The police officer asked to see our identification, so we showed him our Mass IDs—the ones with the name Uretsky printed on the front. Our names needed to match the labels on the mailbox in the foyer and on the apartment lease. We were Elliot and Tanya Uretsky, at least until the real Uretsky tired of playing his game.
“Are you all right?” Officer Walsh asked Ruby.
Ruby had the dazed look of an accident victim. Her vacant eyes remained downcast, and her answer came out as soft as the flapping of butterfly wings. “Yes . . . I’m fine,” she said. “Just scared and sad for that poor woman.”
“I understand that this is traumatic,” Walsh said. “We have counselors who can help if you need assistance.”
“Thanks,” Ruby said.
I wanted to say, “Nobody can help with what we need.”
Instead, I said nothing.
Ruby sat on the futon, head in her hands. I sat beside her, but she recoiled from my touch.
“I don’t want to be near you,” she said. “I can’t be near you right now.”
“We need to stick together on this,” I said.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me exactly what that monster had threatened to do?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Upset me? Really? That was your reason? John, I think you’ve done a hell of a lot more than upset me!”
Ruby’s face contorted into a sort of animal snarl. How many times had I seen Ruby truly irate? The answer: never. Of course she got mad at me, often deservedly so—sometimes, just because—but on those occasions she’d go quiet, like a stealth submarine running silent, running deep. This time, she stood and crossed the room, her arms folded tightly against her chest and her back turned.
“What should I have done?” I asked.
Ruby pivoted in a fluid motion to face me. “Told the truth, for starters!”
“And then what?” I didn’t want to yell, but it was hard to keep my emotions in check. A woman was dead, and if you traced the blame, it originated with the identity that I stole. “What would we have done differently?”
“Maybe gone to the police,” Ruby said. “Maybe then Rhonda would still be alive.”
“And tell them what, Ruby? What? That we stole an identity and our victim is now terrorizing us?”
“What were you thinking, John?”
“I thought he was trying to just scare us. I didn’t think he would do it. . . . I didn’t think he could! He couldn’t have known who we were. How the hell was he going to kill somebody close to us?”
“How did he find out who we are, John? How? You said there was no way to trace our actual address from the post office box,” Ruby yelled from across the room.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, find out, dammit! You find out!”
Ruby crumpled to the floor like a folded napkin. She wasn’t just crying tears—she was wailing like a woman in mourning. She lay on her side, crying like that, shaking, and struggling to speak. “I’m not strong enough to handle this, John,” she was saying. “I’m not going to be able to make it. I can’t do this. I can’t—”
Her words were halted by another tsunami of tears. I got down on the floor beside Ruby. She wanted me close to her, I could tell, so I tucked her into my arms, spooning her the way I did when it was bedtime, just before sleep found us. I rocked Ruby in my arms in that spooning position, and I knew as the horror sank in that nothing about our relationship would ever be the same.
“I love you, baby. I love you,” I said over and over again.
“We’ve got to tell the police,” Ruby said.
“We can’t,” I said. “He’ll kill again. He’ll do it, and we can’t stop him.”
“You’ve got to make him stop. Please make him stop.”
“I will,” I said. “I promise. All I have to do is play the part. Whatever that means.”
We were still on the floor when the phone rang. Ruby pulled away from me and got into a kneeling position quicker than a cat. The muscles of her jaw tightened; her fingers, knuckles white from the applied force, dug hard against her thighs. I whirled around, glaring at the phone like it was a predator set loose in the apartment.
It rang again.
“Are you going to answer it?”
It rang again.
“What if he hangs up?” she asked. “What if this is our only chance to do what he wants?”
It rang again.
“Answer it, John! Answer it!”
I picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
My voice had the croaky sound of having been roused from a deep slumber.
“Elliot Uretsky?” asked a man.
I didn’t recognize the voice, but I knew it wasn’t the real Elliot Uretsky calling to terrify us again.
“Who is this?” I asked.
The cold bite to my voice was intended to intimidate.
“My name is Henry Dobson,” said the man. “Am I speaking with Elliot Uretsky?”
“You are,” I said, lying.
Play the part. . . .
“Sorry to call so late.”
I closed my eyes and fought to keep down what little was left inside my stomach. I glanced over at Ruby and saw that her hands were covering her mouth, ironically in a gesture not too dissimilar from that of the wise monkey warning against speaking evil. I thought of the woman who lived below us, whose severed fingers were meant to communicate the same.
“What do you want, Mr. Dobson? This isn’t a particularly good time to talk.”
“Then I’ll make it brief,” Dobson said. “I’m a fraud investigator with UniSol Health, and I’m afraid we might have a serious problem with your claim.”
CHAPTER 17
Our apartment buzzer buzzed at nine thirty and zero seconds the following morning. The visitor was expected, but even so, Ruby and I flinched at the sound. We looked absolutely horrible—not a wink of sleep for either of us. We had watched the news and read the papers online but hadn’t left the apartment—our prison.
Rhonda’s parents, a pleasant-looking gray-haired couple from Michigan, made a tearful plea on the local evening news—rebroadcast for the morning news as well—for anybody to come forward with information to help apprehend their daughter’s killer. The gruesome details of how the body was left—the demonic redistribution of her severed fingers—was somehow kept from the media.
“That’s us, John,” Ruby said. “We’re the ones who need to come forward. We’re the ones who need to help poor Rhonda’s parents.”
“And then we’ll be the ones who will live with another dead woman on our conscience. We’ve got to play out this next round. Then we’ll come forward.”
“You think Uretsky is the one who alerted UniSol about us?” Ruby asked.
I nodded. “Play the part,” I said. “We’ve got to convince the investigator that we are who we’re pretending to be. It’s got to be what he meant.”
I said it calmly, but I wasn’t feeling calm. I was racked with guilt—guilt that once I had intentionally killed a man, and then, years later, unintentionally killed a woman. I felt guilty for Ruby’s sickness, for stealing an identity, for dragging my wife into this. I felt guilty for playing Uretsky’s game and guilty for thinking of quitting. Blood will be on my hands. . . . I felt trapped and hopeless and sick myself, a sickness of my own damn making.
I buzzed Dobson in and waited. Minutes later I heard a soft knock. I opened the door, blocking Ginger’s escape attempt with my leg. A man stood in the doorway. I took a close look at our judge, jury, and potential executioner. I guessed him to be in his mid- to late thirties, partly because he was balding, with clusters of sandy brown hair barely allowing for a comb-over. As for body type, he was thin up top, but thick in the middle, another sign of middle age. A bushy mustache accentuated his thin lips, and he wore glasses, round, wire-rimmed style, held in place behind ears that stuck out from his head. Dressed in a blue oxford shirt, red tie, and tan slack
s, he reminded me of the accountants Ruby once worked with back when she was a graphic designer for a financial services firm. Just a regular guy.
He knows, I was thinking. He knows everything. How will I be able to play the part? I thought back to what Clegg said to me. Here’s your living proof that crime doesn’t pay. Your proof is a balding guy with glasses, waiting with bated breath to bring down the hammer of justice upon your stupid, stupid head. Happy days, John Bodine. You’ve really made a mess out of things.
Truth is, I’d be fine with a prison sentence for what I’d done. Maybe the national media attention would guarantee Ruby enough donations to fund her Verbilifide treatments. Maybe Uretsky knew all that, which was why he vowed to kill another woman if I failed to play the part. Win or lose at Uretsky’s game, I was certain of one thing: if Uretsky didn’t kill me, the guilt eventually would.
I unconsciously straightened my posture while extending my hand to Dobson. He set down his well-worn, black leather flap-over portfolio to shake hello. The man’s smile seemed genuine and congenial, though his teeth were noticeably coffee-stained yellow.
“Elliot Uretsky?” he asked.
I nodded. My stomach churned at the sound of my stolen name. Uretsky.
He spoke from his throat, not his gut, so his voice came out muffled and a bit nasal. If asked, I’d place his upbringing somewhere in the Midwest.
Maybe near where Rhonda Jennings’s family lives.
My stomach clenched and released spasmodically as I said, “That’s me.”
“Henry Dobson,” the man said, strengthening his already firm grip on my hand.
He let go of my hand and removed from his rear pants pocket a brown leather wallet, well worn, too. He flipped the leather billfold open, showing me his UniSol Health investigator’s identification, which he kept protected behind a clear plastic shield. He held the wallet close enough for me to read the name, Henry Dobson, and see that his face matched the picture on the ID.
“I didn’t realize this was the building where that murder took place,” Dobson said, still standing in the hallway.
“Last night,” I said, somehow summoning up a convincingly calm composure.
“I got stopped by the police on my way in,” Dobson said. “That’s when I found out.”
“Horrible, isn’t it?” I said.
“You hear about murders on the news all the time,” Dobson said.
“But I never thought about the people who live in the buildings where a murder takes place. Until now, that is. And here I am, adding to your troubles.”
I kept blocking the door to our apartment. I wasn’t ready to let him inside just yet.
“Do you mind telling me what this is all about? My wife isn’t feeling very well.”
The real Elliot would be a bit indignant at the intrusion, I had decided. To play the part meant needing to find the right balance between anger and cooperation. In actuality, Ruby was in the bedroom, hiding out until she had to make an appearance, not that Dobson needed to know all that.
“Of course she’s not,” Dobson said. “And I do apologize for the intrusion. I just have to do some quick verification work. You see, somebody called our fraud line and reported you.”
“Fraud line?” I asked.
“We have an anonymous tip line for folks to report medical fraud. You ask me, it’s been a mixed blessing so far. We’ve uncovered some fraud, but we’ve also got our fair share of angry exes or envious coworkers wanting to stir up trouble. Regardless, we’ve got to investigate all reports.”
So that was it—Uretsky had called the UniSol tip line to report our crime.
Play the part.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Know what?” Dobson replied.
“If someone is committing fraud.”
Dobson smiled, pushing his mustache up against his nose. “I’m really good at my job,” he said.
If Dobson brushed the back of my neck, he would wonder if I suffered from hyperhidrosis, excessive sweating, and perhaps would ask why I never filed any medical claims for treatment. Dobson indicated with a nod toward the living room that he wished to come inside, and not wanting to be truculent, I opted to let him in.
Ruby emerged from the bedroom, her skin so white, it appeared almost translucent. Her hands were trembling, too. It was a subtle waver, but I could see it easily because I knew Ruby. Dobson did not, so if he happened to notice and think it out of the ordinary, he’d probably assume it was a condition of her cancer. Meanwhile, Ruby looked at me with these benumbed, wide eyes and a defeated expression that broke my heart. My guilt revved up well past the red line once again. I put on a false exterior—one of pure confidence—hoping Ruby would absorb some of my self-assurance. She stood, albeit shakily, and came to greet us in the small foyer.
“Hello,” she said to Dobson, her voice weak.
“Hello,” Dobson said, giving Ruby’s outstretched hand a proper shake.
When they each let go, I saw Dobson nonchalantly rub his hand against his pant leg, perhaps to clear away the perspiration he’d picked up from Ruby’s palm.
“Would you like something to drink?” Ruby asked, straining a smile. “Tea, perhaps?”
Dobson smiled warmly, but those yellowish teeth must have looked like bared fangs to my wife.
“No, thank you,” Dobson said. “I really don’t want to take up much of your time. I’ll just be a few minutes. Routine questions, that’s all. I’m sorry to be of any inconvenience at this difficult time. I promise to be out of your hair as quickly as possible.”
I saw Dobson glance nervously at Ruby’s gorgeous strawberry blond locks. Perhaps he thought Ruby had lost her hair to chemo, and his last statement could have been construed as a thoughtless remark. I preferred a sensitive investigator to a hard-nosed one.
“Before we sit down, do you mind if I have a look around?” Dobson removed a clipboard from within his portfolio and held it up for me to see. “Part of my investigation requires that I do a quick inventory of your living arrangements. We need to make sure you’re actually residents here.”
I felt like now was as good a time as any to show my indignation.
“I have to be honest, this is feeling like quite an intrusion. We’re suffering a pretty significant ordeal already. I really don’t appreciate UniSol treating us like criminals.”
If you catch on to me, I was thinking, another person, someone I know will die.
Dobson made a face, as if to suggest this wasn’t the first time he’d heard that complaint. “It’s uncomfortable, and I completely understand your frustration,” he said. “Unfortunately, some of the more brazen fraud attempts we’ve investigated have involved apartments rented under false names or P.O. boxes used for mail drops. Believe me, if there’s a way to commit a crime, somebody is going to think how best to do it.” Dobson laughed, perhaps to shake off the uncomfortable aura that had settled over the room. “I promise, I’ll be quick,” he added.
“Do you mind if I ask what exactly you are looking for?”
“Evidence that Elliot and Tanya Uretsky reside at this address,” Dobson said. “Pictures. Mementos. Mail in your name, that sort of thing. It’s pretty easy to tell with just a cursory inspection when someone is using an apartment for illicit purposes. Of course, you can refuse my search request. I’ll have to report that back to UniSol, and they’ll probably expand the claims investigation, which regrettably could impact your claim status until it’s resolved.”
My mouth fell open. “That sounds like blackmail,” I said.
Ruby gripped my arm.
“Easy,” she was saying to me. “Take it easy, John.”
“Again, I completely understand,” Dobson said. “I promise, it’s just a quick check around. It’s obvious to me that you are who you say you are.”
I allowed my face to show pure outrage. Meanwhile, Ruby appeared ready to make a dash for that blue bucket tucked under the sink.
“By all means,” I said, gesturing
toward the bedroom where we’d slept for less than three months.
My acting chops were limited to a middle school production of the play Harvey, in which I gave an infamously dreadful interpretation of the Dr. Chumley character. I guess that past episode wasn’t fully reflective of my inner thespian, because, somehow, I managed to maintain an air of pure indignation as Dobson walked into the bedroom, peeked into our bathroom, and then returned to the living room, seemingly satisfied. At least, he made several marks on his paper that were suggestive of his satisfaction.
“Just a few quick questions,” Dobson said, “and then I’ll be gone.”
“I really don’t appreciate being put through this,” I muttered while I took my seat at our rented pinewood dining table. The ceiling mounted light above us was a cheap model that cast wide shadows, making it difficult for Dobson to read his paperwork. Ruby took a seat opposite to me, with Dobson plunked down in the middle of us both.
Play the part. . . . Play the part. . . . Play the part, I was saying to myself.
Every other second I thought about Rhonda. I could tell Ruby was thinking the same. I recalled Uretsky’s chilling words. I wish you could have seen what I did to her. . . . It would have definitely inspired you to try a little harder.
“I just need to see some identification. Again, you can refuse. . . .”
I held up a hand to stop him.
“Here you go,” I said, handing over our Massachusetts ID cards with the name Uretsky on the front.
If Dobson wondered why we didn’t have driver’s licenses, he didn’t ask. He just jotted down some information on his sheet. Meanwhile, at his request, I produced several bills, cable TV and electric, all in Elliot Uretsky’s name thanks to the paperwork I had previously filed. Dobson seemed satisfied with that as well. His writing speed accelerated proportionally with my desire to have him leave. Perhaps he sensed his welcome wearing out.
Stolen Page 10
