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“I managed to dig this up,” he said, handing it to me. “Thought it might come in handy, so I made a few copies.”
It was Gregory Knudsen’s old Maryland driver’s license. He was a real cutie, all right. Brown, wavy hair, cut full on top and long in the back. A 1980s-style mullet that would have been popular around the time the license expired. His face was a display of all-American features, a regular boy-next-door look, well-proportioned, with a broad, nonthreatening smile. The effect was disarming, even from a grainy, blown-up copy of a thumbnail-sized photo.
“It’s old, but someone might recognize him,” Duvall said.
“Thanks.” I kept examining the picture. There was something familiar about the face. Then I remembered Barbara Ferrengetti’s son. He looked almost exactly like his dad. A daily reminder of the past. That had to hurt Barbara.
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
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Duvall followed me in his car to Schaeffer’s place. I wondered if having Duvall with me would help or hurt. Would Schaeffer be less inclined to slam the door in the faces of two people who wanted to talk to him, or would he have twice as many reasons?
As Duvall held the vestibule door for me, I said, “What would you think of starting off the questioning? Last time I spoke to him, he walked away. I think being Melanie’s attorney didn’t help me much.”
“Don’t know if I’ll do much better, but I’m willing to try.”
“You’re a guy. He’ll relate better to you.”
“Sure, all us guys relate so well.”
“Well, at least you’re not representing the woman he thinks killed his friend. Or so he says.”
“True. I’ll start, and you jump in whenever you feel like it.”
“Assuming he bothers to answer the door,” I said.
To my surprise, Schaeffer did answer the door. His hair looked wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. I tried to get a peek into the place, to see if he had any fancy electronic gadgets like Barbara’s, but Schaeffer leaned into the doorway, blocking most of my view. From what little I saw, the apartment wouldn’t win any home decorating awards. If he had lots of money, he wasn’t spending it on furniture.
Duvall introduced himself. “I think you’ve already met Ms. McRae.”
Schaeffer’s glance slid my way. He pulled himself up to full height. “Yeah.”
“We’re looking for someone you used to know,” Duvall said. “Gregory Knudsen.”
“What about him?”
“I said we’re looking for him.”
“Well, he ain’t here.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“I don’t know,” he said, in a gruff voice. “Years ago.”
“You haven’t seen or heard from him since he left Maryland?”
Schaeffer directed a level gaze at Duvall. “No.”
“Did Tom ever mention him?” I asked.
“Why would he?” he said, without looking at me.
“I just thought Tom might have mentioned something about him and a certain disc.”
One corner of his lip curled in a condescending smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Because I understand that Tom and Gregory were blackmailing the Mob.”
