Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) (7 page)

“Why did you want to end your life?”

“The doctors said it was low self-esteem, a lack of direction and purpose. I guess that’s true. I was sad and unhappy and just … you know, drifting.”

“Why? Difficult childhood?”

A vein bulged and pulsed on one temple. It was several seconds before she said, “Yes. Difficult.”

“In what way?”

“I didn’t care about anything,” she said, not answering the question. “I just wanted to die. That’s what I thought then, anyway.”

“But now you think differently.”

“Yes, but it took a long time. I was still sick after they let me out of the hospital. Not so bad that I wanted to die anymore, but I had to go back again later for more therapy before I was finally cured.”

“Cured by the therapy?”

“That, and finding work I cared about, my purpose in life—helping people who are worse off, who need me. I found Jesus, too. He really helped a lot.” She looked up at the crucifix, smiled, and reached for another cookie.

Runyon said, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Well, I’ve been telling you personal things, haven’t I.”

“Are you close to your sisters?”

The cookie stopped moving a couple of inches from her mouth. “My sisters?”

“Francine in particular.”

“Why do you want to know that?” Tense all of a sudden, the hurt in her eyes magnified and joined by some other emotion that Runyon couldn’t quite identify. Fear, maybe.

“The reason I’m here,” he said. “Bryn Darby and her son.”

“I told you, I don’t know anyone named Bryn Darby.”

“Francine does. You know she’s engaged to be married?”

“… No, I didn’t know.”

“You’re not close, then. Don’t communicate often.”

“No. I haven’t seen her in…” She dammed up the rest of what she’d been about to say by shoving the entire cookie into her mouth. Ate it so fast, glancing up again at the crucifix, that crumbs dribbled out unchecked; she choked on one of the swallows and that started a spate of coughing. Her face was a mosaic of pink and dark red splotches.

Runyon watched her get the coughing under control, dab at her mouth with the napkin, then begin picking the crumbs off her lap one by one and depositing them on the plate. At length he asked, “Why don’t you get along with Francine, Ms. Whalen?”

“I don’t have to answer that.” Not looking at him, still picking crumbs.

“No, you don’t. So you don’t care that she’s engaged.”

“Why should I? She doesn’t care about me.”

“What about your other sister?”

“Tracy? Francine doesn’t care about her, either.”

“But you do?”

“Yes, but she lives in Southern California. We talk on the phone sometimes, but I haven’t seen her in … I don’t know, a long time.” Gwen Whalen’s head came up. “Why are you asking me all these questions? What do my sisters have to do with Bryn Darby and her son?”

Runyon said, “The man Francine is engaged to is Bryn’s ex-husband, Robert Darby. They live together in San Francisco.”

“Living together before marriage is a sin.”

“The boy lives with them—he’s nine years old. The father has custody.”

Her eyes rounded. “Nine?” she said.

“Francine takes care of him while the father works. The boy doesn’t like her. His mother thinks he’s afraid of her, that he has good reason to be.”

“Oh, my Lord!”

“Can you tell me why a little boy would be afraid of your sister?”

“No!” Neither a negative response nor a denial, but a cry of anguish. “No, no, no!”

“He has a fractured arm, bruises—”

“Don’t tell me; I don’t want to hear it!” She heaved to her feet, stood spraddle legged with her hands in front of her, palms outward, as if warding off an attack. Her gaze was back on the crucifix. “O Jesus, look down in mercy. Forgive our sins, forgive those who have sinned against us.”

“Francine hurt you and Tracy, didn’t she? When you were growing up.”

Violent headshake.

“Please tell me. I need to know.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour—”

“For the boy’s sake. To keep him from being hurt anymore.”

She backed up, still shaking her head. Stumbled against a corner of the couch and staggered off-balance—would have fallen if Runyon hadn’t come up fast out of his chair and caught her arm to steady her. There was a gathering hysteria in her face, the whites of her eyes showing. She wrenched free of him, cringing, as if his touch terrified her.

“You have to leave now. You have to leave. Go away, go away,
go away!
”

There was nothing he could do but comply. And in a hurry. If he’d lingered, he felt sure she would have started screaming.

8

I was home watching a Discovery Channel special on sea otters with Emily when Tamara called on my cell. Not the Seriously Adult Tamara this time, Furious Tamara, one I’d only met a few times, and glad of it. Spitting so much fire I could almost feel the blistering heat coming over the phone wire.

It took a few seconds to straighten out what she was saying. “R. L. McManus isn’t Virden’s ex-wife? That’s what he told you?”

“Claimed we made a mistake. Said we were incompetent. Said he was stopping payment on his checks and taking his business to another agency.”

“What’d you say to him?”

“Not what I felt like saying. Told him I hadn’t made a mistake, has to be another explanation, but the man wouldn’t listen. Said he ought to know his ex when he saw her, even after eight years, and hung up on me.”

“Can’t argue with that. The part about him knowing his ex when he saw her—”

“Don’t you start telling me I screwed up.”

“I wasn’t going to. You don’t make that kind of mistake.”

“Damn straight I don’t. Not on a simple trace, not on
any
trace with as much starter info as that dude handed you. Just to make sure, I double-checked. Everything says R. L. McManus is Virden’s first wife.”

I thought back to the few minutes I’d spent with the woman. “I asked her if she was Roxanne Lorraine McManus and she didn’t deny it, just said she preferred to use her initials. She didn’t deny Virden was her ex-husband, either … though come to think of it, she didn’t offer any confirmation.”

“Can’t be two women with that name, or I’d’ve turned it up. And Virden wouldn’t have any reason to lie, right? He says she’s not his ex, then she’s not.”

“Despite the resemblance. Right.”

“Well, then? Tell you the same thing it tells me?”

“Identity theft,” I said.

“Yeah. Whoever that Canine Customers bitch is, she’s passing as the real Roxanne McManus and has been for the past seven years.”

I’d taken the phone out into the kitchen; I made two passes back and forth, thinking it out. Identity theft is a huge crime problem these days, with staggering numbers of victims nationwide—something like twelve million the previous year and that number rising annually by double-digit percentage points. Most of the cases were low-tech and committed for quick profit, but there were plenty of incidents of individuals whose entire lives had been taken over—and sometimes ended—by identity thieves. Only a few of the cases we’d handled to date had involved that type of scam, none of them major, but I knew someone who’d had a hellish personal experience with one—Sharon McCone, good friend and fellow investigator, in a high-profile case a few years back.

I said, “The real McManus was last seen in Blodgett, before she moved away to go into business with a friend she’d just met. You turn up anything along those lines?”

“Nothing. So maybe the friend’s the look-alike thief?”

“Maybe. If it was a woman.”

“Well, whoever the impostor is, she must’ve done away with the real McManus. Nobody falls off the radar for seven years if they’re still aboveground.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said. “Could be a case of swapped identities. That kind of thing happens now and then.”

“Yeah, well, what do we do now? Can’t just let it slide.”

“See what you can find out about the other woman at Canine Customers, Jane Carson. We owe the client that much follow-up.”

“Not if he stops payment on his checks we don’t.”

“I’ll try to talk him out of that. Once he understands we’re not at fault, he may be more reasonable.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it. Probably hang up on you like he did on me.”

“One step at a time. Or don’t you want to run the Carson check?”

“Sure I do. Won’t do our rep any good unless we find out what’s going on here.”

“Okay then.”

“And when we do find out? Notify the law?”

“Not our call without definite proof of fraud. Up to Virden if he wants to pursue it.”

“Better get in touch with him right away,” she said, “let him know what we suspect. And don’t forget about his stop-payment threat.”

“Yes, boss.”

That got me a sardonic little chuckle. Furious Tamara was all through venting; Seriously Adult Tamara was back in the saddle. “I’ll be in the office awhile, you want to call me back.”

“As soon as I talk to Virden,” I said.

Only I didn’t talk to Virden. My call to his cell went straight to voice mail. I left an urgent call-back message, but it didn’t get returned.

*   *   *

Tamara had another surprise for me when I walked into the agency Wednesday morning. She came out of her office while I was shedding my overcoat and said without preamble, “This McManus thing gets weirder and weirder. Far as I can find out, the other woman doesn’t exist.”

“What other woman?”

“Jane Carson. City business license for Canine Customers lists R. L. McManus as sole owner and operator, no employees. Real estate outfit that handles the lease doesn’t have any record of a Jane Carson living at the Twentieth Street address, and neither does any other source.”

“So she could be living somewhere else.”

“Uh-uh. Lot of Jane Carsons in the city and the Bay Area, and none of ’em match.”

“Could be she recently moved here from out of state, hasn’t been here long enough to trace.”

“That’d make her a new hire then, right?”

“Or a new roomer. McManus rents out rooms, with or without the property owner’s knowledge and permission; there’s a sign on the fence in front.”

“Carson’s not either one,” Tamara said. “You told me she handled that Rottweiler like a pro. Can’t just walk in off the street and take over handling a big trained watchdog. Takes time, plenty of patience. Woman has to’ve been working or living there for weeks, if not months.”

I conceded the point.

“So if her real name’s Jane Carson and she’s had experience with dogs, I should’ve been able to get a hit on her on one of the real-time sites. Wasn’t even a hint.”

“So you think it’s an assumed name?”

“Or else there’re two identity thieves in that house.”

“Possible, but we don’t want to make any judgment leaps here. Or get too deeply involved without client sanction. Besides, there’s a catch in the scenario we’ve been building up.”

“What catch?”

“The profit motive. I can see an opportunist stealing the real Roxanne McManus’s ID in order to lay hands on the money she got from the sale of her pet shop seven years ago. But then why use it to lease a house here in the city, start up a dog-boarding business, and continue to live as McManus? She can’t be making that much out of Canine Customers.”

“Maybe she’s got herself a sideline.”

“You didn’t find any record of one.”

“Wouldn’t be a record if it was something illegal.”

“Then why is she supplementing her income by renting out a room or rooms? It doesn’t add up.”

Tamara admitted grudgingly that it didn’t seem to.

“How much is the monthly nut on her lease?” I asked.

“Thirty-five hundred. Cheap for property that size—some new loft apartments in the neighborhood are renting for that much—but still a lot of green.”

“More than you and I could afford. Factor in utilities, food, general expenses, and she has to be laying out a minimum of six thousand a month. Where’s the money coming from?”

“Yeah, where?”

“How much did the Blodgett pet shop sell for, do you know?”

“No, didn’t seem important at the time. But I’ll find out.”

“Small business in a little town near the Oregon border—couldn’t’ve been a large amount.”

“Might be enough to explain the original ID theft. Phony McManus could’ve talked her into selling.”

“The whole thing still seems off to me. Why would she use stolen money to move here, lease a house, and then spend seven years as a dog boarder and room renter?”

“Could’ve had some cash of her own.”

“Then why not set herself up in a better location, and in a more lucrative business?”

Tamara said, “Maybe she’s not greedy. Just wanted a house, enough income to live the way she wants.”

“Identity theft is a hell of a risk to run for that kind of return.”

“Doesn’t explain where this Jane Carson fits in, either. Damn.”

I said, “Find out the sale price on the pet shop. I’ll see if I can get hold of Virden.”

“Funny he didn’t return your call.”

“Not if he was as angry as you said he was.”

In my office I put in a call to Virden’s cell number. Out of Service message, this time. His place of business was Hungerford and Son, a San Jose firm that manufactured parts for washers, dryers, and other large appliances; the Hungerford number was on the card he’d given me. The woman who answered there said Mr. Virden was out of the office today and she didn’t know where he could be reached.

He’d handwritten both his cell and residence numbers on the back of the card, so I tried the home one. Answering machine. Well, hell. I left a similar message to the one on his voice mail last night, stressing the importance of a callback ASAP.

Tamara came in through the connecting door. “Ten thousand for the pet shop,” she said.

“About what I figured. Enough to make an initial ID theft worthwhile, but that’s about all. Unless the real McManus had other assets—a trust fund, something like that.”

“She didn’t. I checked first time around.”

“What about the aunt? Money of her own, maybe a large insurance policy with her niece as beneficiary?”