Melissa looked at the floor. “Thanks.”
Baxter walked to the sink and set his cup down with a faint
“No thanks.”
He turned toward her. “Anything to eat?”
She shook her head.
Baxter regarded her for a moment, concern in his expression. Melissa forced herself to stare back.
“Do you like living here, Melissa?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His face softened. “Good. I want you to be comfortable. I hope in time you’ll see you can trust us. You don’t have to be on your guard here.”
Melissa felt herself go numb. No response, not a single word would form on her tongue. How did he see her so clearly? And who talked like that anyway—just saying something right out? Words were meant to be shields. Words were meant to be dances.
She lifted a shoulder. “I’m just fine.”
He opened his mouth as if to say more, then nodded.
Linda saved the moment by entering the kitchen. “Hey there, Melissa, you look terrific.” She was rubbing lotion on her hands. Melissa smelled roses. Linda wore cream slacks and a green silk blouse. She looked perfect. Melissa’s heart swelled. Why couldn’t somebody like this woman have been her mother? Why had God given Linda no children and let Melissa be born to a ratty alcoholic?
Baxter crossed to his wife and drew a finger down her cheek. “And so do you.”
Linda swiped her hand through the air. “Oh, you say that to all your wives.” She turned and grinned at Melissa. “Okay, let’s go!”
On the way to church Linda babbled about the girls Melissa would meet. Heather and Christy and Belle and Nicole. Other names Melissa couldn’t begin to remember. “They’re really looking forward to meeting you.”
Melissa stiffened. “They know I’m coming?”
Baxter glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Sure they do. Last Sunday we told everyone we’d be picking you up in a few days. Linda was too excited to keep quiet.”
Only Linda was excited?
The thought plucked at her. Melissa pushed it away.
By the time she, Linda, and Baxter slid out of the Mercedes, Melissa had checked the wall around her heart for loose bricks. She’d be polite to the adults and grimace later. As for girls her age, she didn’t need them. Friends wanted to know things about you. Friends could hurt you.
No one who knew the real Melissa Harkoff, who knew the slummy life she’d come from and the things she’d done, would ever want to be her friend.
EIGHT
FEBRUARY 2010
Fifteen years ago I’d forged my way into skip tracing while working in a private investigator’s office in San Jose. The work is exciting. But unlike the portrayal on trumped-up TV shows, most skip tracing is done online. I could stay warm and dry in my house while I chased Melissa through the teeming, winding halls of cyberspace. Sitting at a computer may not translate well into television, but I find it as exhilarating as a street car chase. It
My first task in finding Melissa: list the few pieces of information I knew about her. Name: Melissa Harkoff. I didn’t know her middle name. Age: twenty-two. That was it. No Social Security number. No last known phone number or address. I didn’t even know if she was still in California.
Social Security numbers are important to garner the most reliable information. More than one person might be named Melissa Harkoff. I needed to hunt for her SSN by running her through credit headers—information from credit reports that includes name, past and perhaps current addresses, SSN, and date of birth. The actual credit information is not included. Credit headers are my most important source of data, and they aren’t openly available online. Skip tracers and others who qualify can buy restrictedaccess commercial data services, which are the source of these credit headers. I subscribed to two such services.
I opened Skiptrace One and typed in Melissa’s name and assumed state—California. Hit enter.
My window rattled. I jumped and jerked my head toward the sound.
A second rattle.
Just the wind.
I took a hard breath, willed my nerves to settle. Ate a Sizzling Cinnamon Jelly Belly, followed by a Cappuccino.
When I looked again at my monitor, fourteen results filled the screen.
Three different Melissa Harkoffs. One date of birth was too long ago. Surprisingly, the other two were 01/27/1988 and 09/13/1987. I leaned back in my chair, trying to remember if Melissa’s birthday had already occurred in June of 2004. No way to know. Either birth date might be hers.
This complicated things. I’d have to run down both birth dates, and even when I established a current address and phone for each, I wouldn’t know which was the right Melissa. If I got lucky I might find the two women’s photos online through a simple Google search. Or I may have to watch the residences and see for myself who lived there.
For all I knew neither date of birth was my Melissa because she’d married two years ago and now had a new last name.
I cut and pasted the fourteen address results in my HM file, lining through the four listings for the birth date I’d thrown out.
In skip tracing I’m like a hungry cat.
You’ve seen the stomach-to-the-ground pursuit of a feline with a bird in its sights. It plays out each cunning move, now creeping forward, now poising to pounce. If the prey flutters to safety the cat returns to where it started, hiding in the grass, seeking the next victim.
But my usual logical pattern wouldn’t work tonight. I’d have to hunt both Melissas at once.
My HM file would keep track of every step so I wouldn’t lose my place. I would rely on my memory for nothing. You never know when an unexpected event will pull you away from the computer, erasing the next intended move from your brain.
A fierce gale spit raindrops through its teeth. They hit the window like shells breaking.
Chicago sang “Chasin’ the Wind” as I typed the Social Security number of 01/27/1988 into Skiptrace One’s search by SSN page. Three addresses popped up. The most recent was in San Jose, but the report date read 11/09/2006. Over three years old.
The lack of a fresh address on a skip can mean two things. One, the person has ruined her credit and just isn’t using it, waiting out the seven-year period until delinquent accounts fall off the report. In that case Melissa could have moved in with a boyfriend and her current address wouldn’t show up on the credit header. Two, the skip does live at the most recently listed address and simply hasn’t applied for any new credit in the past few years.
Or this most recent listed address could be plain inaccurate. Wrong addresses end up on credit headers more often than you’d think. Maybe Melissa intentionally gave a false address to a creditor. Maybe she bought a used car and the salesman made a mistake in writing down her address. Or a data entry error could have been made at
