Identity Issues (29 page)

I fought off all those natural urges—gasping, vomiting, screaming fleeing, turning a ghastly shade of pale, trembling—and summoned a calm exterior from the deepest recesses of my being. I thought about how this guy had ruined my life. That pissed me off. Royally. I wasn’t about to let this lying, cheating assassin get the better of me. Then, for some unknown reason, I experienced this flash of bureaucracy at its finest, and a list of scoundrels in public office appeared in front of my eyes like the rolling credits at the closing of a film.

I did what any woman who has an agenda would do; I smiled brightly, and shook the son of a bitch’s hand. Next, I introduced McGrath as a friend. I wasn’t lying, just withholding. I figured Drummond, or whoever the hell he really was, already knew McGrath was a cop. Let Mr. Fucking Drummond figure a few things out on his own, like what I knew about him.

I’d done my own spying. I had my own information. The fact that I couldn’t remember one damn thing in that instant seemed inconsequential; it would come back to me.

Mr. Drummond turned on the charm, asking us if we’d like coffee. I hoped that meant he’d leave the room for a moment so I could ask McGrath if he recognized the guy. In reality, Jim had only ever seen two photos of Jon’s impostor, the one that had been delivered to me at school two years ago, and the one of his head after I’d supposedly shot him dead. Jim had never interacted with the man. It was entirely possible he had no clue who this guy really was. I, on the other hand, possessed several advantages.

One, I’d seen this guy arrive at his wife’s home and sneak inside. I’d witnessed his determined stride as he eased down her street after dark. I could still summon the fear his mannerisms had created in me that night. His movements remained precise.

Two, those heart-to-heart talks I’d had with Rosie gave me first-hand knowledge of what a creep this guy had been. He’d wooed her, bribed her away from her shallow existence in Mexico to a richer life in the States. I still didn’t know why he’d done that. The only thing I’d come up with so far? He’d needed a cover. The fact that he’d actually fathered a child with Rosie—well, that reality still buffaloed me. This guy was evil.

"Coffee?" I heard the words again, as if being shaken awake from a deep dream.

"Yes, please." I locked eyes with my husband’s impostor and smiled widely. "Black."

Drummond picked up his phone and made a quick call. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. I didn’t want to alert him by trying to let McGrath know that I recognized him, so I made pleasant conversation with the man while we waited for our drinks.

"How long have you been at the Consulate?" I asked. I knew what it said on the website but I couldn’t wait to hear the line he had invented.

He stood, walked to a nearby credenza, and picked up a file folder. "I’ve been here since last May, a little over a year." He returned to the desk with the dossier, smiled again, and sank into his chair.

"How do you like Japan?" I tried not to sneer.

"I’ve been here for quite some time," he said. "I served as director of the Nagoya American Center for three years before my appointment here."

Interesting. That would have given him plenty of excuse for travel to the U.S. Plenty of opportunity to acquire false passports, kill people, impregnate women. Sufficient time to establish a long trail of duplicity. I suspected his over–inflated ego allowed him to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

The Japanese woman entered the room once again, this time carrying a shellacked tray which held a pot of coffee, cream, sugar, and three china tea cups painted in traditional Japanese colors with ornate flowers. The young woman poured us each a cup and I sat back and sipped, deciding how to broach the topic of acquiring the report of my husband’s accident.

I didn’t want to alienate this guy. I didn’t want him to feel that I was on to him. I needed time to think. In the meantime, I’d act dumb and focus only on what I’d come for—a guiding hand to the Nagoya police’s cooperation in handing over the documentation.

Only problem I could anticipate in that moment was Drummond wondering why I wanted the report. A year had passed. I wasn’t sure it would make sense to him that I’d waited so long to obtain the paperwork and worried it would make him question why I’d decided to travel all the way to Japan to get it. Good question.

Pleasantries over, I whirled in circles like a spinning top. After a long moment, I let my instincts take over and dove in, headfirst.

"Thank you for seeing my friend and me today. As I explained to whomever I spoke with on the phone yesterday…" Crap. It hit me right then. The woman who’d taken my call the previous day had said there were no available appointments until the following Wednesday. After I begged and pleaded, she’d put me on hold, then returned to tell me I had an appointment the following day with the Principal Officer, Consul General Mr. Drummond. My late husband’s impostor. He knew, didn’t he? He’d been waiting for me. I’d been set up.

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There are so many people to thank. First of all, my parents, Pat and Larry Teal, for creating in me a sense of wonder, for teaching me that I can accomplish anything with enough hard work and practice, and for their pride and support. To my children, Noah and Melissa Woodson, and Jenna Whitsitt: your love is a source of constant joy. Words cannot express the depth of my feelings for you. To all of my friends and mentors from the Southern California Writers Conference: Michael Steven Gregory, Wes Albers, Jean Jenkins, Charlie Redner, Bob Yehling and Laura Taylor. I couldn’t have done it without you. To my writers group: Patty Hoffman, Barb Stark–Nemon, and Kathy York. Your belief in me and in my work has given me faith when my own faltered. And last, but certainly not least, to my friend, Lori LaBoe, for her multiple reads of all my novels, her honest feedback, and her level head. I love and appreciate you all more than words can say.

Thanks also to Blue Jay Media and Patricia Maas, for believing in Samantha Stitsill!