer's been shot."

Her mouth fell open and her face went white.

"If I go to the police and tell them about your argument, they could get very interested in you."

Barbara's jaw flapped a bit. "So I had an argument with Bruce. That don't mean I killed him."

"Maybe. Maybe not. It could mean you were involved in the identity theft scheme with him."

"What're you—"

"Don't bother to deny it. The cops found the evidence. And I don't think you bought your nice new SUV and your nice new TV with what you get milking the workers' comp office."

She didn't say anything, but I could see the wheels turning in her head. "What do you want?"

"I want the whole story. I want to know how you got involved and what your part was."

She looked resigned, but shoved the door farther open. I took that as a tacit invitation to come in and followed her to the living room. The talk show was blasting through the fancy sound system. A bowl of melting ice cream sat on the coffee table. My eye strayed to Mahogany Jesus on the wall. He seemed particularly forlorn.