"Are you sure?" I said.
"I'm positive." Melanie looked like she'd seen a ghost.
I realized then I'd never met Tom Garvey. He hadn't shown up in court for the protective order hearing. I had no reason to recognize him.
"If the cops are still looking for Knudsen, they must not know he's dead," I said.
"But if he assumed another name, wouldn't they find out?" Melanie asked.
"I don't know," I said. "If all his identification were in the name Tom Garvey, and Bruce identified him, why would they question it?"
"What about relatives? Wouldn't they need to notify someone?"
"Duvall said he had no next of kin."
Melanie shook her head. "I don't believe this."
"I better let Derry know," I said, digging for my cell.
I called Derry, Ray, and Reed Duvall. No one answered, so I left messages.
Ferrengetti also had to know that Knudsen and Garvey were the same. When she spoke to Schaeffer at the gym, she'd acted upset that Garvey was dead. Why would she be upset that the man who got her pregnant and left her was dead? Maybe she still loved him—or maybe something else was going on. Something that involved money. And Schaeffer.
You can change your name, I thought, but you can't change your past. No matter how far you run, it always seems to catch up with you. Something had caught up with Gregory Knudsen, a.k.a. Tom Garvey. Maybe understanding that was the key to finding his killer.
φ φ φ
I slept in the next day and felt a lot better for it. It was going to take time for me to recover from my all-night escapade at Aces High, but I felt like I was three-quarters of the way there. I was supposed to relax, but I hadn't had a relaxed moment since leaving the hospital. I couldn't believe it had been less than a week.
After breakfast, I looked over the notes from my various interviews. Rhonda had mentioned the books were weird. Could it have been for reasons other than Bruce's bad bookkeeping? Assuming Ash was more involved with his businesses than everyone thought, he'd been lying to me. But why then would he put his own name on those bank accounts?
I could press Rhonda for more details about Ash. It was too early for the club to be open, so I went online and found a listing for R. Jacobi. She lived in Laurel, not far from Bruce Schaeffer.
I dialed the number and got a machine. Rhonda's gravelly voice came over the line.
"Hi. I can't get to the phone right now ..."
I tuned out the rest of the message. The beep brought me around, and I stammered out my name and "please call me," or words to that effect.
I hung up and replayed Rhonda's recorded greeting in my head. It was the way she said "phone." I hadn't noticed before, but she had that Baltimore accent, same as Ferrengetti. Was it a coincidence she worked with Schaeffer and lived close to him? Lots of people from Baltimore move to Laurel. It didn't necessarily mean anything.
I couldn't be sure about Jacobi, but I knew Ferrengetti lied to me. It was time to confront her. On the way, I could swing by the club, just in case Rhonda had gone in early.
φ φ φ
The place looked different. Could have been the cop cars in the parking lot and the crime scene tape strung everywhere.
I banged on the door for a bit before Derry answered.
"Hi," I said. "There can't be a good reason for this." I waved my hand at the tape.
"There very rarely is." He arched an eyebrow. "May I ask what you're doing here?"
"I was hoping to talk to one of the assistant managers if she's here."
"She's not, but someone else is. Bruce Schaeffer with half his head blown off. Looks like suicide."
"Oh."
"You understand why I can't let you in."
"That's just fine," I said. I didn't need to see Schaeffer's brains on a wall. "God, I just spoke to him yesterday. He wasn't happy to talk to me, but I wouldn't have pegged him as suicidal."
"Obviously, it's too early to say, but we're finding some interesting things in here," Derry said. "The gun he used is the same caliber used on Garvey. Or should I say Gregory Knudsen?"
"You got my message."
"Yeah. Kind of supports the notion that Garvey—or Knudsen—was involved in identity theft. We also found boxes of files like the one in your client's apartment."
I stared at him. "Really? What's in them exactly?"
"Don't know. I'm handling the homicide part of this. Someone else will have to take a look after we bring them in."
"A lot of boxes?"
"At least five or six so far."
I tried not to look as stunned as I felt. If those boxes had been there two nights ago, Duvall and I would have seen them.
"Who found him?"
"Custodian. In the office."
I shook my head. "Looks like there's a job opening at Aces High."
"Mmm." Derry's mustache twitched in response.
"Does Agent Jergins know about Knudsen yet?"
"I left a message this morning. He's not going to like it." I swear Derry grinned.
"What's the deal with him, anyway? Why's he so interested in Knudsen?"
Derry paused, then shrugged, as if he couldn't think of a good reason not to tell me. "Stavos and his minions were skimming money from the big bosses. Knudsen overheard them and recorded their conversations. He blackmailed Stavos, but had to hit the road when Stavos figured out who was doing it. He burned the conversations on a CD, which he must have brought with him to Maryland."
"And Knudsen changed his name to protect himself from Stavos," I said.
"Probably. Of course, try hiding from organized crime. It's not all that easy to just disappear. I guess when the heat started to come down on Knudsen, he must have turned to the FBI. By that time, he'd changed his name. Jergins was assigned the case, but never had a chance to meet Garvey, or the man he thought of as Garvey, who was supposed to have a disc Knudsen gave him. When we didn't find the disc at the murder scene, Jergins figured Knudsen had it."
"Why is Jergins so interested? Is the disc evidence in a prosecution?"
"No. As I understand it, Jergins wanted to use the information to force Stavos to rat on the Mob."
"I see. Either cooperate with the feds, or they'd send the information to Stavos' big boss."
"In which case, Mr. Stavos would become history," Derry said.
Cute. A blackmailer for greed turning evidence over to a blackmailer for justice. One had to admire the symmetry.
After I left Aces High, I took another detour toward Gibson Island.
With the wind ruffling my short hair, I raced down the road, singing a high-pitched tune over the roar of my car's motor. The air was damp and close, and at sixty miles an hour, it slapped at me like a moist towel.
I wondered about Ash. Could he have used Knudsen and Schaeffer to steal the money, then killed them? He could have planted those files to make them look guilty. But why would he set up Melanie?
What about Ash's tax problems? Maybe the situation with Garvey's 1099 had something to do with him not really being Garvey. Maybe Ash was a victim here. If I asked him a few more questions, the worst he could do was tell me to pound sand. Well, maybe it wasn't the worst he could do. Thing was, even though Ash struck me as indolent, rich, and irresponsible, I couldn't imagine him killing anyone.
A blue line of water appeared in the distance, with the Gibson Island guard station looming in the foreground. I was thinking up an excuse for the guard, when I noticed a silver Lexus racing off the island. Ash's car. It flew by me in a silver blur.
I found a place to turn around and followed him.