Identity Thief Read online

  It enraged me that I was so close to finding Biff, yet still so far away. I’d gotten to know Betsy’s ex—a nice but schmucky guy—but I didn’t want to come across as foaming at the mouth to catch Biff. It might raise suspicions, even with such a trusting soul as this guy was. I had to kind of hang back a little and wait for the right time to ask for more information. But it drove me crazy, keeping it all to myself. I figured it would only make Esther upset to know that I was getting ever more dirt on my fingers.

  “I’ve never seen you more at peace,” Esther said, whose rose-colored glasses mistook my resigned cynicism for contentment. To outsiders, it can be a thin line between happiness and bitterness, especially when you are incapable of thinking anything bad or don’t care about the person in question. “Really, Jesse, the cloud finally has a silver lining. You’re a better human being.”

  If anything had a humbling effect on me, it was pulling the plug on the desperate Linda Goldstein. Also in the back of my mind, I wondered if I’d be arrested for murder. But I couldn’t say any of this. Yet in a completely illogical way, it pissed me off that Esther didn’t know what I didn’t tell her. Something about niceness stemming from ignorance always got on my nerves. There’s something so smarmy about it.

  As for Sabrina, she would blithely ask if there were any new developments with what she called the identity theft “thing,” like she was asking if we’d finished remodeling the kitchen yet. My unhappiness seemed barely to register with her, which I found deeply annoying. Once I even blurted out that she was a spoiled brat, though afterward I assured her I was only kidding.

  Life is waiting for something to happen until you get so pissed off you make it happen yourself. Just as I had to figure out about Biff without any help from the cops, so did I realize I’d have to bring him to justice myself. I’d have to find him, entrap him, and then turn him over to law enforcement. My accountant brother and I were no longer on speaking terms. That’s where my new friend came in or should I say my only friend?

  It felt strange even to say I had a friend because I’d never really made close friends with anyone. Sex with women was how I bonded with people, if you don’t count students I mentored or my patients. I suppose you’d also have to count the ones from either group I had sex with. From the time I hit puberty, I didn’t care about hanging out with other guys. And I especially did not care about people who were more naïve than their years should have made them. I supposed I was using him, but in other ways I found myself enjoying his company. He’d been screwed in some of the same ways I’d been, and despite his tepid, hesitant manner, this gave us a bond. Still, there were times I wanted to shake him and say, “Damn it, you’re alive, start acting like it.” The dope tried to kill himself, but even that seemed more an act of inertia than anything else. When in doubt, kill yourself. He was like a declawed cat that was never allowed to leave the house.

  I certainly didn’t tell my new pal about Linda Goldstein, though I was able to share my rage about Biff without being judged. He had plenty reason to hate Biff, too. For once, someone really listened to me. Not the way a shrink does, always calculating what it all means to ask some amazingly insightful question, but listening because, well, he listened.

  We’d drink—or rather, I’d drink and he’d watch—play handball, go to basketball games, or see movies that Esther had no interest in (i.e., anything with violence). Oddly, she also had no interest in my new friend. Esther barely met him for a minute and said she’d rather not have him over to the house. When I asked her why, she said he seemed needy, which she found unappealing in a man. In her universe, only women were allowed to have needs. And anyway, why did he have to “appeal” to her? It wasn’t like they were going to have an affair. I could imagine them together. Slow as a pair of turtles.

  I learned to say I was going out, and Esther knew what it meant. One time, she dryly commented that she was happy I’d discovered I was gay after all these years, since I was spending so much time with my pal.

  “No such luck,” I replied. “I’m going to keep fucking the daylights out of you, so you’d better get used to it.” Though in truth, after our brief second honeymoon, things had chilled between us in the bedroom. If anything, maybe Esther was gay because over time she didn’t seem to enjoy sex with me as much as tolerate it. It occurred to me that she simply didn’t like men very much.

  My friend’s new wife, Melanie, was nice to me the few times I met her but accepted that guy time was guy time. I was not surprised when she turned out to be a plain-looking girl with unbecoming short hair and glasses. However, she was a nice person and presumably had a lot of money. He also could have done worse. They eloped at city hall, so there was no wedding to speak of. But, he told me, if there had been one I’d have been his best man. In spite of myself, I was touched.

  His son was an unusual kid, what people called an “old soul.” While little kids often lightened an atmosphere in a room, nine-year-old Scotty—or was he ten?—had a way of making it heavier. It was as though he knew when the world was going to end but wasn’t about to tell anyone. I predicted he was either going to become a really good person or a really awful person, but would never be an average person. Scotty showed little interest in wanting to know other people and seemed to resent anyone who took his father’s attention away from him. I never became his honorary “Uncle Jesse”—or I mean, “Uncle Randy”—so there were no issues about having to drag the kid along.

  After engaging in what is obnoxiously called male bonding for a little while, I decided the time was right to pin my buddy down about Biff. Assuming he honestly didn’t know where Biff was, he could still do computer shit to find him. My friend had no reason not to trust me. I arranged for a movie and drinks.

  I let my pal pick the movie, and it sucked. It featured a B-list action hero who rescued his blah wife and obnoxious daughter from this insane sex slave trader. The good guy was a cop or a DA—I forgot which—and the bad guy wanted to get back at him for busting his bomb-happy brother. The hero’s wife had to put out before getting rescued. But even psycho fantasies go only so far in these kinds of movies. Naturally, the awful teenage daughter was spared only moments before she was about to lose her cherry. There was a lot of predictable cutting back and forth between the screeching daughter and the hero’s screeching car as he drove at a hundred miles an hour to the abandoned warehouse where his family members were held. After the bad guy fell to his death from a tall roof beam and a pool of blood formed around his head, the movie ended with the hero climbing into the ambulance with his wife and daughter. The daughter said something like, “I love you, Daddy,” and the hero said something like, “I love you, too.” The somber yet uplifting background music gave the cue for the closing credits. I supposed that the moral of the story was that the family that kept itself from getting sold into sex slavery was the family that stayed together.

  “Wow, what a cool movie,” said my buddy, as we got up from our seats. He took an obligatory last swallow of the melted ice in what had been his medium-sized Coke.

  “I loved how the bad guy bled to death.” I pretended to concur.

  “Huh. I was sorry he died. He should’ve gone to prison for what he did.”

  “You have a point,” I agreed, as if we were discussing some morally complex Ibsen play. “There are worse punishments than death.”

  “I guess I’ll say, ‘No comment.’”

  It took me a moment to realize he was referring to his suicide attempt. One more thing to blame on Biff.

  “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Hey, no sweat. Really, I’m glad I’m still around.” He smiled at me in gratitude.

  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 laughi
ng 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.”