Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 30

Rhonda leaned into the trunk, so intent on packing, she didn't notice me.

"Going somewhere?" I said.

She jerked upright and whirled around. "God, you scared me," she said, a little squeak creeping into her gravelly voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Looks like you're moving."

"Yeah."

"Why did you lie about Bruce and Tom? Or should I say, Bruce and Greg?"

The change in topic appeared to disorient her. "What do you mean?"

"You never told me you knew them in high school."

"I didn't know them."

"But you did know Tom Garvey was actually Greg Knudsen."

"So?"

"You knew they were responsible for the accident that scarred your face."

Rhonda's expression grew hard. "What about it?"

She didn't deny anything. That worried me.

"So why would you work with two people who did that to you?"

"I needed a job."

"You expect me to believe it was a complete coincidence, your taking that particular job?"

Rhonda leaned against the car and crossed her arms. "Why should I care what you believe?"

"You also knew who Barbara was, and why she was arguing with Bruce."

Thunder rumbled like distant tympani. Rhonda stared at me with an intense expression that belied her casual pose.

"Did you tell her Greg was back in town?" I said.

No response.

"Did you steal the money?"

Nothing.

"If they were using the club's accounts to hide the money they stole, you would have known it. You had access to the records."

Rhonda glanced at her fingernails as if bored. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"If you had access to the files, you must have put them in the office after you killed Bruce."

"Bruce killed himself."

"I don't believe it. Those files weren't there before."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

"How will you prove it?"

I didn't say anything.

She smiled. "You see. You have nothing."

"The police will figure out soon enough that Bruce didn't kill himself."

"And if they do, so what?" Rhonda's voice was mocking.

I hadn't the slightest idea. "What I can't figure out is, why kill them?" I said. "You must have gone to a lot of trouble—gaining their confidence, stealing their money. You could have blackmailed them, and they couldn't have done anything about it. So why kill them?"

"You're grasping at straws, sweetie."

"Better question still, why set my client up for Knudsen's murder? Why divert suspicion from Bruce?"

For the first time, Rhonda reacted with something more than detached amusement or indifference. I thought I caught a flash of anger in her eyes. Maybe it was the lightning.

"Obviously, Bruce must've done it and set her up," she said.

"It's possible, but why didn't he just plant the gun in her apartment? Why set her up with a box of files that linked his crimes to the murder? In a box from Aces High, no less."

We stared at each other. The approaching storm boomed in the background, like an invading army. Now and then, a car went by, the driver oblivious to two women staring each other down.

"Bruce didn't have a motive," I said. "You did."

She looked away, her cheeks twitching.

"You resented Melanie. That's why you set her up."

"No." The directness of her response took me aback. "I wouldn't do that."

"But you would steal and kill."

Rhonda laughed, her mouth twisting into a sneer. "Why are you so concerned with those guys? They were shit. They deserved to die."

"I'm not concerned with them. I'm concerned with my client."

"She wasn't involved."

"Now it's my turn to ask, how do you know?"

"She's not the type."

"I thought you didn't know her."

"She was just another victim, OK?" She raked her hair back from her face, revealing a confused expression. "Another Greg Knudsen victim."

"I thought you didn't know him well."

"Everyone knew Greg was trouble. Him and Bruce."

"So she was a victim. Like Barbara? Like yourself?"

"Yes. We were all victims. And those bastards deserved what they got."

"And you made sure they got it."

"Give it a rest, OK? You have nothing."

"And you're counting on being gone by the time I have something."

Rhonda stood there, breathing heavily. Her face was moon-like in its pallor, and her eyes glittered. She pulled a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes from her purse—I couldn't help but notice the red bull's-eye on it—and tapped a cigarette out. Placing it between her lips, she dug through her bag until she found a lighter. It flared with a snap in her shaking hands.

"Skip," I said. "Did he—"

Before I could finish the thought, a car pulled up behind me. I turned. It was Skip behind the wheel of a white Chevy Cavalier. He held a handgun.