Scammed (8 page)

“I tell you I'm
not—
” Greg began, but was cut off by the newcomer.

“Who are
you
?” Malc demanded.

“I told you,” the first clerk said. “It's Lothian—the guy who ripped us with that dud cheque.”

“I didn't,” Greg snapped.

“He's not,” Malc added. “This isn't the man who bought the TV. This isn't Lothian at all.”

• • •

It took a long time, a stack of ID and several phone calls, but at last the facts of the matter were sorted out. Greg was the victim of fraud. He couldn't think how it had happened—and then he remembered: the theft of his wallet from the gas station. That's what must have done it. He'd cancelled his credit cards and replaced his driver's licence, but the documentation in the stolen wallet—including, of course, his Social Insurance card—had been more than enough for identity theft. That possibility might even have occurred to him, had not the other troubles erupted in his life.

Bearing the phony cheque, Greg hurried to the bank where the account had been set up by his bogus alter-ego. After a rigmarole that was becoming sickeningly familiar, his true identity was established and the account cancelled. In Greg's opinion, the people at the bank could have been more sympathetic. Their only advice was that he inform the police, which was the next stop on his agenda anyway.

Detective Sergeant Mike Tremblay, of the Victoria City Police Fraud Squad, was a large, amiable man with a ginger buzz cut and pale, shrewd eyes. Greg got in to see him early the same afternoon. Though patient and civil, Tremblay was not exactly overwhelmed by his plight; obviously, the sergeant had heard the identical lament a thousand times before.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Lothian,” he said, “but you must realize that there's not much we can do at this point. Now that we have your details, we'll add them to our data bank, of course. When you're contacted by other people who've been scammed in your name—and you will be, believe me—you can refer them to us. We do catch these crooks from time to time. And if your ID comes up when we bust someone, we'll let you know. Apart from that, all I can say is I'm sorry. And next time, be more careful of your wallet.”

Greg knew that he should have expected no more than this, but he was annoyed nonetheless, so much so that he found himself blurting out—if only to make this guy just a little more understanding—the story of what had happened to his parents. When he finished, his only reward was a brief shake of the head.

“Yeah, that's tough, Mr. Lothian,” Detective Tremblay said. “It seems your family has been having a really bad time lately. When this sort of thing happens, people are always hurt and amazed, and the question I'm most often asked is, why we don't do more to stop it. Well, sir, it's a hard and tricky world. From where I stand, it's getting rougher all the time, what with drugs and guns and gangs—yeah, even here in Victoria—and, of course, the damn Internet, which is the biggest gift to the rogue element since the invention of money. And although we're working harder than ever to contain them, to be honest, it's only on my best days that I feel we're even keeping even. You've obviously had some bad experiences, Mr. Lothian, but sadly, I hear your kind of story every day. If I had more men, better resources, ten times the budget for public information programs, not to mention police overtime, things might be better. But, frankly, even that's a damn big
if
.”

Frustrated, Greg shook his head. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Keep your wits about you, and your eye on your wallet,” the detective smiled bleakly, “and get over it.”

• • •

When he arrived home at the apartment, it was nearly 5:00. He'd wasted most of an entire day patching up the shredded mess of his life. By habit, he checked the mail, again finding nothing. Then, with a flash of understanding that almost made him nauseous, he tumbled to the obvious: this abrupt and unexplained lack had to be connected with the theft of his identity. How it could have been done, or exactly why, he didn't know, but it was pretty clear that someone was stealing his mail.

If that was the case, however, it was too late in the day to do anything about it. Fuming, he went upstairs and started to make supper; then he realized that what he wanted was a good stiff belt of Glenfiddich. Since he'd only acquired the taste, there was none in the apartment, but feeling as he did, he was damned if that was going to stop him. There was a liquor store a block away on Oak Bay Avenue. Suspending his supper preparations, Greg left the apartment almost at a trot, on an errand that recently would have seemed shocking to him.

But though the whisky did its soothing work, it also seemed out of place in his own home, vaguely distasteful and perhaps even cowardly. Confining himself to one decent-sized drink and a smaller follow-up, he ate supper, then made a pot of coffee and turned on his computer.

What he realized was that he knew far too little about the sort of crime that had come calling on his parents, and now himself. Oh, he'd seen reports in the newspaper and on TV about theft and fraud of all kinds, but he hadn't paid attention. Secure in his careful and complacent world, he'd always felt above such distasteful matters, a naïve notion that a double dose of grim reality had suddenly shattered. Detective Tremblay had seemed to regard the Internet as just one more irritant that criminals used to make his life harder. What he had not added was that the same instrument could be a source of protection. Greg intended to use it to bring himself up to date so he could begin, at last, to live in the real world.

With his PC fired up, he went to Google and in the search window typed “Identity Theft.” The result was amazing. Literally thousands of websites were listed, the first few of which provided so much information that Greg didn't stir from the screen until after midnight.

Having familiarized himself with the overall picture, he then concentrated specifically on mail theft. It was depressingly easy: stolen ID was used to have the owner's mail forwarded to another address. Bank statements then provided access to account numbers; pre-approved credit-card offers could be accepted and used to build up massive debt; personal information was fodder for an array of criminal activities—all in the victim's name. Should there be any cheques or cash in the mail, that was just a bonus.

Of course, now that he suspected what had happened, he could alert the post office right away, but that wouldn't stop the thieves from using the information they had already gained, nor would it be much help in catching them. As soon as mail ceased being forwarded, they'd know they'd been rumbled and move on. In cases Greg read about online, one fact was always made clear: when the post office received notification of a bogus forwarding, it was their policy not to reveal the false address. This was probably intended to prevent irate dupes from taking the law into their own hands. Which was all very well and good but, assuming the information went to law enforcement, what could
they
do? Very little, if Greg's meeting with Sergeant Tremblay was any guide. To be fair, fake addresses were usually box numbers, nearly impossible to monitor.

The only thing that made Greg pause during his online exploration was the urge to refresh his drink: as the night wore on, the notion of whisky in his apartment didn't seem quite so distasteful. But the liquor didn't dull his concentration; if anything, it made it more intense. And by the end of the night, when the information had soaked in and the initial distress somewhat abated, he was left with two basic certainties: first, more than anything, he desired the bastard who'd callously stolen his life—his own personal “account inspector”—to be caught; second, no one in any official capacity was likely to be much help in this endeavour.

At 12:30 he turned off the computer and collapsed into bed. The Scotch he'd drunk did provide the blessing of instant oblivion.

Some time later he jerked awake, his head almost exploding with the shock of a new realization. Of course! The theft of his identity and the scam on his parents were connected. According to the bank manager, the older Lothians had been targeted because someone had got hold of their personal information. What better source than the tax package Mary Lothian had sent to him? It hadn't arrived because, along with the rest of Greg's mail, it had been intercepted. This meant that the crooks who'd stolen his ID and those who'd scammed his parents were probably one and the same.

Ever since Greg had found his mailbox empty, the truth had been staring him in the face. Now he had to face an even more uncomfortable fact: the catalyst of it all had been his own carelessness. If he hadn't lost his wallet, none of this would have happened.

Greg slept no more that night. Bitterness and outrage consumed him as, over and over, he went through the events of the last weeks, but his worst reaction was terrible guilt. His mind became prey to such dark thoughts that, by the time dawn was showing through the curtains, he thought he might be going crazy.

It was then, in response to desperation or just by dumb luck, that he had his extraordinary idea.

G
reg arrived at his local post office branch at opening time, with his story well rehearsed. Although he had arranged to have his mail forwarded several weeks ago—so went the tale—there was one important letter that didn't seem to have arrived at the new destination. At this point he wasn't sure if it hadn't been sent, or if he
had
received it at his original address but, in the flurry of moving, misplaced it. So he had just one question: would it be possible to check the actual date on which he'd arranged to have the forwarding begin?

The clerk was a pleasant young woman who, after checking his ID, noting the old address on his driver's licence—but not, luckily, asking for details of the new one—went out back to check the records. So far, so good. His strategy now was straightforward: in the slim chance that there was no record of a forwarding order, he'd know he'd been mistaken about mail theft, but if a date
was
provided, then he'd be sure his fears were correct.

In a couple of minutes, the clerk returned. With a smile, she wrote something on a piece of paper and slid it across to him. “There we are, Mr. Lothian. Is that what you need?”

Greg looked at the paper. What was written was a date three weeks previously. “Yes. Thanks very much.”

“You're welcome. I hope it helps you find that letter.”

Greg nodded, trying not to show his elation. In this brief operation, he had achieved two objectives: he was now certain that his mail was being stolen, and he'd found this out without disturbing the operation. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I'm sure it'll help me one way or another.”

Feeling almost like a con artist himself, Greg left the post office.

• • •

The idea that had come to him at the end of his long, sleepless night was so simple, he was amazed it had taken so long. Stripped down, it amounted to this: since it was impossible, or at best impractical, to track the criminals, the answer was to lure them into the open. The perfect instrument for this was the very thing that was causing so much trouble: the mail. This could be turned around, made into a trap. All he needed was the right bait.

Greg went home and thought about it all day. While doing so, he cleaned and tidied his apartment, letting his mind quietly pick away at all the possibilities and permutations. However the trap turned out, it should not involve this apartment: that would be too dangerous, and it was also unlikely that the thief could be lured here. Also, whatever plan
did
emerge, it should be set in motion soon: if the mail forwarding was allowed to continue too long, that in itself could provoke suspicion.

Around suppertime, he got an urge for a Scotch. Pouring from his newly acquired—and expensive—bottle reminded him of the still-substantial stash at his parents' house, and then the next piece of the puzzle fell into place. Of course! Isolated Riverbottom Road was the perfect location for his trap.

By mid-evening, he'd also figured out the bait.

• • •

Dear Greg,

I hope you are managing to cope with the sudden death of our
parents. I'm afraid that this week it really has been preying on my
mind, especially since my bad back has made it impossible for me to
do anything much but lie around. Neither of us were very close to Mum
and Dad, I know, so I'm surprised how much I seem to be missing the old
dears. Do you think we should hold the memorial in Duncan? If so, it
shouldn't be for at least a month or so, when hopefully I'm more able to
get around.

It's good of you to do all the clearing up at the old place. I wish I
could help, but the doctor says I must rest. You're terribly busy, which
means you'll only be able to get up from Victoria on weekends. That
doesn't matter, of course, even if it takes till the end of summer to
clear out the house for selling. But unfortunately, Riverbottom Road is
such an isolated location that, should word get out that the house
is unoccupied, it'd be easy for thieves to ransack it undisturbed. I don't
know if people going by on the Cowichan River can see that there's no one
there. I sure hope not. But there's one thing I think you should see to right
away. Remember that little safe in Dad's studio, where he used to keep
the money when he sold pictures for cash, to avoid declaring the income
for taxes? I don't know if you realized, but as recently as last Christmas,
the old fox had thousands of dollars in there. You should check that out
right away and get the money in the bank. Everything else can be done
at leisure. Maybe in a while, when I'm feeling better, I can help.