Identity Issues (19 page)

"I believe we’ve met," he said.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, we have."

"At the Frozen Margarita."

I cringed. "I suppose I owe you an apology."

He lowered his mug to the table and pulled up a chair, eyes fixed on me.

"I didn’t think I’d ever see you again," I hurriedly explained, "and I didn’t believe that the Stitsill situation would be… a problem."

"But it’s become a problem?" he asked, smiling eyes and all.

Maybe if my husband stuck around more, I wouldn’t find myself attracted to some other guy. My nerves jangled like finger cymbals.

"I’m afraid so." I settled back and recited the entire saga from the very beginning. Back to the letter, the phone calls from Botswana, the questionable death and birth certificates, the photos Rosie had supplied of her supposedly dead husband, my subsequent friendship with her, tutoring her son, and the guy I’d watched going in and out of Rosie’s garage.

I’d brought the applicable documents with me in a manila envelope, and I delivered it all to McGrath. As he leafed through the contents, I explained what Rosie had told me about her husband’s attempts to poison her and the boys, and how I’d not told Rosie that I’d seen her husband alive. Also, the matter of the money, the brutal slaying in Mexico and the similarities to the local crime, the guardianship issue, and the water. Had I included everything? I wondered as I met his gaze.

McGrath didn’t react. He withdrew a small notebook and made several notes. Still, he didn’t speak. No comments. No questions. He nodded. He even patted my hand when I became tearful as I described Rosie’s imminent death and her boys. After I fell quiet, he took our mugs and headed down the stairs. I watched him—strong, confident, and skilled. He refilled our mugs at the counter, glanced up at me, and flashed me a grin. A grin I grasped at—a grin that promised me everything would be alright. I took a steadying breath.

When McGrath returned, I excused myself and visited the ladies room to freshen up. I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror, the enormity of the situation even more profound now. 

I returned, I took the chair across from McGrath, and thanked him for the refill.

He studied me for a long moment. I glanced down at my hands, nervously fiddling with the mug’s handle.

"Your eyes
are
blue," he began.

I stared at him, shocked. "Is this your way of relaxing me before you arrest me?" I asked.

He laughed as he gazed directly into my eyes. His smile accentuated his dimples. God help me.

"First of all, I’m not going to arrest you. We’re a long way from that. I do have some questions, however. You’ve just told me an interesting story."

"An interesting story?" I said, flirting with indignance. "It’s way more than that…it’s scary and sad and…"

"Slow down, slow down." He reached out to pat my hand, but I pulled away.

"Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I have no experience with this sort of thing. The first time we spoke, you told me there was nothing to be concerned about." My eyes filled with tears. I didn’t want to lose it in front of McGrath, so I told myself to settle down,

McGrath shifted his tone to cop mode. "I need some additional details. That’s all, Mrs. Stitsill."

"Please, call me Sam." 

He smiled. I needed a moment to compose myself, and his manner helped. My blood pressure dropped back to within normal limits.

"Now, let’s turn back the clock so that you can fill in some of the blanks for me."

I answered all of his questions. When we finished, McGrath switched gears.

"I have a few more concerns I need to go over with you," he said.

I waited.

"Where is the water now?"

"My friend, a scientist for a drug company, has the remaining bottles."

"Give me his contact information, and I’ll make arrangements to transport them to our lab."

I recited Charlie’s phone number and address.

"What’s your address?"

Not what I expected. "Why?"

"I am going to have a patrol car drive by your house and keep an eye on things. I don’t have any reason to suspect suspicious behavior, but I want you safe in light of Rosita Stitsill’s recent admissions about her husband and until we confirm the facts about the tritiated water. When I met you at the Margarita, you mentioned a husband and children."

"Good memory."

He grinned. "I’m a detective."

"I’m still married, and I still have five kids."

"Where are they right now?"

"My kids are with my in–laws for the summer at their cottage in Berrien Springs. My husband is overseas."

"Does your husband know what you’ve just told me?"

"No. I sort of surprised myself. I got more involved in this whole thing than I ever expected to. I didn’t tell Jon. Initially, because I didn’t want to worry him. He’s gone so much, and he wouldn’t understand. And then I kind of got in over my head."

"You’re alone?"

"Rex, my golden retriever, is home with me."

"That’s something. How long will your husband be away?"

"Three weeks. Sometimes, he finishes a day early, but more often he gets hung up for an extra day or two."

"How often does he call?"

"It depends on our schedules. Basically, it’s hit or miss."

"Under the circumstances, I don’t want you alone," McGrath told me.

"I’ll admit it. I’m nervous and exhausted right now."

"Could you stay with someone?"

"I hate to put anyone else in danger… if there is any danger."

"There may be reason for concern," he admitted.

I nodded my agreement. "One more thing, Detective," I said. "I promised Rosita Stitsill that I would only contact you if there was a problem with the water. She’s quite fearful of the police for reasons I don’t completely understand. When you decide to contact her, let me pave the way."

"Let’s get the water tested through our crime lab first, then, if there’s reason, we can proceed."

I nodded, although conflicted. Waiting for the crime lab to test the water seemed like redundancy at its finest. I feared it would take much longer than my comfort level allowed. McGrath seemed unaware of the urgency I felt. I knew I needed to trust him, but I hated the delay of bringing Rosie up to speed. I thought about it. McGrath was right. We needed to verify the tritium before alarming her. This was a police matter now.

McGrath interrupted my thoughts. "Do you have protection, Sam?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Do you have a gun?" He couldn’t stifle his smile.

Okay, I blushed. Flame–red. What the hell is wrong with me? "My husband owns a gun. It’s hidden in his back closet."

"Do you know how to use it?"

"Not really."

"What do you have planned for the rest of the day?"

"Nothing etched in stone. Why?"

"Today is my day off. I’m going to the gun range later. I’d like to take you with me and teach you how to use that gun. I’d feel better if you were equipped to handle an emergency."

"Do you do this with everyone, Detective?"

"Never. I’m making an exception for you. Things may not be quite right here. I’d feel better if you were equipped to handle an emergency."

"It’s that uncomplicated," I said.

"That’s all I’ve got for you right now."

I smiled nervously.

"Would you feel comfortable if I accompanied you home, checked out your husband’s gun, and then gave you a brief lesson on gun safety and handling?"

"As long as you feel certain you can respect the fact that I’m a married woman."

"Yes, ma’am." He smiled.

We dropped our mugs into the ‘dirty’ bin and headed out to our vehicles. Jim McGrath followed me home.

"T
HE VERY IDEA of holding a gun makes me sick to my stomach," I confessed as I unlocked the front door. Rex greeted us. I patted his head and gave him a gentle shove. He quickly sniffed out McGrath, then wagged his tail in welcome.

"It’s quite common for people who are inexperienced with guns to feel nervous about them. Do you know what type of weapon your husband owns?" he asked.

"No, but I held it once. It’s surprisingly heavy."

"Not like on TV. Not a breeze to grip or to shoot. At least, not the ones that do any serious damage. Years ago, cops carried nine millimeters. Not anymore, though. These days, the bad guys have more firepower than we do."

"How scary is that."

He nodded. "Yes, ma’am."

"Are you having a hard time deciding how to address me?"

He arched an eyebrow.

"Well, you just called me ma’am. You flirt, then you do the professional thing."

"My brain keeps flashing back to our meeting at the Frozen Margarita. I was attracted to you that night. I apologize."

"Again. Remember that I’m a happily married woman. With kids." I glanced at Rex. "And a dog." And yes, the attraction is mutual, dammit.

Rex licked McGrath’s hand. McGrath smiled. A pained smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Why don’t I see if I can find Jon’s gun?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks. I’ll just keep Rex company."

I climbed the stairs. Jon’s gun case, locked down tight, was lodged safely in the rear of his closet. I found the key.

I dragged the case out of the closet and lugged it downstairs.

"I’d forgotten just how heavy this thing is. Here, I’ll let you check it. I’ll need a tutorial, since I know nothing about weapons."

"Hopefully, you won’t need to use it, but I’d rather you be safe than sorry, if you know what I mean." McGrath opened the gun safe and removed the revolver.

"It’s a .357," he said, "a Smith and Wesson."

"I’ve heard of them."

"It’s a serious weapon. A .357 can do some real damage if you know how to use it. I’ll give you a lesson at the range. First, though, we’ll deal with gun safety. Number one, don’t point the weapon at anyone unless you intend to fire it. Second, keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire the weapon."

"Makes sense so far." I gave him a wide–eyed look.

McGrath smiled. "And third, as a general rule, keep the gun unloaded. But, for now, since a threat may exist, I’m going to suggest you keep it loaded when you’re home alone. Just be careful. Now, I’ll open the chamber and make sure that it’s empty. We’ll practice loading and unloading after I clean it. Has it been fired recently?"

"Of course, not."

"I’m asking because it’s important that your weapon is cleaned and properly maintained before it’s fired. We don’t want it to jam if you need to use it."

"If you say so." I breathed shallowly, too nervous for words.

"You need to be able to do this. Why don’t we clean it at your kitchen table?"

I grabbed a section of newspaper and spread it over the table as we sat down.

I watched McGrath set out a small rod and attach a simple brush to the end. He put a small amount of Hoppe’s #9 Powder solvent into a small dish I’d given him. Then, he cleaned the barrel with the brush.

"Looks simple enough. May I try?" I accepted the gun, feeling clumsy. I needed both hands to handle it with any grace at all. I set it on the table and picked it up by the barrel, holding the barrel in one hand while positioning the brush in the other.

McGrath said, "Even when you’re cleaning it, point the barrel away from your body. It’s an important habit to ingrain in yourself."

"Alright," I murmured.

I moved the brush within the barrel. Then, McGrath handed me a patch of cloth with some of the powder solvent on it.

"Take this and wrap it around the brush," he said. "Move it in the barrel, back and forth, ten times or so. That should do it. By the way, does your husband have a CCW permit for this?"

I glanced at him. "I’m sure it’s all legal, if that’s what you mean. He’s a rule follower, my Jon."

"Well, that’s good news. We’ll need to see about you. You need to be legal, too."

"Sure," I answered, thinking I needed a CCW permit like I needed an additional hole in my head.

With lots of self–talk I reminded myself not to point the damn thing at my head. I scared myself sometimes.

McGrath left shortly after two, so I had an hour to unwind before heading to the range. Now that I’d handled the gun, even though just to learn its parts and clean it, I felt reassured and less afraid. I stacked turkey and Swiss on rye, poured a glass of iced tea, and kicked up my feet. McGrath and I had agreed to meet at his gun range, The Firing Line, at three–thirty.

After lunch, I called the kids, who’d arrived safely at the cottage. I spoke to the entire crew,  missed them for about two minutes, then came to my senses and appreciated my in–laws for keeping them happy and healthy.

I pulled into the Firing Line parking lot and took in the scene. Ordinary people just like me carried bowling bags into the building. Duh. Not bowling bags. Gun bags.

I expected to see long haired, beer–bellied, fifty year old men clad in fringed leather jackets gathered in the lot. Wrong. The patrons were regular folks.

I couldn’t decide whether to go inside or not. My anxiety spiked. Again.

I smoothed down my tank top and checked myself in the mirror. A tap on my driver’s side window startled me. I jumped like a scared rabbit, slamming my knee into the steering wheel.

Offering McGrath my best what–a–fool–am–I grin, I rolled down my window.

His eyes crinkled with good humor. "Long time, no see."

I smiled, unnerved. "Looking forward to our session," I said.

"Ready to head inside?" Despite his grin, McGrath shifted to business.

"I’m a tad intimidated by this whole process. But here I am, so that’s a good first step."

I unlocked the door, exited the car without another humiliating blunder, and slung my bag over my shoulder with the keys tucked safely inside. I noticed that McGrath carried one of those cute bowling bags just like everyone else. I took in his toned body and broad shoulders. Then, I forced my attention to less controversial matters.

The outside of the range had been well landscaped, not at all what I’d imagined. The place boasted blooming tulips, trimmed hedges, a paved walkway, and a welcome sign over the door.