Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 2

"It's one of those things you think will never happen to you," I said. "I still can't believe it. I'm just glad they caught the problem. Do you know how long it would've taken to clear my credit?"

"Mmm-mmm," Jamila murmured, about the best she could manage with a spicy meatball hors d'oeuvre in her mouth.

I had a ginger ale in one hand and a small plate loaded with shrimp and little quiches in the other. This left me with no hands to eat either the shrimp or the quiches. I set my drink on a handy table, hoping that none of the waiters patrolling the banquet room would scoop it up when I wasn't looking.

Close to a hundred people had shown for the mixer, which surprised the hell out of me. The bar association doesn't usually schedule events during the summer. The theory, I guess, is that most people take summer vacations. It was a sad commentary on our profession that we were there.

"So I'm finally checking my credit history," I said. "They say you should do it every year. I've always found a reason to put it off until now. Hopefully, the jerk hasn't applied for ten more credit cards with my information."

"Unbelievable."

"I almost didn't come. I don't want to see any of these people. Present company excepted, of course."

Jamila gestured with her diet Coke. "Roger's trashed." She referred to the partner she worked for at Haskins & O'Connell, one of the biggest firms in the county.

I looked across the room at Roger. He was smiling, talking amiably to some guy in a nine-hundred-dollar suit, and looking as dull as ever. "How the hell can you tell?"

"Cause he keeps licking his lips." Jamila straightened and did another quick survey of the room. "You see any judges? There are supposed to be some judges at this damn thing."

"I don't know. I just came for the free food."

Jamila smiled and continued to look around. As usual, she was dressed to the nines. Her dusky brown complexion was a perfect complement to her tan suit, and she'd applied her makeup with surgical precision. She aspired to partnership at H&O and, eventually, a judgeship with the Circuit Court for Prince George's County. Maybe even the federal court in Greenbelt.

In P.G. County, a Washington, D.C., suburban area with a majority black population, her appointment to such a position was a distinct possibility if she kept her nose clean and went to the right parties. Jamila had been a good friend of mine since law school, but with any luck, nobody would hold that against her.

"I'm sorry about your problem," she said. "Can you believe, the same thing happened to one of my clients? Only no one caught it, and he's in the hole twenty thousand dollars."

"Damn."

"He was supposed to close on some property next month. Now the lender's trying to back out. We're hoping to fix things before the closing date, but you know what our chances are of doing that?"

"Pretty slim."

"We may have to put off the closing," Jamila said. "Or even cancel it. All because of some little shit who ... I'm sorry. I don't mean to go on about my problems. We were talking about you."

"It's okay." I reached for my drink, but it had been spirited away. "What gets me is, I'm so careful. I tear up my junk mail. I never give out my social security number to strangers. I rarely buy anything on the Internet. But that's not enough anymore."

Jamila said something about recent criminal laws against identify theft that got drowned out by guffaws.

"Don't you have to find people before you can prosecute them?" I asked, raising my voice above the din.