Identity Thief Read online

  Sequoia nudged me and fought to catch her breath. “I guess we should take you clothes shopping. After that, we’ll pick up some farina at the market around the corner.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” She stood up, innocently naked, and padded her way to the master bathroom. “I like to bathe alone. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever.” I lay in bed, savoring the ecstatic aftermath. A newspaper on the nightstand caught my attention. I read the headline story, “Counter Spy Ring Grows Larger.” Big surprise. There was some huge corruption scandal in the federal government, and all sorts of lifers in the CIA turned out to be selling secrets for years to China and the Middle East.

  Suddenly, I had an idea.

  Ondine didn’t realize how right she was when she said I should start an online business. Obviously, getting a job as Dr. Jesse Falcon was out. I might as well have turned myself in to the cops. But being myself wasn’t landing me a job, either. Sequoia’s modest lifestyle was typical of some people who were set for life. She could afford not to work, but certainly she didn’t want to live with a bum. Nor would I get Scotty back without an income. It seemed a matter of logic to use my computer savvy one more time to get money from Jesse Falcon in order to get my online business up and running. After all, thanks to the bank robbery, I was back down to zero. Ondine had suggested I spend a hundred grand, but in what seemed like a moment of restraint, I decided to see what I could do with the twenty grand I wanted in the first place. I considered myself ironically moral, like an alcoholic who usually drinks scotch thinking he was on the wagon by drinking beer instead. I rationalized that banks were insured against thievery, and wealthy people had a way of landing on their feet. Anyway, I told myself that once my business was in the black, I’d redeposit the money, and no one would have to know who I was or where I was. And simply hacking into his account to make a withdrawal was a hell of a lot safer than walking into a bank.

  So in the moment, I told myself I was doing the best thing, the practical thing, the only thing. Honesty was an overrated concept, about as useful as my old Boy Scout merit badges. I really had no other choice. As for coming clean with Sequoia—or for that matter, going low profile, like my mom said—the newspaper headline gave me the perfect out.

  Looking back, I realize something else. I fell in love with Sequoia at the same time I fell in love with crime. I already missed the surge of power I’d felt when my phony credit was approved or when that poor bank teller bought my story. And as nice as Sequoia was, something about her seemed a perfect fit for this new guy I was turning into. She’d be the honest one, and I’d be the one with all the crazy secrets. It was the opposite of life with Betsy. It balanced things out.

  The master bath was shiny and black, and Sequoia stepped out of the bath like a dripping wet Venus. It’d started raining hard, and the pelts of water against the window made it seem like all the world was clean and wet. I gently helped to dry her off with a huge black towel. Then I stepped into the shower. Sequoia demurely did not comment on my hard-on. “Don’t get the hospital dressing too wet,” she said instead.

  I turned on the hot jet spray of water but almost instantly turned it off.

  “Sequoia, I have to tell you something.”

  She shrugged as she towel-dried her hair. “Sure.” I put my hands on her shoulders and set aside her towel. We could barely see our reflections in the steamy mirror.

  “You’re not in pain, are you, Jesse?”

  Damn, she was sweet. “It’s not that at all. I . . . I just have to say it. I’m doing special work. For the government. I’ll need to set up a cover job. Something online to give me flexibility. But as for what I really do . . . You can’t ever ask me. It would put you in danger. And I may have to . . . you know, go away sometimes. And very suddenly.” Sort of like Pinocchio’s nose, once again my sexual arousal grew with each lie.

  Sequoia burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?” I hoped my serious expression communicated that I wasn’t.

  “I’m working as a psychologist, that’s all I can tell you. I was handpicked by a special branch of the government.”

  She put her hand to her mouth. “My God, you’re serious. What about the bank robbery? Was that—?”

  “A shitty coincidence, nothing more and nothing less. I had to be low-key and not fight back. It would’ve compromised my cover.” Out of habit, I rubbed the steam from the mirror with my hand. The mirror steamed right back up again.

  She leaned down and kissed the gauze and tape on my stomach. “My brave Jesse. You will be careful, won’t you? I couldn’t take—

  I mean, if something happened to you”

  “I’ll be fine, Sequoia. And I promise I’ll never deceive you again.”

  The best time of my life was beginning.

  EVERYTHING I’D BEEN THROUGH seemed like an hors d’oeuvre on a toothpick, compared with the main course of fricasseed crap about to unfold.

  Another twenty thousand was stolen from me. The first twenty thousand involved that phony line of credit, so it was fairly easy to deal with. This meant it only took about fifty calls to the cops and the credit company dopes to get the matter straightened out. But the next twenty grand was an electronic withdrawal from my actual money. Whoever did this had a lot of chutzpah. The good news was that the cops got involved. The bad news was that the cops got involved. It was a repeat of the same power struggles, contradictory communications, and downright incompetence of the previous interlude. Phone call after phone call, letter after letter, and to date anyway, none of it made a damn bit of difference.

  Everyone treated me like shit. I’d call the cops or the bank or my lawyer and get these smarmy lectures about how worrying doesn’t solve anything or that the most important thing was to stay calm. And here I thought the most important thing was to get my money back. Silly me. When I’d lose my temper—and I’d lose it a lot—the dope on the other end of the phone would repeat the same meaningless bullshit that pissed me off in the first place. Or they’d say they’d talk to me once I calmed down.

  Pretty soon things really started to get intense. An electronic withdrawal for fifty thousand dollars from a matured CD. A second such withdrawal for yet another fifty grand. The FBI got on the case at this point, not that it made any difference. One moment they’d say what a serious crime this was, and then the next they’d remind me that relatively speaking it was small potatoes given other cases that took priority and how hard it was to prosecute identity thieves. All the usual garbage.

  Time marched gallantly forward through all the manure. Linda Goldstein got increasingly pregnant.

  I simply wanted to close out my accounts, but the FBI said to keep them open, in order for the culprit or culprits to get caught. The problem was that the bank could not trace the withdrawals either, which meant my stolen money would take a while to get replaced. The bank kept telling me to be patient. The FBI said the same thing. So did my lawyer, who I fired and replaced with another lawyer who told me the same thing.

  Patience, I learned, was not a virtue. It’s a sign of impotence and cowardice, a booby prize for people too stupid to expect much out of life. I wanted what was mine. What was there to be patient about?

  The worst part was telling Esther about the money. After all, she did have a right to know. She couldn’t care less that I was flushing myself down the toilet. No matter how fragile I was, I never missed an appointment with a patient, so what difference did it make if I’d been broken into a million pieces?

  “Why are you letting this happen?” Esther asked when I told her about all the legal red tape I had to contend with. “I’ve seen you practically kill to save fifty cents.” We were in the so-called family room, which featured the one TV in the house and what Esther called casual furniture, which meant you were allowed to touch it without getting your hand chopped off.

  “I’m doing what the FBI said to do, I’ve already explained that.”

  Esther sighed like the smug martyr she was. “I gu
ess you’ve become an old man. The Jesse I married wouldn’t let anything come between us and our security.”

  “Well, the Esther I married wasn’t such a hateful bitch with those awful frown lines around her mouth.”

  “You put them there.” She glared at me like a harpy, which probably meant that as soon as I wasn’t in the room she would cry.

  “You’re right, I live to ruin people’s lives. I ruined your life, I ruined my life, and—” I stopped myself before mentioning Linda Goldstein.

  “No, you don’t live to ruin anyone’s life. You just do. Because you’re incapable of thinking for one second that you’re not the center of the universe. Or should I say that your cock is not the center of the universe?”

  “Well, it sure as hell is not the center of your universe.”

  “Oh, blah-blah-blah. Look, when you pass out in front of the TV, at least try to keep the volume down.”

  She was right. I’d adopted a wonderful new habit of passing out in the living room with the TV on. It was part of my new lifestyle, thanks to my identity thief. I slept maybe two hours a night. I’d grab a candy bar on my way to work and call it breakfast and lunch, and then barely pick at whatever home-delivered crud Esther called dinner. I stopped showering every day and instead, doused myself in cologne. I stopped working out at the gym. Something about the monotony of exercise was way out of sync with my endless anxiety. My fantasies of what I wanted to do to this identity thief became so violent, I’d bite my hands to try to keep my feelings under control. My fingers developed calluses from biting into them. And my feet developed blisters from pacing the floors. I got pulled over twice for speeding. Fortunately, no one figured out it was road rage.

  Most of it is a blur, but I remember one night when, in a stupor on the sofa, I was shaken awake by Esther.

  “The TV is too goddamned loud,” she shouted. “Do you even know it’s on?”

  I stared at the TV screen. It was one of those true crime shows, and some guy was confessing on tape to the cops about killing somebody or another.

  Esther shook her head in disbelief at what transpired on TV. “Look at that murderer, sitting there with his hands folded on the table. And he’s animated, smiling and raising his eyebrows, like he’s talking about the weather.”

  I was nodding off again but managed to stay awake. “Serial killers are still human. He still has to do something with his hands. His facial muscles aren’t paralyzed. Does Miss Manners say there is a correct way to discuss chopping someone into bite-sized pieces?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Esther said. “Pass out some more. I’m turning off the TV.”

  The sudden silence and darkness of the TV screen scared me to death. The never-ending noise inside my head got worse when there was silence. I needed more sounds. Otherwise, there was nothing to blot it all out.

  Finally, I went to a psychiatrist (fancy that!), who prescribed three different anti-anxiety meds. They took the edge off, but that was all. My bad daily habits continued. The labels on my med bottles warned me not to mix the pills with alcohol, not that I let it stop me.

  Yet in the midst of all this hell came an unexpected ray of light. After a long and typically exasperating day, I drove home and was greeted by the most therapeutic person I could’ve seen.

  “Dad!”

  It was my daughter, Sabrina, a lovely young woman who was my pride and joy. Maybe life wasn’t all bad after all.

  We hugged warmly and kissed on the cheek. She had lovely long hair, and I gave it an affectionate muss.

  “Jeremy sends his love.” Jeremy was our bulldog, which Sabrina kept when Esther and I moved across the country. Esther secretly hated animals and mumbled something about how weren’t we too mature to still have a dog? As if it brought shame to adults to own a pet. It was Esther who insisted on giving him the dumbfuck name of Jeremy, and in fact she said we’d have to get rid of him unless we kept that name. Over the years, she would maybe about once a month condescend to pat him on the head.

  “Jeremy’s an old grouch, and you know it. What are you doing here? Did you lose your job?” We strolled to the living room, which Esther furnished with uncomfortable chairs that had these squiggly wooden things on the back. The squiggles reminded me of how much I hated Esther.

  “Oh, by the way, Mom is consulting with a client this evening. The only time they could meet.” This was cause for neither alarm nor elation; Esther’s clients often were unavailable during the day.

  “I don’t suppose she left a message for me?”

  “Hmm. No. How funny, now that I think of it.”

  Sabrina knew nothing of the troubles between Esther and me. It was the one promise to each other that Esther and I had kept. As far as Sabrina knew, we were Romeo and Juliet.

  Sabrina sat next to me on the ramrod stiff sofa. “To answer your question, I’m on semester break, you big old dummy. I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. I wanted to come out here to see you guys plus do some research at the art museum. They have this great collection of Byzantine tapestries. I’ll bet you’ve never been there, have you, Dad?”

  I sighed. “Art. You know I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t worry, I get it for both of us.”

  She gave my hand a warm squeeze. Thank God there was one person in the world who appreciated me. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Tired?”

  She laughed self-consciously. “I’m fine, Dad. Let’s wait for Mom to get home.” She squeezed my hand harder. “But there is something I wanted to tell you. Before we both tell Mom. I mean, you are a psychologist, and probably . . . well . . . ”

  “Sweetheart.” I put my hand on her shoulder in concern. There had been something about a young man she told us about a while back, claiming that he was the love of her life and all those naïve, sappy things. That his name was Cole Colton or was it Colton Cole? It sounded like the name of someone from a comic book or soap opera. He was studying business or law or something; I forget exactly what. Sabrina, for all her beauty, intelligence, and talent, had a way of attracting blah people. All her girlfriends through high school and college, not to mention her boyfriends, were among the most boring people I’d ever met, and believe you me, as both a professor and shrink I’ve met some mighty boring people. Esther and I hadn’t even met him yet when just as suddenly they broke up. Sabrina never went into detail and blandly claimed it had been a learning experience. Though far more amiable than her mother, she shared with her mother an inability to recognize anything negative, as if sworn to secrecy that the world sucked. But maybe she finally was going to confide in me.

  “I . . . I . . . ”

  “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it,” I said. “Are you pregnant? Did someone—” I stopped myself, unable to say out loud the terrible thought that a man did harm to my princess.

  Sabrina sniffled. “It’s nothing like that. I was in a bank robbery. I almost got killed. Oh Dad, I know I’m lucky to be alive, but I saw people getting shot to death. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you or Mom to worry. I thought I could get over it. I mean, I should be grateful, right? Nothing bad happened to me. I didn’t even have any cash to give them. But I can’t help it. I keep having nightmares. I can’t sleep. Every time I hear a loud noise, it all comes back.”

  Bank robbery? In my old city? Could it be—?

  “Which bank, sweetheart? When?”

  She gave me an odd look, confused that this would be my first question. She told me the date and location. Yes, this had to be the private police matter that I was not told about when I first reported the credit-line theft. My mind and heart raced. Sabrina was an artist, after all. Maybe she noticed something the cops missed.

  “Were there any suspicious characters in the bank?”

  She pulled away from me and frowned. “Dad, they were bank robbers. They wore ski masks and carried machine guns. I’d say that’s pretty suspicious, no?”

  “Not them.” I gave a dismissive gesture with my hand. “I mean, among th
e customers. Did anyone seem shady to you?”

  “Dad, why in the world are you asking me this? Why would I notice the customers? Okay, I admit it. I thought one guy was very cute. I’m sure he’s dead, the poor man. He got shot as the cops arrived to kill the robbers.”

  “But he seemed nice? Like, on the level?”

  She shrugged. “Well, yeah. I guess.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Gee, thanks, Dad. You’ve been a real comfort.”

  I reached over to hug her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Your Mom and I knew about the bank robbery because of our accounts. But I . . . I mean, it comes as such a shock to think you were there.”

  “And that I could’ve been killed?” she interjected, with a hopeful expression.

  “Well, yeah. Of course.”

  Esther entered through the foyer and joined us in the living room. She had her rolling briefcase and wore one of those sexless suits and blouses she liked so much, with a matronly pin on her lapel. I thought she looked so depressingly prudish. If, for some reason, scientists decided to invent an anti-arousal for men, they could’ve distributed this image of Esther. No man could stay hard at the sight of it.

  “Hello, dear, how was your day?” Esther offered me her cheek to kiss as she fell into character for the benefit of Sabrina.

  “Okay, I suppose, but I missed my Estie-Westie.” I subtly licked her cheek as I kissed it, just to gross her out. If Esther ruled the world, body fluids would’ve been illegal. Kicking off her high heels, she ordered us take-out Hunan for dinner. Then she poured herself a sherry—for some reason, it drove me crazy that she drank sherry—and joined us in the living room. The liquor tray was the same color that the furniture was. Everything was all nice and matchy-matchy. Esther was unable to resist moving the throw pillow I was sitting near to its proper location, silently intimating that I, in my unbelievably careless cruelty, had let it slide over a couple of inches. My training told me that Esther’s obsession over minutia was a projection that something deeper bothered her. I couldn’t even begin to guess what it might’ve been.