Win had left several hours ago. Lately he liked to get to the office by six. Overseas markets or something. Terese toasted a bagel while Myron fixed himself a bowl of cereal. Quisp cereal. They didn't have it in New York anymore, but Win had it shipped in from a place called Woodsman's in Wisconsin. Myron downed an industrial-size spoonful; the sugar rush came at him so fast he nearly ducked.
Terese said, 'I have to go back tomorrow morning.'
'I know.'
He took another spoonful, feeling her eyes on him.
'Run away with me again,' Terese said.
He glanced up at her. She looked smaller, farther away.
'I can get us the same house on the island. We can just hop on a plane and—'
'I can't,' he interrupted.
'Oh,' she said. Then: 'You need to find this Davis Taylor?'
'Yes.'
'I see. And after that…?'
Myron shook his head. They ate some more in silence.
'I'm sorry,' Myron said.
She nodded.
'Running away isn't always the answer, Terese.'
'Myron?'
'What?'
'Do I look in the mood for platitudes?'
'I'm sorry.'
'Yeah, you said that already.'
'I'm just trying to help.'
'Sometimes you can't help,' she said. 'Sometimes all that's left is running away.'
'Not for me,' he said.
'No,' she agreed. 'Not for you.'
She wasn't angry or upset, just flat and resigned, and that scared him all the more.
An hour later Esperanza came into Myron's office without knocking.
'Okay,' she began, grabbing a seat, 'here's what we've got on Davis Taylor.'
Myron leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
'One, he's never filed a tax return with the IRS.'
'Never?'
'Glad you're paying attention,' Esperanza said.
'Are you saying he's never shown any income?'
'Will you let me finish?'
'Sorry.'
'Two, he has virtually no paperwork. No driver's license. One credit card, a Visa recently issued by his bank. It has very little activity. Only one bank account, with a current balance of under two hundred dollars.'
'Suspicious,' Myron said.
'Yes.'
'When did he open the account?'
'Three months ago.'
'And before that?'
'Nada. At least nada that I've been able to come up with so far.'
Myron stroked his chin. 'No one flies that far below the radar screen,' he said. 'It has to be an alias.'
'I thought the same thing,' Esperanza said.
'And?'
'The answer is yes and no.' Myron waited for the explanation. Esperanza tucked some loose tresses behind both ears. 'It appears to be a name change.'
Myron frowned. 'But we got his social security number, right?'
'Right.'
'And most records are kept by social security number, not name, right?'
'Another right.'
'So I don't get it,' Myron said. 'You can't change your social security number. A name change might make you harder to find, but it wouldn't wipe out your past. You'd still have tax returns and stuff like that.'
Esperanza turned both palms upward. 'That's what I mean by yes and no.'
'There's no paperwork under the social security number either?'
'That's correct,' Esperanza said.
Myron tried to digest this. 'So what's Davis Taylor's real name?'
'I don't have it yet.'
'I would have thought it'd be easy to locate.'
'It would,' she said, 'if he had any records at all. But he doesn't. The social security number has no hits. It's as though this person hasn't done a thing in his whole life.'
Myron thought about it. 'Only one explanation,' he said.
'That being?'
'A fake ID.'
Esperanza shook her head. 'The social security number exists.'
'I don't doubt that. But I think someone pulled the classic tombstone-fake-ID trick.'
'That being?'
'You go to a graveyard and find the tombstone of a dead child,' Myron said. 'Someone who would be about your age if he'd lived. Then you write and request his birth certificate and paperwork and
Esperanza gave him the look she saved for his most idiotic moments. 'No,' she said.
'No?'
'You think the police don't watch TV, Myron? That doesn't work anymore. Hasn't worked in years, except maybe on cop shows. But just to make sure, I double-checked.'
'How?'
'Death records,' she said. 'There's a Web site that has the social security numbers of all the deceased.'
'And the number isn't there.'
'Ding, ding, ding,' Esperanza said.
Myron leaned forward. 'This makes absolutely no sense,' he said. 'Our phony Davis Taylor has gone to a great deal of trouble to create this phony ID — or at least to fly below the radar, right?'
'Right.'
'He wants no records, no paperwork, nothing.'
'Right again.'
'Even changes his name.'
'You go, boy.'
Myron put his arms out. 'Then why would he sign up to be a bone marrow donor?'
'Myron?'
'Yeah.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' Esperanza said.
True enough. He'd called last night and asked her to check out Davis Taylor. He had not yet told her why.
'I guess I owe you an explanation,' he said.
She shrugged.
'I sort of promised you I wouldn't be doing this anymore,' he said.
'Investigating,' she said.
'Right. And I meant it. I wanted this to be a straight agency from now on.'
