Don't Know Jack (29 page)

He glanced over. She said nothing, thinking things through. Maybe sensing he hadn’t persuaded her, he offered new facts. “I received one individual tax return for Sylvia. Same social security number as the joint returns sent to you and the same maiden name. I spent a while chasing those down. All DC all the time.”

“OK,” she said. “You win. DC is not only the best lead we have, it’s the only lead. Is that what you’re saying?  When all roads point to Rome?”

He nodded. “One more thing. The social on her tax returns is a real number, and it was issued from DC.”

“Well, duh,” she said, without rancor.

“Touchy.”

Maybe he didn’t know?  “I meant it’s obvious where the number was issued because it begins with 579. Means DC.”

“I’m aware,” he said.

She explained the logic. “Matching numbers is what computers do best. If Sylvia and Harry didn’t list easy numbers the same way on every return and match stuff already in the system, the computers would have spit everything out, see?”

“I phoned a friend. Asked for a closer look,” he said.

She bristled. “You called the boss?”

He shrugged. “The birth certificate used to support the number actually belonged to a woman four years younger.”

“Let me guess. You found her and she’s living in DC?”

“Not exactly. She died in a car wreck in DC. A year or so before Sylvia showed up in Margrave.”

Kim said, “Wow.”  Then: “So we weren’t too far off with our guesses about Sylvia.”  Witness protection programs created new identities; stealing existing identities was the more common criminal custom. “Pretty ballsy to use a stolen identity working in a cop shop.”

Unless Roscoe knew
.

“Sylvia is nothing if not ballsy,” Gaspar said. “It gets even better, though. The dead woman’s prior address is a Crystal City post office box. But no criminal records before or since her date of death in any of the FBI databases for Sylvia Kent in DC or anywhere else. Not a Government employee. Not a veteran. No death certificate, even.”  He glanced over. “And don’t ask me how I know all that. You won’t like the answer.”

Kim compared what he said and what she already knew. Identity thieves she’d investigated were unconcerned about the crime itself. The usual problem with stolen identities as a free ticket to a new life was that something was wrong on the front end: A mistake in the paperwork gets kicked by some computer; unscrupulous seller repeatedly retails the same identity; belongs to a criminal; owners turn up and make trouble. A thousand things can go wrong, and you never see the bullet that gets you. Kim had arrested thieves in all these circumstances, many times. Living five years undiscovered on a stolen identity was a remarkable achievement.

Perhaps impossible.

Unless everybody was in on it.

“So she knew Sylvia Kent intimately enough to impersonate her,” Kim said.

He nodded. “Only the one glitch.”

She ran through the logic line again. Sylvia Black’s prints wouldn’t match the dead Sylvia Kent. Fingerprints are unique even among identical twins. Sylvia Black’s prints were submitted and confirmed in databases when Roscoe hired her. When a fingerprint record is created, it lasts forever. When a match request comes in, there’s only one way the prints are gone.

Somebody pulled them.

There had to be an insider somewhere very high up. And a very subtle one. A suggestion had been floated that a new identity had been created for Sylvia. Inquiring agencies would inevitably assume she was in witness protection. Which was the province of the U.S. Marshall Service. Which explained liberating Sylvia by impersonating a Marshall.

“Marshalls are in DC, too, by the way,” Gaspar said, reading her mind.

She said, “The boss controls all those resources, one way or another.”

“You think he’s known Sylvia’s real identity all along?  That he’s been using us?  Setting us up for something?”

“Don’t you?”

Gaspar shrugged.

An eighteen wheeler howled past in the left lane, followed by a second and a third, displacing enough air to push the Crown Vic toward the shoulder. Ribbed noisemakers imbedded in the pavement assaulted the tires. Gaspar hung on to the wheel at ten-and-two.

Kim asked, “What did Roscoe tell you while I was in the shower?”

“She said the Kliners were the Superdollars of their day. Better than the real thing, almost. Nobody could spot them as fakes.”

“No tells, even if you knew what you were looking at?”

“None.”

“What else?”

He said, “I asked her about Finlay. She’s a fan. Called him brilliant. Especially over the Kliner mess. Stood up to the Teales, which made him Sir Galahad in her world. Claimed Joe Reacher was a genius about all of that, too. Both Reachers, apparently, were admirable performers.”

“And I’m Yo Yo Ma.”

He laughed. “You didn’t ask if I believed her.”

“Did you?”

“She was sincere, but no, not a chance.”

“Still think she and Finlay are dirty cops?” she asked.

“Bet your ass.”  He signaled and floated into the interchange toward the airport. Black ice glistened under the streetlights. For a Miami dweller, he wasn’t a bad driver under hazardous conditions. He completed the treacherous overpass before he asked, “Anything noteworthy from your late night girl talk?  Like maybe why Archie Leach is chasing us like a relentless Javert on steriods?  Or who else is stalking?”

Kim popped an antacid onto her tongue. Let it dissolve a little. She said, “Reacher headed for Chicago when he left Margrave.”

“She told me that, too. That’s where the Chevy dude said they were taking Sylvia, wasn’t it?  Can’t be a coincidence. What else?”

“She swore blind the tall guy on the video isn’t Reacher.”

He was surprised. “Did
you
believe her?”

“Yes.”

At the time.

“What about Jacqueline?” he asked.

“What about her?”

“Did Roscoe admit she’s either Joe or Jack Reacher’s kid?”

“What do you think?”

They pulled into Hartsfield’s monitored air space and shut down confidential conversation. They entered the short term lot.

“We’ve got to hustle. No time to return the rental,” Gaspar said. “And the way this case is going, we might need it again, anyway. We might have to come back.”

“God, I hope not,” Kim said.

#

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the plane. Gaspar leaned against the window shade and was asleep before the cabin door was closed. Skies were clear. Didn’t mean they were in for smooth sailing, but Kim could hope.

She opened her laptop once the plane reached cruising altitude. Door to door, Hartsfield to Reagan National was posted as 134 minutes. Fifty minutes in, she heard the familiar bell tone from overhead speakers that never meant good news. Her stomach was already a cauldron of acid. Now, it bubbled up like it might explode. She pulled two antacids from her pocket. She chewed them for quicker dissolve.

“Folks, this is Captain Shaw speaking. DC air traffic control just told us we’re going to be circling here for a bit. We’ve got gorgeous air this morning. Beautiful sunrise off to starboard. Our flight attendants will bring you another cup of coffee. We’ll update you as soon as we have more information. For now, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

Enjoy the flight?

Who was he kidding?

Gaspar remained sound asleep, oblivious.

Kim squeezed her eyes closed, visualized her favorite outdoor meditation haven in the north woods. Tried to breathe. After a while, when the plane remained aloft, she managed to release her claws.

Distraction. The only available remedy. She spent some time composing e-mails to three tax accountant colleagues.

The real Sylvia Kent would have filed tax returns every year, with luck. The IRS wouldn’t have those returns any more; returns were deleted after three years. But the data should be there in some form, and maybe that data would lead somewhere. Maybe she could finally catch a break.

The overhead bell chimed again. Kim’s hands flew off the keyboard and gripped the armrests; her head jerked up. She turned. Stared wildly out the window. The plane remained level. No smoke from the engines. Both wings intact.

“Folks, this is Captain Shaw again. We’ve just been rerouted to Baltimore. We should have you on the ground at the gate in about thirty minutes. Ground agents will be available to handle your connections. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

When the plane landed, Kim leaned in to shake Gaspar awake. He collected his bags and followed. When they emerged from the jet-way into the terminal, he looked around and asked, “Where the hell are we?”

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Washington, DC

November 3

7:55 a.m.

Gaspar signed up for another Crown Vic at the rental counter. Objections were futile; Kim made none. She bought a fountain Coke over crushed ice to chase the chalk from her mouth and calm her stomach. She followed him to the car. She settled into the passenger seat and blinked sleep from her eyes. He navigated around traffic knots.

First stop was at a convenience store. Kim laid out private cash for six pre-paid cell phones and six pre-paid gift cards. Burners. Forty minutes later, Gaspar parked at a strip center. Mailing address Crystal City.

“This is it,” he said, checking his notes to confirm.

American homogeneity at its finest. One long cinder block building divided into five storefronts, with an adjacent parking lot. Beige painted exteriors, matching store name plates affixed to the brown hip roof atop each entry door. Bookended by a coffee shop and yogurt store; computer shop, liquor store, and their destination centered between.

Winter threatened here as everywhere they’d traveled. Clear skies at 30,000 feet invisible through the low grey clouds immediately overhead. No snow flurries yet, but Kim could smell them in the air. She flipped up her collar and huddled into her blazer. Wished for a coat. She hated cold almost as much as she hated flying.

There was only one person inside the mail drop. Manning the counter, a spiky haired dude, late twenties, dressed head to toe in black. A clunky nose ring rested in the groove above chapped lips. Quarter-sized round holes elongated fleshy earlobes. A botched tattoo replaced the guy’s right eyebrow. Permanent black coal eye rims completed the effect.

“How can I help you?”  Husky timbre. Polite. Maybe a real human heart beating inside the frightening package.

Gaspar flashed his badge. “We need to see the contents of P.O. Box 4719.”

Without rancor, “Got a warrant?”

“We can get one. Do we need to?”

The dude didn’t move.

“Show me your ID,” Gaspar said.

The dude held up the work badge hanging from the black lanyard around his neck. Gaspar maintained eye contact, took a photo of the face and the badge with his phone, sent it, and dialed a number.