Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries)

by Bill Pronzini

  “You have to leave now. You have to leave. Go away, go away, go away!”

  There was nothing he could do but comply. And in a hurry. If he’d lingered, he felt sure she would have started screaming.

  8

  I was home watching a Discovery Channel special on sea otters with Emily when Tamara called on my cell. Not the Seriously Adult Tamara this time, Furious Tamara, one I’d only met a few times, and glad of it. Spitting so much fire I could almost feel the blistering heat coming over the phone wire.

  It took a few seconds to straighten out what she was saying. “R. L. McManus isn’t Virden’s ex-wife? That’s what he told you?”

  “Claimed we made a mistake. Said we were incompetent. Said he was stopping payment on his checks and taking his business to another agency.”

  “What’d you say to him?”

  “Not what I felt like saying. Told him I hadn’t made a mistake, has to be another explanation, but the man wouldn’t listen. Said he ought to know his ex when he saw her, even after eight years, and hung up on me.”

  “Can’t argue with that. The part about him knowing his ex when he saw her—”

  “Don’t you start telling me I screwed up.”

  “I wasn’t going to. You don’t make that kind of mistake.”

  “Damn straight I don’t. Not on a simple trace, not on any trace with as much starter info as that dude handed you. Just to make sure, I double-checked. Everything says R. L. McManus is Virden’s first wife.”

  I thought back to the few minutes I’d spent with the woman. “I asked her if she was Roxanne Lorraine McManus and she didn’t deny it, just said she preferred to use her initials. She didn’t deny Virden was her ex-husband, either … though come to think of it, she didn’t offer any confirmation.”

  “Can’t be two women with that name, or I’d’ve turned it up. And Virden wouldn’t have any reason to lie, right? He says she’s not his ex, then she’s not.”

  “Despite the resemblance. Right.”

  “Well, then? Tell you the same thing it tells me?”

  “Identity theft,” I said.

  “Yeah. Whoever that Canine Customers bitch is, she’s passing as the real Roxanne McManus and has been for the past seven years.”

  I’d taken the phone out into the kitchen; I made two passes back and forth, thinking it out. Identity theft is a huge crime problem these days, with staggering numbers of victims nationwide—something like twelve million the previous year and that number rising annually by double-digit percentage points. Most of the cases were low-tech and committed for quick profit, but there were plenty of incidents of individuals whose entire lives had been taken over—and sometimes ended—by identity thieves. Only a few of the cases we’d handled to date had involved that type of scam, none of them major, but I knew someone who’d had a hellish personal experience with one—Sharon McCone, good friend and fellow investigator, in a high-profile case a few years back.

  I said, “The real McManus was last seen in Blodgett, before she moved away to go into business with a friend she’d just met. You turn up anything along those lines?”

  “Nothing. So maybe the friend’s the look-alike thief?”

  “Maybe. If it was a woman.”

  “Well, whoever the impostor is, she must’ve done away with the real McManus. Nobody falls off the radar for seven years if they’re still aboveground.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said. “Could be a case of swapped identities. That kind of thing happens now and then.”

  “Yeah, well, what do we do now? Can’t just let it slide.”

  “See what you can find out about the other woman at Canine Customers, Jane Carson. We owe the client that much follow-up.”

  “Not if he stops payment on his checks we don’t.”

  “I’ll try to talk him out of that. Once he understands we’re not at fault, he may be more reasonable.”

  “Wouldn’t bet on it. Probably hang up on you like he did on me.”

  “One step at a time. Or don’t you want to run the Carson check?”

  “Sure I do. Won’t do our rep any good unless we find out what’s going on here.”

  “Okay then.”

  “And when we do find out? Notify the law?”

  “Not our call without definite proof of fraud. Up to Virden if he wants to pursue it.”

  “Better get in touch with him right away,” she said, “let him know what we suspect. And don’t forget about his stop-payment threat.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  That got me a sardonic little chuckle. Furious Tamara was all through venting; Seriously Adult Tamara was back in the saddle. “I’ll be in the office awhile, you want to call me back.”

  “As soon as I talk to Virden,” I said.

  Only I didn’t talk to Virden. My call to his cell went straight to voice mail. I left an urgent call-back message, but it didn’t get returned.

  * * *

  Tamara had another surprise for me when I walked into the agency Wednesday morning. She came out of her office while I was shedding my overcoat and said without preamble, “This McManus thing gets weirder and weirder. Far as I can find out, the other woman doesn’t exist.”

  “What other woman?”

  “Jane Carson. City business license for Canine Customers lists R. L. McManus as sole owner and operator, no employees. Real estate outfit that handles the lease doesn’t have any record of a Jane Carson living at the Twentieth Street address, and neither does any other source.”

  “So she could be living somewhere else.”

  “Uh-uh. Lot of Jane Carsons in the city and the Bay Area, and none of ’em match.”

  “Could be she recently moved here from out of state, hasn’t been here long enough to trace.”

  “That’d make her a new hire then, right?”

  “Or a new roomer. McManus rents out rooms, with or without the property owner’s knowledge and permission; there’s a sign on the fence in front.”

  “Carson’s not either one,” Tamara said. “You told me she handled that Rottweiler like a pro. Can’t just walk in off the street and take over handling a big trained watchdog. Takes time, plenty of patience. Woman has to’ve been working or living there for weeks, if not months.”

  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, d
o 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.”

  “Some bigger than others. I’ll never make one like Francine again.”

  “Another man is about to. She’s engaged to be married.”

  “Well, I feel sorry for the poor guy, whoever he is. Is that why you’re here? Checking up on her for her future husband?”

  “Something like that. He has a little boy, nine years old, from a previous marriage.”

  “Francine as a wife is bad enough, but as a mother? I pity that kid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s crazy, that’s why. Ceritifiable.”

  “How is she crazy?”

  Dinowski looked away, not answering. A muscle fluttered along his jaw. The shape of his mouth was lipless, pinched.

  Runyon said, gambling, “Violent tendencies?”

  “Tendencies? She’s psychotic when something sets her off, and it doesn’t take much to set her off.” Dinowski shot the left sleeve of his suit coat, unbuttoned his shirt cuff, and drew that up. The skin along his forearm bore a long puckered scar. “See this? She threw a pot of boiling water at me one night. Just because of a mild criticism of what she was cooking. If I hadn’t ducked away in time, it’d be my face that’s scarred. That was the last straw. The next day I filed for divorce.”

  “There were other incidents, then?”

  “Oh yes. None as bad as the boiling water, but bad enough. Just fly into a rage for no good reason. One time in bed she … never mind the details. It was the only time I ever hit her, slapped her, and she scratched the hell out of me in return. Lord, I wish I’d never laid eyes on her. Those were the worst five months of my life.”

  “Would you be willing to repeat what you’ve just told me, Mr. Dinowski?”

  “Repeat it? To whom?”

  “Her fiancé, the father of the little boy I told you about.”

  “To stop Francine from marrying him, is that it?”

  Runyon said, “There’s a chance she may have been taking out her aggressions on the boy.”

  “Christ. Hurting him, you mean?”

  “He has a fractured arm and multiple bruises.”

  “A nine-year-old kid? Well, I’m not really surprised. I told you she was crazy, totally out of control.”

  “Can I count on your cooperation, then?”

  “Cooperation?” Dinowski hesitated. Wary thoughts had come i
nto his head; Runyon could tell by his body language and the sudden altered state of his expression. “I don’t know. If I step into this, spoil her plans, she’s liable to come after me again. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

  “You’d be saving the boy a lot more grief.”

  “Or causing him more. She could take it out on him, too, you know. This man she’s marrying … who is he? Somebody important? Somebody with money, I’ll bet. Francine loves money.”

  “He’s a family law attorney.”

  “A lawyer? Wait a minute, now. I can’t afford to get involved with lawyers. My position here at the bank, my finances … a lawsuit would ruin me … no. No, I don’t think I’d better get involved.”

  “Think about the boy, Mr. Dinowski—”

  “No, I’m sorry. No. I’d like to help, but it’s not my problem; she’s not my problem anymore. I shouldn’t have said anything to you in the first place.” He drummed blunt, nervous fingers on the desktop. “You’re not going to repeat it to this lawyer, are you? Without my permission?”

  “Not without permission, no.”

  “Well, good, I appreciate that. I wouldn’t want it to get back to Francine. As crazy as she is, there’s no telling what she might do. You understand, don’t you? I hope you find some other way to stop her from marrying the lawyer, hurting the boy anymore, I really do—”

  Runyon was on his feet by then and moving toward the door. He left without giving Kevin Dinowski another glance or another word.

  * * *

  Francine Whalen’s ex-roommate, Charlene Kepler, still lived in the same apartment on Broderick Street in Laurel Heights. Runyon drove out California Street from downtown, but he didn’t go directly to the Broderick address. It was not quite five o’clock, and Charlene Kepler wasn’t likely to be home yet; she worked for an insurance company in the Transamerica building.

  He turned into the Laurel Heights shopping center. You could find a Chinese restaurant in just about any mall in the city, and this one was no exception. He’d eaten Chinese food five or six times a week after Colleen was gone; it had been her favorite and he’d used it as a way to maintain a connection to her and the life they’d shared together. He hadn’t felt the need as often since meeting Bryn, but it was what he was in the mood for tonight. Chinese restaurants were usually quiet and orderly, good places to think as well as eat.