Identity Thief

by JP Bloch

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I carefully disengaged from her grip. It occurred to me she might be taping the conversation, so I was careful to say nothing incriminating. “I’m not moving in with you, I’m getting custody of my son, and I don’t know why you keep calling me Dr. Fallon.” I made a point of mispronouncing the last name.

  “Falcon, you know the name is Falcon.” She slammed her coffee spoon on the table. “Look, I found this guy who’s a computer whiz. I had him hack into your accounts.”

  In spite of myself, I was intrigued. “In exchange for . . . ?”

  “Never you mind. Anyway, I know you’ve been stealing money from this guy’s bank account.”

  I tried to think of a comeback but couldn’t. I was grateful that apparently she hadn’t learned about McShrink, which, thank God, was launched from Sequoia’s computer.

  “Don’t you get it, Doctor Dearest? Think of the team we’d make. The guy I hired couldn’t figure out how you transferred the money. He couldn’t get past your firewall thingie or whatever it is. But you could show me. You could set me up to steal some other rich fuck’s identity, and we’d really be in business. We’d be millionaires. Hell, billionaires. Or even—well, whatever it is that comes after billionaire.”

  No doubt everyone wanted to be rich, but the naïve, awful way Betsy proposed the concept actually made me feel sorry for her. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying. But for the sake of playing along, what about this computer guy?”

  “I paid him off, duh. From the cash I got from Biff’s rat shit family. He’s some computer geek. He reads comic books, even though he’s like thirty. He’s from Outer Mesopotamia or someplace, and he needed a wad of cash to pay someone to marry him to get a green card. He’ll never say a word. But you see, now I can blackmail you and you can blackmail me. The only thing to do is get back together.”

  “You should be a marriage counselor.”

  “Look, this isn’t a joke.”

  I took a bite of the cookie Betsy threw at me. “Even if what you’re saying were true, what would I have to blackmail you with?”

  Betsy licked a fingertip of foam from her latte. “I killed him.”

  I thought I must’ve heard wrong. “Killed who?”

  “Biff, of course.” She looked at me in this uppity way. I felt like an amateur at dishonesty next to Betsy’s utter calm and resolve. Granted, I was not winning any prizes for truth telling as of late, but Betsy clearly lost what little ability she’d ever had to be honest.

  “You did what?” This was getting too weird. I didn’t know if I should find out more or run for my life.

  “Shh. Be quiet. I purposefully picked a public place to keep your reactions in check, but you still have to control that temper of yours.”

  “My temper? Do you have any idea how you—”

  “Look, there’s plenty of time to work out our personal differences. We have our whole lives ahead of us. But there you have it. I’m a murderer. Or do they still say ‘murderess’?”

  For a short while, we both sat there.

  “Well, don’t you even want to know how I did it?”

  I suppressed a perverse urge to burst out laughing. “Sure, Betsy, tell me.”

  “Well, I know they can trace where you looked on a computer, so I went to the public library for the first time since I was like ten years old. I looked up poisonous berries in a book—I was careful not to check it out—and found the exact same berries in the park by our house. I put them in his Long Island iced tea.” She hastily added, “Biff had no intention of dumping me. That was his macho bullshit. I dumped him right after you moved out. He refused to leave me alone. I was . . . I was like a prisoner in our own home. He wouldn’t take his eyes off me for a second. Finally, he fell asleep, and I snuck off to the library.”

  I nodded my head to signal validation of her words. “I see.”

  “A girl is free to change her mind.” She bent her wrist, as if gossiping. “Think of it as putting an animal to sleep. A very horny animal. Biff didn’t even suffer when it happened. He was in the middle of saying how much he’d always adored me.”

  “What did you do with the body?”

  “I dissolved it,” she quickly replied. “You know, with acid, I forget what kind. In the bathtub.”

  “What about the bones?”

  “I put them in a big sack and went back to the park. I gave the bones away to a whole bunch of stray dogs.”

  “That certainly was clever of you. And very kind to the dogs.”

  Betsy flustered with pride. “Well anyway, now you have the goods on me, too. So you see, I’m really not trying to trap you. I truly want you back.”

  Clearly, Betsy was far crazier than I’d thought. I had to keep her away from Scotty more than ever.

  I looked at my watch. “I have to go,” I lied.

  “But what about everything I said?” She scrunched her nose, as if she’d proposed we do something harmlessly naughty like eat an entire chocolate cake.

  “I have to go,” I repeated.

  “I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” she called out, as I briskly left the coffee shop.

  Well, I thought, what would McShrink do now?

  Ondine was on vacation for two weeks. But Sequoia had to know everything. It had all gone too far. If Sequoia still wanted me, we would move someplace far away, hopefully with Scotty. If I had to run away or even, yes, go to jail, Scotty would be okay living with my mother.

  As I made all these plans, there was an unexpected sense of relief at the thought of returning to a life of honesty. The good me, the real me, was making a comeback. In a way, I had Betsy to thank; I didn’t want to end up like her myself. I wondered if that was why I stayed with Betsy all those years. Like it or not, she made me be a good person. Whereas the minute she split up with me, I became a criminal.

  Still thinking like McShrink, I realized that before I talked to Sequoia, I had to know about her past. How did I know what she could or could not handle? I not only had to tell her the truth but do it in a way that caused the least emotional damage. And anyway, wouldn’t it be good for me to know more about this woman who I decided was the love of my life? We were crazy in love, but I’d been assuming that at some point she’d tell me more about herself. She was as secretive as I was, if not more so. She never brought up anything at all.

  It was my turn to go to the public library. I looked up newspaper articles from when Sequoia would have been about nine. Sure enough, a very successful brain surgeon named Dr. Clement Vargas and his wife, Gabrielle, burned to death in a house fire. But Sequoia neglected to mention that the fire was determined to have been arson. The arsonist had never been found. Not only that, she had a sister and brother who died in the fire. Sequoia, the oldest child, was away at a sleepover with a friend. There was a very sad picture of her being given a piggyback ride by a police officer to cheer her up. According to what I read, she was going to live with her father’s sister and her husband.

  Their names were Dr. Jesse Falcon, and his wife, Esther Vargas Falcon. They had a daughter named Sabrina.

  Normally—whatever normal was anymore—I might’ve gone into a state of shock over this piece of news. But the roller coaster of high highs and low lows these past months made my discovery seem like, “What’s next?” I wasn’t someone who could be trusted, so why should anyone else be any different? Maybe everyone I encountered from now on would be crooked, as if crooks found each other through some weird magnetic force. The woman I loved obviously knew I was not who I said I was. Why was she going along with it? And why help me?

  I had no idea what to say to Sequoia—whether I should confess about myself first or what. But by the time I arrived at what I’d come to think of as our apartment, I realized the situation was such a mess it didn’t matter. I had to start someplace.

  Sequoia greeted me with a long, deep kiss. I let myself savor its sweetness before easing her away. It crossed my mind that, depending how the
conversation went, it could be the last kiss I’d ever get from her.

  “What’s my name?” I used that deadpan, non-judgmental tone I remembered from my college classes in psychology.

  Sequoia frowned, like a mother wondering if her child had a fever. “Are you serious, Jesse? I don’t get it.”

  I took out the rolled up photocopies from my coat pocket and tossed them on the floor. The black-and-white news stories looked eerie on the squares of black-and-white tiles. It was like Sequoia’s whole life was entrapped in lurid news stories.

  “Dr. Jesse Falcon and his wife Esther—” I could feel myself sweating.

  “Stop!” Sequoia shrieked, looking this way and that for a way out. She tried to pry me away from the door. When she couldn’t do it, she looked up at me pleadingly.

  “Jesse, everything is perfect. Please, let it go.”

  “No.” I had no right to assume such an unwavering posture, but I did. “Talk. Tell me.”

  We stared at each other, neither of us speaking. Finally, she said, “I’ve always hated lying. Even though I do it all the time. I have to, and I’m good at it. But I guess not as good as I thought.” She took me by the hand and led me to the white sofa to sit down. But she remained standing, as if we were playing charades.

  “When I saw you in the bank, I felt like I knew you all my life. Honest. When I realized you were using my uncle’s name, I had a million questions. But when I saw you again at the hospital, none of those questions mattered. Yes, I have many secrets. But I have nothing to hide. I promise.”

  “I’m not Jesse. I’m—”

  “Yes, you are. You are because I say so. Because I can’t . . . ” Sequoia turned away from me, and with her hand muffling her voice, she said, “My father beat my mother to death. I’m sure of it.”

  Though I wanted to touch her, I decided it best to give her space. “How do you know?”

  Sequoia paced about the room with jittery hands, still never looking at me. “He beat her for years, probably before I was even born. I know that he pushed her too hard and killed her. He set the house on fire. He was a medical doctor, so he would’ve known how to make her body look . . . you know, like she died in the fire. And he took my sister and brother with her, to make it look good. I’m sure he meant to escape. That’s what he was like. But the fire must’ve spread too quickly. I cried and cried. But I knew deep inside me that I’d wished him dead. It was like God was punishing me for my evil thoughts by taking away everyone. Then, when I got older, I hated my narcissism. I mean, it wasn’t about me. My poor mother. My sister and brother. Gone forever.” She lowered her head in shame.

  “It’s natural for a child to feel like the center of the universe,” I said, still not moving toward her. “Sequoia, I have to ask. You’re sure your father set the fire?”

  She looked at me and gave an odd little laugh. “You mean did I do it? I was nine. I was into Ken dolls and girl’s soccer. I was at my best friend’s house when it happened. Her mom was making us Rice Krispie treats when the news came over the TV. My entire whereabouts were accounted for, given when the fire must’ve started. Okay?”

  For some reason, this broke the tension in the room. We laughed and made out for a while, ending up in the bedroom. I completely believed everything she told me, so I thought it only fair that I told her all about me while we fucked. I left nothing out. I guess that’s one way to break it to someone gently. “Now . . . Betsy . . . has . . . me . . . in . . . a . . . corner.” I panted through my thrusts.

  “Not . . . necessarily,” Sequoia replied. “She . . . sounds . . . crazy.”

  “That’s . . . why . . . I . . . can’t . . . trust . . . her.”

  “My . . . poor . . . Jesse . . . and . . . poor . . . poor . . . Scotty.”

  “I’m . . . not . . . Jesse.”

  She clasped her hands around my neck. “Jesse . . . suits . . . you.”

  “Okay . . . then . . . I’m . . . Jesse.”

  After we went at it a few times, I nuzzled my body next to hers. It was just sort of taken for granted that everything was our special secret.

  Suddenly I remembered something she still hadn’t explained.

  “So Jesse—I mean the real Jesse—and Esther took you in? Then who is Sabrina Falcon?”

  Sequoia moved her finger along my chest hairs, making it into a little game. “Their pampered little princess of a daughter. Even when we both got interested in art, they’d buy me smaller sets of paints than they did for Sabrina. Isn’t that petty? We were both about the same age. Sabrina would break things around the house and say I did it. Jesse and Esther had awful tempers. They’d yell at me until I wanted to disappear. I still crawl out of my skin when people start yelling, even when it’s not about me.”

  “You told me they loved you like their own.” I stroked her shining hair.

  “We both said a lot of things, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah. Life would be much easier if it were illegal to tell the truth.”

  Sequoia laughed out loud. “You’re probably right. Anyway, when I was fourteen, they were going on about what a saint my father was and how ashamed he would be of me, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I told them he was a wife beater and murderer who started the fire. I was very calm when I said it, as if . . . as if I lived on some other planet than they did. Esther slapped me across the mouth and said I was not to slander her brother ever again. Jesse said that I must never repeat this story or it would bring shame to his reputation. I had a trust fund, plus an inheritance coming to me when I turned eighteen. I wasn’t helpless. I was old for my age. I went to an attorney and became an emancipated minor. I enrolled myself in a Swiss boarding school and traveled. Esther and Jesse said they never wanted to speak to me again, which was fine with me. It turned out that Jesse had skimmed a little off the top of my trust fund and was ordered to return it. I guess what goes around comes around.”

  “I will pay him back.” I nuzzled as close as I could along her body, yet no matter how close I got, I kept wanting to be closer.

  “Fine, but don’t feel you have to do it for me.”

  "YOU SHOULD CHANGE YOUR NAME, JESSE. You and Esther and even Sabrina.”

  It was my lawyer on the phone. He was explaining to me that a common practice among victims of identity theft was to change their names. I knew that telling me to change my name wasn’t the same thing as telling me to chop off my dick, but still, it seemed ridiculously unfair. Why should I have to go through all that nonsense—not to mention my wife and daughter—simply because law enforcement was too incompetent to solve my case? It really pisses me off when I have every right to be pissed off but someone tries to calm me down, as if the only real problem was that I was pissed off. I said as much to my lawyer, who calmly went on and on about how these cases were very complicated.

  “Well, your asshole is pretty complicated, too.” I hung up the phone.

  “What is it now?” Esther came toward me, rubbing my shoulder in sympathy. I clasped her hand. It was amazing how close Esther and I had become. Maybe all those years of simply staying together were worth something after all. Esther kept all the identity theft documents for me and said that I could only look at them once a day. I had to admit it was helping a little. Too bad I couldn’t fully appreciate such happy turns of events. Only about an hour earlier, my accountant brother told me that another hundred grand had been withdrawn from my investments and placed in an offshore bank in my name. After popping a couple of extra happy pills, I called the FBI and was put on hold for forty-five minutes. I hung up and called my lawyer, whom I also hung up on. As I thought of it, probably the thing I did most anymore was hang up the phone on people.

  I explained to Esther about changing our names. She tried to make light of it.

  “Well, that’s not so bad, is it? I never cared for ‘Esther’ anyway. Maybe I could be Sophia Something. In honor of Sophia Loren.”

  I popped another pill. “I know you’re trying to help, honey, but I don’t know how
much more I can take.” Of course, the missing suicide note thing was also destroying whatever sanity I had left, but I hadn’t told Esther anything about it. It was so nice to have a real marriage again that I didn’t want to mess it up. In fact, I’d only had one hotel quickie since we’d kissed and made up—something of a record for me.

  “I suppose we should call Sabrina,” Esther said.

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  She clasped my hands. “Jesse, please. However hard this is, we need each other now more than ever. I don’t want to sound like a nagging wife, but you’re still taking too many pills and drinking on top of them. You of all people should know how bad that is.”

  “Look, you said you were going to call Sabrina. Do it already.” In times of old, this kind of remark would’ve set Esther off, but now she looked at me with an understanding sadness.

  “What do you think our new names should be?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Fred Fuck.” I went to the front door. “I’m going for a ride.”

  “You really shouldn’t be driving, dear, when you’ve—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I thanked God I was a psychologist when I called Marty Goldstein from my car.

  For the heck of it, I’d already inspected every square inch of the rooftop but was hardly surprised that Linda’s tell-all suicide note wasn’t sitting there waiting for me. I knew that it could be virtually anywhere. But since the cops took my word for what happened, they did not dig deeply. I thought the note might be in Linda’s purse, which presumably had been inside her car when she decided to go psycho on the roof. She was one of those women who practically lived out of her oversized purse. And from what she told me about Marty, he was such a schnook that it might never have occurred to him to go through her belongings for clues about her bizarre behavior. From Linda’s descriptions, he was the kind of man who had to ask for instructions for how to make a peanut butter sandwich. Apparently, though, Linda had been true to her word and never told Marty about us. Now what I needed to do was get Marty to let me look inside her car and purse. And if it turned out he already had the goods—doubtful though the possibility was—I was prepared to make a generous offer.