Identity Thief (24 page)

We stepped out into the blank night air. “A drink?” I suggested.

“Sure.” Of course this meant he’d get a Coke or something. I asked him if he was in AA, and he told me no, he just didn’t like to drink. But he had a good way of keeping up with drunk talk and never made me feel guilty for ordering yet another scotch straight up.

The first bar we came to was one of those places that looked very expensive from the outside, with almost no one on the inside. But it served alcohol, which meant it met my criteria. After feigning more interest in the movie and ordering a fresh drink, I got to the point. “I need to ask a huge favor.” The radio or whatever was playing the dumb old song, “Torn between Two Lovers.” I guessed I didn’t like it because it seemed the kind of song Linda Goldstein would’ve liked.

He gamely squeezed his slice of lime into his Coke, took a sip, and shrugged. “Ask me. I’m all ears.”

“It’s Biff,” I said. “I still can’t find him. I was wondering if I gave you a cut of my locator’s fee, could you do a little fancy computer stuff to track him down?”

My friend laughed. “Maybe someone bumped him off. He was such a shit.” He frowned and added, “Seriously, I’m not a cop or anything. Hacking for any reason could get me arrested. Assuming I could even hack that well. I’m good, but I don’t know if I’m
that
good.”

I wore a mock expression of understanding. “I understand your reluctance. I promise, no harm will come to you. You’re shielded. I swear on the lives of my wife and daughter.” I held up my right hand for full impact. “And anyway, speaking of legal, don’t you want to bring him to justice? When you’ve been a PI for as long as I have, you learn to do what you have to do.”

He waved for the cocktail server and told her to bring him a scotch. He’d never before had anything to drink in my presence. (Except, of course, for the vodka he said he drank when he tried to off himself.) We sat there quietly, waiting for his drink to arrive. When it did, I smiled at the server and gestured with my hand that her bow tie was crooked. She grinned at me flirtatiously as she straightened it. While this was going on, my pal apparently swallowed his scotch in one gulp. Staring at his empty glass, he resisted, yet savored, the drink’s burning taste.

Finally, he said, “Okay. I’ll see if I can do it.”

I gave him the most sincere expression I could muster. “I am truly grateful.”

“Wow, this case must really mean a lot to you, my friend.” He nudged my arm with his fist. “But anyway, that’s what friends are for.”

We sat there for a while. Finally, he said, “You’re sure I won’t be in any trouble? I have a wife, a son, and a mother who depend on me. I couldn’t—”

“You’re
fine
,” I reiterated, raising my glass jovially. He might not have been fine at all. Besides the FBI possibly not being amused, Biff himself could retaliate. But it’s not like I forced my friend to do anything. He agreed of his own free will. I was in pretty deeply myself, so I wasn’t asking him to do something I wouldn’t do if I had the computer skill.

He stood up and whomped me in the back. “I guess there’s no time like the present. Let’s get cracking on the case.”

“Uh, isn’t it getting kind of late? Besides, I’m sure I’d only be in the way.” I was always nervous about spending much time at his place. If his mother was there, she might recognize me as Jesse Falcon, despite my changed appearance.

He smiled but looked confused. “I thought it would be fun. But I can start it tomorrow. No, wait a second. I can start next week. I just remembered some other stuff I have to do.”

In the moment, I dangerously decided I didn’t want to wait another week. “Maybe it’s not that late after all. Sure, let’s go do it now.”

“Great. And for some of the real secret stuff, I’ll have you look the other way.” Distractedly, he took out his cell phone and texted a message. “A reminder to myself. Scotty wants a new book,” he explained.

“Scotty reads a lot, doesn’t he?” I asked. Technically, this was a mark of intelligence, but in the case of Scotty, it somehow seemed like a disability.

“Yeah, he sure does,” my friend replied, as if understanding.

He and his wife and son had moved into a spanking new—if nondescript—home in an overpriced new development just outside of town called the Paradise Cul-de-Sac. It was a large horseshoe of identical homes that all had swimming pools, shared a clubhouse, tennis courts, and jogging trails; and were walking distance to a lake so pristine it looked artificial even though it wasn’t. His mother was invited to live with them, but she said it was all a bunch of shit and was happier in her small condo. The one she’d bought from me. I got the impression she visited a lot, despite her protests.

It was even later by the time we got to the Cul-de-Sac, and I was old enough to not have to be told to be quiet upon entering because everyone was asleep. I had a passing thought about what Esther might think of the fact the entire home was done in black and white. Probably she would consider it another strike against my friend. For Esther, good taste made you a good person, and bad taste made you a bad person. But what did I know about that kind of stuff? Sabrina did those weird paintings in black and white and supposedly they were profound works of art. Maybe black and white were the new “in” colors or some shit.

We quietly walked to his office. The computer was already on. The screen saver featured a series of photos of Scotty. His glasses often produced a distracting camera glare, but my friend didn’t seem to mind. He was a father who was proud of his kid. He clicked off the screen saver as he sat himself down.

“Oh, I see you’re reading McShrink. Didn’t I tell you it was great?” I was trying to keep things friendly.

He clicked out of McShrink.com and went to his home page. “Let’s get to it,” he said.

I sat next to him and watched as a series of computer screens I’d never seen before appeared one after another. My friend kept typing in all these codes like he knew exactly what he was doing, though once or twice he paused for a moment to think. One time he even said, “Fuck.” But I couldn’t tell what had gone wrong, and he made no effort to explain himself. I saw a different side of him—the work side. He was one of those people who, when working, did not pay attention to anyone or anything else. Just as I predicted, I felt like a useless kid.

“Please turn around.” It was the first time he spoke to me in about half an hour.

“Uh, sure.” I didn’t like sitting there staring at the wall and had to remind myself he was doing me a favor.

“Okay, you can turn back around.” I obeyed but resented anyone telling me what to do for even a moment.

“Bingo.” My friend wore a sarcastic smile as he turned the screen in my direction.

Sure enough, I saw a long list of transactions by Biff, all from my various accounts into various accounts of his, and then from his account to a third list of accounts. The list didn’t have any name on it—instead, there were these weird computer codes—but I recognized all the stolen amounts of money on certain dates. I thought I’d be happy to see this once and for all, but looking at it scared me a little, like when you think you want to see a dead person only it turns out you don’t. My heart sank and a peculiar nervousness overtook me.

“Huh. So now he’s using other people’s accounts to launder money.”

My friend shook his head sadly. “Unless they’re all aliases.”

“Can you find out who he’s stealing from?” I asked, to make it seem like I had no idea.

“Hmm. I’d rather not. These innocent people have had enough violation to their privacy.”

“And he’s still off in the islands, banking away to his heart’s content?”

“Yep. As of the other day, he was in the capital city.” He typed in a few more codes and showed me an address for Biff.

I stood up and anxiously walked about the room. “I wonder who’s in on it with him. You said he doesn’t know computers, right?”

My buddy leaned back in his swivel chair to face me. “I’ve told you, Biff can’t do anything without help.”

I suddenly got a
new
sinking feeling. “Say, you’re not—I mean, you’re not in on it with him? You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

He stared at me in disbelief and had to put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing too hard. “I told you, Biff did me the biggest favor of my life by fucking Betsy. But I don’t owe him a damn thing. Really, why would you even think that? And why is this case such a big deal to you, anyway?” Before I could say anything, he pointed at me. “Holy shit. You’re fucking Betsy, aren’t you?”

I had to hand it to him—I never thought he was that smart. I took a moment to answer. “It was a quickie,” I finally replied. “I don’t like her or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

He slapped his knee. “I knew it. That is so Betsy. She can’t meet a dude without fucking him. I wonder if I’m supposed to be jealous? Anyway, what did you think?”

I kept visualizing all sorts of exotic forms of torture I wanted to perform on Biff. “Think? What did I think about what?”

He sighed with impatience. “Betsy, you dumb ass.”

“Oh, right. She was . . . I mean, I didn’t really . . . ” I didn’t know how to say that his ex-wife was such a turnoff that she just lay there like an ice sculpture. True, he hated her, but I didn’t want him to think I knew what his sex life must’ve been like all those years.

He put his hand to his mouth. “Gee, I’m sorry, dude. If you couldn’t—I guess that happens to everyone. I shouldn’t have asked.” The screen saver came back on. He tapped on the keyboard to bring the damning list of Biff’s transactions back up, as if we had not yet finished going over an x-ray.

He thought the problem was
me
? Could I live with that and let the whole thing go?

“I performed fine. I always do.” It was the God’s honest truth, I’d never had a flop in my life. I worshipped sex. I lived for it. “We weren’t compatible,” I added.

“You’d have to be Godzilla to be compatible with Betsy. God, she was insatiable.”

Betsy insatiable? Was my friend as lousy in bed as she was? I could see it was time to get back on topic. “Anyway, to answer your question, I treat every case seriously. It’s my life.”

There was a knock at the office door. “Dad?” said the sleepy voice of a child, which by process of elimination I knew had to be Scotty. He frankly hadn’t made enough of an impression on me to recognize his voice.

My buddy looked at me as if to say,
Oh great, just what we need.
“What is it, son?”

“Can I talk to you?”

He swore under his breath and put a different screen on the computer. “Okay.” Rising to open the door, he scratched his son’s head affectionately. “What is it, soldier?”

Scotty grabbed his father’s legs. “I had a bad dream.”

“How did you know I was in here? By the way, say hello to Mr. Van Sant.”

“Hey, Scotty,” I enthused.

“Hello, sir,” he replied indifferently.

“You haven’t answered my question, Scotty,” said the boy’s father.

“I heard you talking, okay? Not real well, but I heard voices.”

“How could you hear voices if you were having a bad dream?” My friend was so scrupulously honest, he was on guard for the smallest fib from his son.

“I don’t know. I just did, okay?” He grabbed his father’s legs even tighter. “There was this giant
thing
. It kept eating people. It was after me.”

“And I’ll eat you myself,” said a cranky old woman’s voice, “if you don’t get back to bed and leave your father alone.”

An older woman padded to the doorway. I panicked as I recognized her as my friend’s mother. I tried to sort of subtly look in another direction.
You’ve had plastic surgery
, I kept chanting to myself.

“Mom, this is my friend Randy whom I’ve been telling you about.”

The woman looked at me with squinty, suspicious eyes. “I can’t see a thing without my glasses, but how do you do?” She extended her hand. I had to walk over to shake it. As I did, I could smell liquor on her. Apparently familiar with this phenomenon, she said, “Yeah, I tied one on, Mr. Hoity-Toity. You got a problem with that?”

“Not at all. Done the same thing myself a million times.” I made my speaking voice slightly hoarse.

“My hat goes off to you, Mr. Van Sant. You’ll be a good influence on my son. He’s such a wimp. What an asshole.” As I politely laughed, she said, “You look kind of familiar.”

“People say that all the time. I have that kind of face.”

I was grateful on a cosmic level when she turned her attention to Scotty. “What the hell are you still doing up? Go to bed this instant. Bad dreams are good for you. They’ll put hair on your chest. They’ll make you a man.”

Scotty scooted back toward his bedroom, but then paused. “What do bad dreams do to women, Grandma?”

“They give us tits,” she replied. “Now go to sleep.” She turned to the boy’s father. “He’s too old for that help-me-daddy bad dream bullshit. It’s time you let him grow some balls. Oh, wait a minute. I’m sorry, forgot, you don’t have any yourself.” She winked at me. Though embarrassed for my friend, I winked back. It was best to not disturb her oblivion.

She bowed at us with a mock theatrical flourish. “Good night to you, gentlemen. I’m going to feel like shit tomorrow. What a bunch of shit.”

As soon as his mother departed, my friend closed the door. “I’m glad you met my mom when she was in a good mood.”

Seeing my friend humiliated and grateful to the universe that she did not recognize me, I felt humbled. “Don’t feel bad. Everyone has a mother. Shrinks would go out of business without them. In fact, I—” I caught myself from saying something about my actual life.

“You what?” We walked back to the computer and sat down.

“Nothing, nothing at all. Only that my own mother and father . . . oh, never mind.”

“No, really, go ahead.” He seemed to be aimlessly surfing the web.

“They never looked happy. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

He stopped surfing. “My mom is affectionate with no one. I try not to take it personally. I’m sorry, though, about your mom and dad. Are they still alive? My dad was a really nice guy. Everyone said so.”