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?”
“Checked on that, too. No. Owns a small house in Blodgett, worth about fifty K. Lives on Social Security. No life insurance.”
“So we could be on the wrong track after all,” I said. “Looking for a felony where none exists.”
“You think? I don’t. Why’s this Dogpatch woman pretending to be Roxanne McManus if she’s not an ID thief? And what happened to the real Roxanne? And what’s up with Jane Carson?”
“Good questions. Maybe the answers are simple, not sinister, and we just haven’t thought of them yet.”
“Balls,” she said.
“Well, in any case, we’re on hold until I talk to Virden. No client, no ongoing investigation.”
“Don’t have to tell me. I learned that lesson the hard way.”
Nothing from Virden by close of business. I tried his cell one more time, got the same Out of Service message.
“Still pissed and ducking us,” Tamara said.
“Probably. I’ll make one more try tomorrow.”
“What do we do if he’s blown us off?”
“You know the answer to that. Mark the case closed and forget about it. There’s nothing else we can do.”
9
JAKE RUNYON
Getting people to talk about their private lives was never easy, and a subject as delicate as child abuse made the job twice as difficult. If they were willing to talk at all, emotions flared up and got in the way: lies, evasions, exaggerations, angry recriminations, irrational outbursts like the one from Gwen Whalen. That was one common reaction; the other was the one he’d gotten from the other sister, Tracy, when he reached her by phone in Ojai. As soon as he mentioned Francine’s name, Tracy said in bitter tones, “I have nothing to say about her,” and hung up on him. Either way, a refusal to cooperate. The fact that Francine had two estranged sisters, one of whom had suffered severe emotional damage, was significant to him, but it wouldn’t be to Robert Darby. Lawyers were a breed apart. You had to practically hit them over the head with hard evidence, and even then they were liable to twist its interpretation to meet their own ends.
Late Tuesday afternoon he went to see Francine’s ex-husband, Kevin Dinowski, at the California West Exchange Bank downtown. Dinowski had an impressive-sounding title, Regulatory Market Risk Representative, but judging from the size of his windowless office, it was neither a high-level nor a high-paying position. Runyon got in to see him by using the “personal matter” approach; few people were able to resist when a private investigator had that kind of interest in them-assuming they had nothing to hide.
Dinowski was in his thirties, enthusiastic, and friendly enough until Runyon mentioned Francine’s name. Then he stiffened and pulled back. But he didn’t close off. Bitterness and something that might have been hatred for his ex-wife made him willing to talk about her. You could almost see the professional poise peeling away like layers of dead skin, to reveal the private scars and still-open wound underneath.
“What’s she done now?” he said.
“Now, Mr. Dinowski? She do something before?”
“Soured me on marriage, for one thing.”
“I understand you were married only a short time.”
“I must’ve been out of my mind,” Dinowski said. “Blinded by sex, that’s my only excuse. It’s true what they say-you don’t really know someone until you live with them for a while.”
When he didn’t go on, Runyon prompted him with, “We all make mistakes.”
