Covert Identity

by Maria Hammarblad

  What did they use to knock me out? I probably don't want to know. At least there aren't dogs here anymore, I guess I did something good.

  The faces of dying dogs would stay with him forever, pleading eyes in torn up faces. The prosecutor had a field day with accusations of animal cruelty, and a handful of gangsters landed in jail. Normally the judges might not care too much about animals suffering, but when it gave an excuse to get these people off the street, it worked just fine.

  At least he saved Tiffy.

  It was hard to keep his thoughts on the present; his mind wanted to linger on puppies. He and Sharon had a puppy, a small warm body with wagging tail, big paws, and puppy kisses.

  Thinking of them made him relax, and he shook his head to clear the darkness that snuck up on him.

  Good thing I saved the puppy, Sharon won't be alone.

  His body might still be alive, but it didn't matter. He was a dead man.

  *****

  Sharon pretended to work, but she mostly browsed Facebook.

  The day snailed by, and Jimmy didn't return. She forced herself not to call him; no one liked a clingy girlfriend. She didn't give in to the urge until late in the afternoon, but it didn't matter. No one answered.

  Mona came by right after work and having her there helped, but Sharon still couldn't shake the sinking feeling. She kept listening for sounds of engines, but the world outside was just as peaceful as any other night.

  Tiffy wanted to go for a late evening walk, and they could have been the last two living beings on Earth. Nothing moved.

  Sleeping didn't go well, but she drifted off for a few hours with the Glock within reach. She felt silly putting a pistol on the nightstand, but silly was better than dead. When morning came, Mona hugged her and said, "Hey, I have to go to work, but I'll come back tonight. Call me if he shows up."

  They hadn't been invaded by bikers at war. Yet.

  She held out until lunchtime before trying Jimmy's phone again.

  Another man's voice answered at the second ring. "Yeah?"

  "I'd like to talk to Jimmy, please."

  "There's no Jimmy here."

  The line went dead.

  She stared at the screen for a long moment, pulled up the list of recent calls and double-checked she called the right number.

  Someone else had his phone. Someone who pretended he didn't exist.

  "This can't be good."

  Talking to herself didn't lead to any brilliant conclusions; the only effect her voice had was making Tiffy yawn.

  He might be dead.

  The thought struck like being hit in the stomach and she bent forward, hyperventilating. She sat down on the floor and struggled to calm herself. Tiffy came up to lick her face, and she wrapped her arms around the dog.

  "I have to do something."

  Tiffy wagged her tail. That probably meant agreement.

  Doing something was a great idea, but what?

  No matter how much she thought about it, she kept reaching the same conclusion: she'd have to go look for him. No one else would. No one else cared, or knew he was missing.

  She slipped the gun into her purse, pulled on sensible clothes, and sensible shoes. The idea of a rescue mission seemed sound in the safety of the kitchen, but once she reached the car, it was preposterous. Jimmy had done his best to keep his distance from her, gone to great lengths to keep her away from the club, should she really go there?

  What if Mr. Hate was there? He would recognize her and think she was a hooker. Some of the others had witnessed the scene when she went over there.

  "This is a bad idea."

  She waited a few seconds longer, but her body didn't get out of the car, so she could just as well drive. Her hand turned the key willingly enough and her feet took care of the pedals.

  If her body wanted to go, she should trust it.

  She parked several blocks away from the club. Skulking around on foot in the shade near the large buildings made her feel like a private investigator.

  They might have guards, and dogs. I'm just here to look. I just want to get close enough to see the house.

  Even that seemed impossible. There was a large open area around the club and they wouldn't need a lookout to see her. She hadn't been that close with her car the other day, and they had still spotted her.

  Going in on foot might not be such a great idea after all. An alone woman walking in this environment would garner more interest than an old pickup truck.

  Dammit. Maybe I should go rent a car somewhere.

  She pressed her back against a wall and resisted an urge to peek around the corner.

  There had to be another way to get a glimpse, but how?

  Looking around, opportunity opened in the form of a ladder. Being afraid of heights didn't seem to be a valid reason not to climb, and her resolve lasted several rungs. Then, she stopped and clung to it with her eyes squeezed shut.

  Jimmy would do much more for you than climb a stupid ladder. Get going.

  She inched her hands up and forced her feet to take one more step upwards. Opening her eyes still seemed perilous. For all she knew the entire gang might stand below her, watching, waiting to break out in mocking laughter.

  The thought was eerie enough to make her open her eyes, but she kept them away from the ground below. How much height did a person need to die from a fall?

  With her luck she'd break her neck. At least it would be swift.

  By the time she reached the roof her hands were sweaty and her legs weak. It didn't matter; they would see her better if she walked, so she crawled to the other side on hands and knees.

  "You'd better not be cheating on me."

  Her voice was as unsteady as her body.

  This was probably a good time to stop talking to herself.

  Once she reached the other edge, the struggle was worthwhile. The yard bustled with activity, but Jimmy was nowhere in sight.

  That's his bike.

  It was hard to tell in the long line of black leather and chrome monsters, and for a brief moment she doubted her judgment. Then, a man came out of the pub and walked up to it. He started, backed out, and drove right by her.

  It was definitely Jimmy's bike.

  Should she climb down, storm in, and ask if anyone had seen him?

  No, that would be outright stupid. Suicidal. Killing herself wouldn't make anything better.

  Regardless of where she was going, she'd have to battle the ladder again, and that wasn't appealing, but she couldn't stay on the roof forever. It was pure luck no one had seen her already.

  She crawled back the way she came, towards the other end of the building, and kept expecting someone to call out, "Hey, what's that up there," or, "Did you see that?"

  It didn't happen, and she took a couple of deep breaths before she started the long climb back down. By the time she got back to the car her entire body trembled, and she sat curled up in the driver's seat for many minutes before she felt calm enough to drive.

  There could be perfectly natural explanations to it all.

  He could have left the phone somewhere, and someone could have borrowed the bike.

  Yeah, that seemed likely.

  She started the car and drove towards the police station.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sharon didn't expect anyone to take her seriously.

  On TV shows, they always said the police wouldn't even file a report unless someone had been missing for forty-eight hours. From her point of view he'd already been gone forever, but it wasn't two days.

  Not everything on TV was true, but the forty-eight hour rule sounded true.

  They're not going to do anything. They won't exactly consider him a pillar of society worth looking for.

  She still had to try.

  Just when she slammed the car door locked behind her, she remembered Mona's gun in the purse. Hiding it in the car didn't seem safe, but she shouldn't waltz into a police station with someone else's pistol tucked into her handbag.


  Why do I carry this thing around anyway? It's not like I'll ever shoot anyone.

  She tucked it into the glove compartment and straightened her resolve through pushing her shoulders back and holding her chin high. Wasn't there a book called You Don't Need Experience if You Have Attitude? Maybe they would listen if she could seem confident.

  The police station didn't look anything like the movies. The lobby was tiled all around and had somewhat comfortable sofas to wait on. She sat down with her purse in a death grip.

  Scared? No, not me. I'm just...petrified.

  She lost herself in thoughts and worries, and when an officer dressed in civilian clothes came for her, she jumped and yelped.

  "I understand you want to file a missing person's report?"

  "Yes." Her voice sounded choked and she swallowed hot tears. Going to the police made it all seem so official. Jimmy might be dead. The others might have killed him.

  She needed to stop thinking like that, or she'd start to bawl. Crying would not help her.

  The officer's eyes held more sympathy than she expected.

  "Come on."

  He escorted her to a small room that must be designed just for situations like this, and pulled up a form on a computer.

  "What's your name, address, and relation to the missing?"

  One side of the room held a gigantic mirror.

  Are people watching me? No, it probably takes more interesting subjects than me to warrant that kind of attention.

  "He's my boyfriend. We don't officially live together, but kind of."

  He sounded like he went through things like this many times a day.

  "What do you mean kind of?"

  She explained and he nodded.

  "Are you sure he didn't just go home?"

  Good question. She didn't even know where his home was, or if he had one.

  If she admitted that they'd never look for him.

  "I'm sure."

  She was grateful the officer didn't ask for Jimmy's address. She wouldn't be able to make something up.

  "How long has he been missing?"

  That one was more difficult to answer than it should have been; she had to think.

  "He left... Early yesterday morning."

  It seemed like a lifetime away.

  "Did he say when he would be back?

  She nodded and rummaged around in her pockets for a Kleenex or anything paper. Her tears spilled over no matter how much she blinked, and this wasn't a good time to fall apart.

  The man on the other side of the desk huffed, rummaged around in a drawer, and produced a whole box with soft tissue.

  Dabbing her eyes, she struggled to talk coherently.

  "I'm sorry. He was supposed to come home last night, but when he left yesterday morning he sounded like he expected something to happen to him. Anyway, I called him yesterday and he didn't answer, so I hoped he stayed with friends or something. Or, you know, got drunk, or went off to do something."

  Way to go making him sound unreliable.

  It wasn't fair. He was reliable, for being a man.

  The officer leaned back in his chair, and she could have predicted the question.

  "Does that happen often? That he gets drunk and doesn't come home?"

  "No, it has never happened. I'm just clinging to any explanation where he's okay. I mean, things like that could happen and it wouldn't be the end of the world."

  The officer sighed. "So, you called him and he didn't answer. Then what happened?"

  Her hand with the tissue shook when she tried to dab her eyes, and she almost shoved the Kleenex into her eye.

  "I called again this morning, and someone else answered his phone, claiming he never heard of a Jimmy. So, I went to look for him, and someone else was riding his bike. He's a biker, and I know how that's gonna sound, but he's not a bad person. He's really sweet and I just want him to come home."

  You're losing it. Get a grip and stop babbling.

  The pep-talk didn't help. She wailed, "I'm so afraid something really bad happened to him, you've gotta help me find him, please, I don't know what to do and I just want him to come home."

  The man's reaction surprised her; she expected him to dismiss her the second she said biker, but he leaned over the table.

  "Miss... It would be helpful if you could give me your boyfriend's full name."

  "Jimmy Shaw. I don't think he has a middle."

  He didn't type it. He reached for a phone. Why didn't he type?

  "Lieutenant, I need you in room eight right now." Turning back to her, he asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?"

  *****

  Outside the room, Bishop and Neil stood looking in, flanking a tall woman with dark red hair.

  Bishop said, "It's definitely her, from the coffee shop."

  Neil nodded in agreement. "Prospective wife number five. Or is it six?"

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "Did he tell her?"

  Bishop shook his head. "Nope."

  She lifted an eyebrow and he shrugged. "I asked him when he checked in, when was it, two days ago. He said the less she knows the better. Thinking he's a bum won't kill her."

  The woman frowned and bent closer to the glass. Sharon sat with her back straight, clutching her purse on her lap.

  "You wouldn't think he'd be her type."

  Neil shrugged. "Or she, his. I wonder how he planned to explain it."

  He made a feasible imitation of Jimmy's voice. "Hey babe, I got some exciting news. You know the guy you think you've been sleeping with, that's not really me."

  The woman eyed him. "He might not be alive to have to worry about it. What do we know about this lady?"

  Bishop lifted a folder. "Outstanding citizen number one. Holds a Master's degree in economics, a Master's in computer science, and a Bachelor's in general business. IQ high enough to join Mensa. She's squeaky clean, got a speeding ticket a couple of years ago and that's it."

  *****

  Sharon looked up when the door opened, and stared as the most beautiful woman she'd seen in her life walked in, carrying two mugs with steaming coffee.

  Whoa, is it supermodel day or something? Or did I step into a TV show?

  If the day seemed peculiar up to this point it now turned to the bizarre, the woman took a seat opposite her.

  "Hi Sharon, may I call you Sharon? I'm Lieutenant Selena Williams."

  Sharon wanted to say something, but her mouth didn't obey.

  Selena leaned back, and her bright eyes seemed to pierce Sharon's soul.

  "According to your records, you have an IQ of 142, you have two Master's degrees, one Bachelor's, and you run a successful business. You really don't seem to be a biker kind of girl. May I ask, what are you doing with a guy like Jimmy Shaw?"

  Sharon's cheeks heated.

  How did they know so much about her, and what else did they know?

  At least the surprise helped her voice return.

  "He's sexy. And once you get past the macho attitude, he's a nice guy. I love him."

  "I'm going to be honest with you. We've been keeping our eyes on your boyfriend's associates for a long time. They have no qualms about killing people. Odds are your Jimmy is dead."

  Why did this feel like a test? What did this woman really want?

  Sharon put the mug down on the table. Fury filled her to the point where she could speak coherently with a firm voice.

  "No. You don't get to tell me that. You can't tell me he's dead until you can show me a body and say, 'That's your dead boyfriend.' Until then he is alive, and you will help me find him. It's what the police are for."

  Selena's gaze was completely steady.

  "Fair enough. Did he seem nervous? Worried about anything?"

  I should probably be happy to get all this attention. I didn't expect them to care at all. It's weird though...

  "What's going on?"

  Selena smiled.

  "Just answer the question, please."
r />   Jimmy always appeared as nervously inclined as the average brick wall. An earthquake wouldn't rock him. Or a hurricane.

  "I don't know, he has seemed off lately, but I could never make him tell me anything." She swallowed as a memory surfaced. "He said when he left that if he didn't come back it wouldn't be because he didn't want to, and if anything happened to him, he wanted me to know he loved me."

  In retrospect, eerie words, and difficult to repeat.

  The fury was gone, and her calm with it. She heard tears in her own voice, and bit her lip to keep it from shivering. When she tried to grab a Kleenex from the box she ended up with a whole bunch, but that was okay. She would need them.

  Selena entwined her fingers and rested her arms on the table.

  "I have a choice to make, Sharon. I can send you home with some comforting words, or I can tell you the truth. From what I have heard of you, I suspect you want the truth."

  "Heard of me from whom? Of course I want the truth."

  "Jimmy Shaw doesn't exist. He is a figment of our, of my, imagination."

  Oh great, she's crazy. I've ended up with an escaped mental patient thinking the whole world exists only in her brain.

  Selena kept talking, and as frightening as her words were, they painted out an image that made perfect sense.

  "Jimmy's real name is Paul. He's a detective, and he has been deep undercover with this gang for almost three years. He has done a great job, given us information that has placed over a dozen of them in prison for life, and he has saved many innocent lives."

  Sharon opened her mouth and closed it again. Nothing she could say would make any sense.

  Selena didn't even blink. "I know he's been wanting to get out, and I'm sure he wanted to tell you. He told his handlers you were safer not knowing."

  My Jimmy is a Paul, and he's a cop. No wonder he didn't want to talk about himself.

  It all made sense in a weird way, and explained a lot. Like, when they took him in and he seemed so sure of himself.

  "I wish he'd told me."

  "He was trying to protect you. Now, I need to know everything."