by Diane Kelly
I’d hit another wall. I was trained as a street cop, not a detective. I wasn’t Nancy Drew or Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher. I was in over my head on this case.
I carried the cell phone and credit card applications over to Selena. I blocked the number I’d dialed on Selena’s phone in case whoever owned the phone tried to return the call. I also made sure Selena had her voicemail programmed to offer only the default automated greeting, so that the person wouldn’t be able to identify her if they did call back.
I handed her the phone, and laid the printouts on the counter in front of her. “You recognize this handwriting?”
She eyed the forms for a moment, then shook her head. “Nope. Should I?”
“Not necessarily.”
I showed the applications to Dante, too, who’d come in to retrieve a citation pad. “What do you think?”
He looked the papers up and down. “I think we’re out of our league.”
No kidding. “The only thing I know is that the thief is left-handed.” I pointed to the signature. “See how the letters slant to the left?”
Dante cocked his head. “Couldn’t the person who filled that out fake the handwriting, too?”
He had a point. But still, the writing was familiar and the fact that both were signed similarly told me this was the identity thief’s real handwriting.
I didn’t want to do it, but I was at a loss and I had to protect the kids of Jacksburg. I telephoned Sheriff Dooley, again waiting through a series of transfers before he came on the line. I told him about the handwritten applications and the additional boxes that had been delivered.
“I told you not to waste my time with this bullshit, Captain Muckleroy. Those kids are gonna end up with lousy credit anyway. Nobody worth a shit ever grew up in Jacksburg.”
My blood boiled in my veins. Damn snob. “Let’s say it was one of your precious kids over there in Hockerville. What would you do next?”
“In that case, I’d put an undercover man on watch at the Parker place.”
The Jacksburg PD wasn’t a busy department, but we ran lean and couldn’t spare an officer to sit and watch the place all day. Besides, everyone in town knew the few Jacksburg cops by sight. Even in plain clothes we’d be easily identified. The thief wouldn’t stop at the house with one of us in the area.
I thanked the sheriff, even though he’d offered me nothing of use. He hung up without another word.
I had no idea what to do next. But when in doubt, Google. I ran a search with the term “identity theft.” Dozens of sites came up and I scrolled through them, skipping the ones that marketed credit repair services, perusing those that explained how thieves obtained personal data on their victims. Several mentioned the term Trey had used, phishing, and noted that identity thieves often hit up people for information through bogus e-mails purporting to be sent by financial institutions or government offices.
One site noted that the thief is often a family member, friend, or co-worker with easy access to the victim’s personal information. That theory didn’t seem to apply in this case. Three kids in one town as small as Jacksburg weren’t all likely to have a criminal relative. Their friends would be more interested in their Hot Wheels or Barbie dolls than their social security numbers. The children’s work consisted of learning the alphabet and gluing macaroni to construction paper, so they didn’t have co-workers with access to their data.
Each of the sites recommended the victims file a police report, which the parents had done. Like that’s going to help in Jacksburg. All the kids of Jacksburg had was me, and I was out of ideas.
***
On my way home from work, I stopped by the Heidenheimers’, the Motts’, and Savannah’s, showing everyone the credit card applications. None of them recognized the handwriting and none had ever heard of Made-Up Manufacturing. When I arrived home, I consulted Dad and Uncle Angus, but the result was the same. Neither recognized the handwriting. Neither had heard of Made-Up Manufacturing.
At 7:00, Trey arrived at my dad’s dressed in worn jeans, ratty high-top sneakers that were once white but had since faded to a sickly gray, and a sweatshirt that read HOCKERVILLE HIGH COMPUTER CLUB.
“Had to dig deep in the drawer to find this one.” Trey put his arms out and turned side to side as if modeling for me. “No sense getting dolled up to service a septic tank.”
I put a hand on Trey’s shoulder and stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss, probably one of the last I’d ever lay on him. “Thanks for helping out.”
I couldn’t believe I was actually looking forward to the disgusting task that lay ahead. Of course, my enthusiasm was only because I’d get to spend more time with Trey, time that was rapidly ticking away. I’d asked him, Dad, and Angus to help me take care of Lucas’s clients while he was in rehab. All three had agreed without a second’s hesitation.
Dad followed us outside. Lucas’s truck was in the driveway where Trey had parked it the night before after our evening of romance in the freezer cell. I’d given him a ride home on my bike, enjoying the feel of him pressed against my back. It had felt so warm, so right. Sad that I’d likely never feel it again.
Dad drove the tank truck with Trey in the passenger seat. Uncle Angus and I followed on his Kawasaki. According to Lucas’s records, today’s job was the Barrington estate. The Barringtons were old money, oil money, Texas royalty. Their estate consisted of a five-thousand square foot plantation-style home on twenty or so acres set back off a county road. Though the acreage straddled the Jacksburg and Hockerville city limits, the Barringtons had chosen to build the house in the northwestern portion of the property to ensure themselves a more prestigious Hockerville address.
After we’d checked in at the house, telling Mr. Barrington the little white lie that Lucas Glick had a family emergency and had hired us to assist, we made our way into the backyard with the truck, camp lanterns, and flashlights to set about our dirty deed, removing the effluent of the affluent.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called Lucas for instructions. He said he’d just finished a group therapy session.
“How was it?” I asked.
He was quiet for a moment. “It was some sad shit, Marnie. These people are really screwed up.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Lucas was the most screwed-up person I knew. At least they were all in the right place to turn their lives around. “We’re at the Barringtons. Where do we start?”
“First thing you gotta do is put on gloves and a mask. There’s a box under the passenger seat.”
Still holding the phone in one hand, I pulled the box out from under the truck’s seat with the other, tossing gloves and white masks to the men.
“What now?” I said into the phone.
“Locate the manhole,” he said. “It’s under the mesquite tree.”
“Locate the manhole,” I called. “Under the mesquite.”
Trey scanned the ground with his flashlight.
“Found it!” Angus called.
Lucas walked me through the process, and I called out orders to the men. While they wrangled to connect the hose, I took a few steps back toward the house where I could speak with Lucas without noise interference.
“How’re you doing, Lucas?”
He said nothing for a moment, only his shallow breaths audible through the phone. “It’s tough here, Marnie,” he said, finally. “I can’t remember the last time I went a whole day without a drink, and I’m going on day two now. I got the shakes. Bad.”
“Give it time, Lucas. You can do this.”
“I got to, Marnie. I can’t keep going on the way I was.”
We were both quiet for a moment.
“How’s Tosh?” he asked.
“Rotten cat. He’s chewed up my houseplants, slept on my clean towels, and coughed up a hairball on my pillow.”
Lucas chuckled. “You’re not fooling me.”
Busted. Despite Tosh’s faults, the cat was affectionate and entertaining. I enjoyed having the
sweet critter around. He’d even let me shave his matted hair.
After Lucas walked us through the rest of the process, we wrapped up our call. “Stay strong, Lucas,” I said.
“I’ll try, Marnie. I’ll try.”
***
After returning to my house and showering, Trey and I sat on the porch swing, cuddling under a heavy crocheted afghan my mother had made years ago. The two of us talked about everything and nothing at all, comfortable talk, the talk of people who belong together. Trey had his arm around me, occasionally running his thumb down my upper arm, each time sending a thrill through me. I’d give anything to make love to him again, but I wasn’t about to have sex here, not with my dad in the house. Besides, this was nice, too, just being with Trey, being close in a non-physical way.
Eventually I couldn’t fight the yawns anymore and I checked my watch. Ten after midnight. I gathered the blanket around myself and stood. “We’ve both got to work in the morning. We better get to bed.”
Trey grinned. “Sounds good to me.”
“You in your bed, me in mine.”
“Damn.”
“We still on for lunch?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Trey and I engaged in a long, lingering kiss at the door, both of us knowing we needed to get some sleep, neither of us wanting to be apart. It was pure bliss. And pure torture.
Trey took a step back and looked me in the eye. “I love you, Marnie.”
My heart writhed in my chest. “I love you, too, Trey. Dang it.”
He wrapped his arms around me, pulled me to him, and for a moment we clung to each other like our lives depended on it. In a way, maybe they did.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HACKING
At 8:00 Tuesday morning, I sat on my motorcycle behind the Welcome to Jacksburg sign, listening to the Ramones’ “Baby, I Love You.” The morning was cool and windy, an occasional dirt devil spinning over the adjacent, now-barren cornfields.
I heard it approach. The distinctive drone of a high-performance motorcycle engine. The Ninja. Wow. The bike had been fixed in record time.
Heart pounding like a sledgehammer, I raised my radar gun and aimed it at the crest of the hill. The bike topped the rise doing sixty-seven. Technically two miles over the limit, but not so fast that I’d normally pull someone over and ticket them for it. I stared at the readout and slowly lowered the gun, watching as the motorcycle continued to head toward me. Warm tears formed in my eyes.
I don’t want this guy. I want Trey. But I couldn’t have him. Not forever, anyway.
I bowed my head and closed my eyes, trying to squeeze back the tears. When the Ninja passed by, the rider beeped his horn at me. Beep-beep! I didn’t even bother to look up.
The engine noise faded, then grew louder again, as the bike made an illegal U-turn across the grass median and drove back toward me again from the other direction. The racing of the engine told me he was clearly exceeding the speed limit now, probably by at least twenty miles per hour at that point, but with tears pooling in my goggles, I couldn’t see straight. I was in no condition to chase this guy down. Besides, the way he was taunting me could mean trouble. I wasn’t in the mood for another chase.
He zipped behind me on the northbound lanes, beeping his horn again and pulling another illegal U-turn across the grass fifty yards north of me. I was in all-out sobs by then, my chest heaving, the bell attached to my motorcycle, the one Trey had given me, tinkling as the bike shook.
Tires screeching, the motorcycle headed toward me again. The rider weaved back and forth across the lanes without signaling, clearly trying to entice me to chase him. He slowed to a stop just across the highway from me, only two lanes of asphalt separating us. He sat there, revving his engine, watching me. With the helmet’s dark face plate closed, I couldn’t tell anything about him. But I didn’t want to know anything about him anymore. Trey was the only man I wanted.
I could’ve written the Ninja’s rider several hundred dollars’ worth of tickets for speeding, the illegal U-turns, exhibition of acceleration, and illegal lane changes, but I just couldn’t do it. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Choking back my sobs, I started my engine, pulled my bike around in a half circle, and headed back to Jacksburg. In my side mirror I noticed the rider lift his face plate to watch me go, but by then I was too far away to make out any of his facial features even if I’d wanted to.
***
When I returned to the station, I left my helmet and goggles on until I reached the ladies’ room. I grabbed a stack of paper hand towels to blot the tears from my face. I punched the button for the hot air dryer and held the helmet under it for several minutes to dry the damp lining, soaked with my tears.
I emerged from the bathroom to find Chief Moreno standing at the front counter chatting with Selena, a Red Vine protruding from his mouth, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand.
I grabbed the credit card applications off my desk and took them to the chief. “Any chance you recognize this handwriting?”
After setting his coffee mug on the counter, he took the applications in one hand and grabbed the end of the Red Vine with the other. He bit off a chunk and chewed as he looked them over. He swallowed. “Sorry, Marnie. Doesn’t look familiar at all.” He handed them back to me and bit off another piece of licorice. “Write many tickets this morning?”
I shook my head. “Not a single one.”
“Better get busy,” the chief said. “No tickets, no Christmas bonuses this year.”
I gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir. I’ll see that every driver who goes through town gets a citation.”
“That’s my girl.”
***
A couple of hours later, I headed to Jacksburg Elementary to meet Trey for our lunch date. I racked my brain on the way over. Where had I seen that signature? Being unable to pinpoint the source of the handwriting was giving me a fit. The knowledge was in my brain’s memory somewhere if I could only access the file.
Maybe hypnosis could free up the information. Maybe I should consult Madame Beulah again. Nah, she’d been wrong about Trey. She’d said he’d disappoint me, and he hadn’t. Especially not in the sack. Heh-heh.
I pulled into the parking lot of the old brick schoolhouse and parked my bike. I didn’t see the Lincoln, but Trey had probably parked in the visitor lot out back.
As I looked at the building, it hit me. On Sunday, when Trey and I had been talking about the identity theft problem, Zane had interrupted us several times, telling me that each of the other victims were students in his class. The school was potentially the unifying factor. Why haven’t I thought of this before? Some detective I was. More like a duh-tective.
A spicy, beefy smell greeted me as I came through the door, making my stomach growl. Sloppy Joes again. Yum. After I checked in with Gwennie in the office, she gestured toward the workroom behind her. “Trey said you’d be coming by. He’s back there.”
I circled around the counter and stepped into the workroom. The space housed a large, noisy copier, a laminating machine, and the server for the school’s computer network. Finished with his work, Trey stood at the counter, sliding a set of small tools into a black vinyl pouch. One of the single teachers, a thin brown-haired girl in her early twenties, was chatting up Trey. A dart of jealously made a bulls-eye in my heart.