Kevin started to say something and then stopped and closed his mouth.
“Are you through?”
Kevin knew he was letting his temper get out of hand. She was right to make him stop ranting and start thinking.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just not in this kind of situation very often.”
“Me neither. But ER rotations make you deal with stress as efficiently as possible. Now, as I was about to say, we need to go get you a driver’s license, Dr. Ward.”
“And I guess you know how to do that,” Kevin said. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He knew she must have some sort of plan.
Erica just nodded and turned left, pointing the Honda towards the Astrodome.
As they passed the retracting gate of the Beechwood Manor apartment complex and entered its parking lot, Kevin’s thoughts returned to the flight from his own complex. So much had happened already that it seemed as if days had passed since he’d heard of Dr. Ward’s death. He glanced at the digital watch on his wrist. It had only been seven hours.
As they got out of the car, Kevin noticed a superficial similarity between his complex and this one. Perhaps they had been built by the same developer. But that’s where the similarity ended. The buildings here looked as if they hadn’t been painted in ten years, and the pool they walked past was dirty and full of leaves. He was amazed that the electric gate had still been working.
He still wasn’t sure that coming to this seedy area east of the Astrodome was a good idea. After leaving the bank, Erica had stopped to phone the guy they were about to meet to make sure that he was home. His name was Daryl Grotman, a University of Houston student she had treated a month ago for burns. Apparently, he had been concocting a contact explosive out of iodine and ammonia, one that was pressure sensitive. Kevin was familiar with the compound. Ammonium triiodide, powerful stuff.
Daryl said he had heard about it from another student and wanted to see if he could make it. During the mixing, which he conducted in his bedroom, he had the doors to his apartment open for ventilation and a breeze slammed the bedroom door shut. The change in air pressure was enough to detonate the explosive. Luckily, he had been across the room at the time and only suffered burns to his arms. Still, the firefighters insisted that he go to the emergency room.
The guy didn’t get out much, going on and on about every detail of his life as Erica bandaged him. He bragged to Erica about his side business and told her that if she ever needed any help, just call him. Erica hadn’t taken it seriously. Patients often professed that kind of gratitude and made up all kinds of stories. But she couldn’t forget the number Daryl had told her. 555-FAKE.
Luckily, Daryl had been there to answer their phone call. When she told him who she was, he remembered her immediately and said that there would be no problem helping them out. All they needed to do was stop and get a passport photo taken of Kevin, which they did on the way over.
As they walked up to 215G, they heard heavy metal blasting from the apartment. Kevin didn’t recognize the band, but it was fairly hardcore. He wondered if the neighbors ever complained. Probably not.
After banging on the door three times, Erica tried the knob. It turned easily. She pushed it open.
Suddenly, as a chain stopped the door after only a few inches, the music turned off, and a shrill alarm began to wail. Erica jumped back in surprise, running into Kevin.
Just as suddenly, the alarm shut off, and they heard someone inside yelling, “Sorry! Sorry!”
The door shut again, the chain clinked, and then they were greeted by Daryl Grotman.
He was about the same height as Kevin, but at least twenty pounds thinner. To Kevin, he looked starved. Although he was a junior in college, Daryl looked almost ten years older because of a thinning crown and wild, wiry beard. The only clue to his age was excessive acne visible above his heavy, black-framed glasses and on the scarred cheeks above his beard. He wore Birkenstock sandals, cutoff jeans shorts, and a black T-shirt festooned with tour dates for a band called Raging Sperm.
“There’s my doc! Look,” Daryl said, holding up his arms. “All healed thanks to you.”
“Hi again. This is the friend I was telling you about. Daryl Grotman, this is Kevin Hamilton.”
Daryl shook Kevin’s hand vigorously. “I hope you guys weren’t blown away by the alarm. I rigged the system myself. Been a lot of break-ins in this rat trap. I meant to turn it off ‘cause I knew you guys were coming over, but I got caught up with something. Come on in.”
Kevin followed Erica in and was so shocked, he practically stopped in his tracks. He was expecting to see pizza boxes littering the floor, trash everywhere, dishes piled in the sink. The way you think of a computer nerd living.
What met them was the cleanest, neatest apartment Kevin had ever seen. It wasn’t decorated to his taste, what with the posters of heavy metal bands like Butthole Surfers and Blood Junkies covering the walls and row upon alphabetically organized row of comic books. But otherwise, he could have walked into an issue of Better Homes and Gardens, albeit one which featured rooms with $20,000 worth of computer equipment. Looking back at Daryl, Kevin noticed how spotless his clothes looked.
“Yeah, I know,” said Daryl. “Not what you pictured. I guess I’m just anal. Some of my friends think I’m kinda weird for it. Helps in my line of work, though.”
“What
“I thought Erica told you. I fake licenses. Sometimes other documents, passports, state IDs, but mostly licenses. I can do visas for six countries, but they take longer.”
“She did tell me. That’s why we’re here. But I didn’t think it was a business.”
“Well, it’s not something I’m going to do for the rest of my life. It sure helps pay the tuition, though. Computer science major, if you didn’t guess, although I’m getting a minor in criminal science.”
“Looks like you’re acing it,” Kevin muttered.
“How do you get so much business?” Erica asked, glaring at Kevin. “Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”
“Not really. You see, I also work at one of the school’s mail rooms. My orders come through there from practically every school in Texas and Louisiana. All I do is pick out the envelopes addressed to my business name.”
“Which is?” Kevin said, knowing Daryl would tell them anyway.
“Dave Zugot. It makes it easy to pick them out of the pile. You know, I don’t do too many of these in person.” He pointed at Kevin. “You’ve got to be older than 21.”
“Actually, I need a different name on it.”
Daryl nodded as if familiar with the request. “Ah. Anyone in particular?”
“Yeah. A guy I’m trying to play a joke on.”
“Sure. Can I see the photos?”
Kevin handed them to him. After a quick inspection, Daryl slapped them onto a scanner and began to tap on the keyboard. Three minutes later, Kevin’s picture was on the computer monitor. A minute after that, Kevin’s face was superimposed over a Texas Department of Public Safety background curtain.
“Behold,” said Daryl, “the wonders of photo manipulation software in all its glory.”
“I have to admit,” said Kevin. “That’s pretty amazing. You’d never know it wasn’t taken at the DPS.”
Daryl smiled. “It slices, dices, juliennes, but wait there’s more.”
Erica pulled out her license and compared it to the picture on the screen. “That’s incredible. But how do you do the hologram on the plastic covering?”
“Not a problem. I’ve got a thousand just like that.” He showed them a box with hundreds of plastic sheaths, all carrying the holographic imprint of the state of Texas.
“Where did you…”
“That’s a little touchy. Let’s just say that there was a mixup at the printing plant and a few thousand too many were made. Now! How do you want the license to read?”
Kevin spoke. “Michael Jason Ward. Just make up the address and social security number. The phone book doesn’t have his new address yet, and I don’t know how we’d get his social security number.”
“You obviously haven’t gotten the picture, Kevin. It’s not a problem. Not many comp sci majors don’t know how to hack that kind of info. If you have a couple of minutes, we can make your license look like the real thing. It’ll
