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Synopsis
From New York Times bestselling author Marcia Muller, a new short story featuring her beloved private investigator, Sharon McCone.
Release date: May 3, 2016
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 31
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Tell Me Who I Am
Marcia Muller
Tell me who I am.
Those were the first words Debra Judson said to me. “Tell me who I am.”
As I motioned her toward one of the clients’ chairs, I studied her. Thin, stringy blond hair; no makeup on her round face; a trifle overweight for her five-and-a-half-foot frame, but not obese; ripped, tattered jeans and a rumpled pink blouse with two buttons missing. But that’s the style for twentysomethings here in San Francisco’s tech-savvy canyons South of Market. To the casual observer she might have seemed to be unclean and smell bad. But no, her face was recently scrubbed and a faint gardenia scent drifted around her.
“I guess I arrived at the right time, getting right in to see the boss lady,” she said without making eye contact.
She had a faint regional accent—Midwestern, maybe.
I didn’t want to tell her that she’d gotten in to see me because business was so slow that the “boss lady” was terminally bored and had been dozing on her couch. My husband and partner, Hy Ripinsky, who handles more of McCone & Ripinsky International’s far-flung cases, had been in Asia for a week, so I didn’t even have him in the office next door to divert me.
Ted Smalley, our office manager, who calls himself the Grand Poobah and shares a friendship with me that goes back to the Stone Age, had actually told me the other day that I needed to get a life. No, I’d insisted, what I needed to get was a case. Something I could really get involved with. Was that what this raggedy young woman was bringing to me?
“You identified yourself as Debra Judson,” I said to the prospective client. “Isn’t that who you are?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve had that name all my life. I’ve got a Social Security number too. High school diploma, job résumé, letters of recommendation from past employers. But something’s missing—my identity.”
“True identity?”
“Right.”
“Who recommended you to M&. . .
Those were the first words Debra Judson said to me. “Tell me who I am.”
As I motioned her toward one of the clients’ chairs, I studied her. Thin, stringy blond hair; no makeup on her round face; a trifle overweight for her five-and-a-half-foot frame, but not obese; ripped, tattered jeans and a rumpled pink blouse with two buttons missing. But that’s the style for twentysomethings here in San Francisco’s tech-savvy canyons South of Market. To the casual observer she might have seemed to be unclean and smell bad. But no, her face was recently scrubbed and a faint gardenia scent drifted around her.
“I guess I arrived at the right time, getting right in to see the boss lady,” she said without making eye contact.
She had a faint regional accent—Midwestern, maybe.
I didn’t want to tell her that she’d gotten in to see me because business was so slow that the “boss lady” was terminally bored and had been dozing on her couch. My husband and partner, Hy Ripinsky, who handles more of McCone & Ripinsky International’s far-flung cases, had been in Asia for a week, so I didn’t even have him in the office next door to divert me.
Ted Smalley, our office manager, who calls himself the Grand Poobah and shares a friendship with me that goes back to the Stone Age, had actually told me the other day that I needed to get a life. No, I’d insisted, what I needed to get was a case. Something I could really get involved with. Was that what this raggedy young woman was bringing to me?
“You identified yourself as Debra Judson,” I said to the prospective client. “Isn’t that who you are?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve had that name all my life. I’ve got a Social Security number too. High school diploma, job résumé, letters of recommendation from past employers. But something’s missing—my identity.”
“True identity?”
“Right.”
“Who recommended you to M&. . .
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