by Penny Pike
In the distance, I heard the double doors slam open against the metal walls.
“Who’s out there?” Tripp yelled loud enough that I could hear him and so could anyone else within half a block. “I know you’re here! I heard your phone.”
I held my breath.
Silence.
Seconds later I heard footsteps crunching over gravel. The crunching grew louder as Tripp rounded the corner; then it stopped abruptly.
What was he doing? No doubt scanning the area, looking for any sign of the Peeping Tom with the Disneyland cell phone ring. Or readying his weapon of choice. Or alerting his minions for backup.
Which reminded me. I still hadn’t turned off my phone. Aunt Abby was sure to call again. Slowly I snaked my hand into my pocket and flipped the tiny switch with my thumbnail to silence the ringer. I only hoped my aunt hadn’t called earlier because she was in some kind of trouble.
The crunching started up again. And grew closer. Sweat broke out on my forehead and I felt a trickle down my back. Tripp was nearing my hiding place. A few more steps and I’d surely be discovered. My heart beat so loud I was sure he could hear it.
A loud thud, only a few feet away.
Then another. Even closer.
I knew exactly what Tripp was doing—searching through the refuse, piece by piece. It would be a matter of seconds before he came upon the discarded door that hid me. As soon as he heaved it over, I’d be caught.
I was trapped like a rat in a—
An ear-piercing scream filled the air, followed by a long string of swearwords.
“Get away from me, you filthy rats!” Tripp yelled. Only he didn’t say “filthy.”
I heard him throw down whatever heavy piece of trash he’d been holding and take several steps back, cursing as he retreated. With a last f-bomb, I heard him scramble back around the corner. You’d have thought he was being chased by giant rats.
I peeked out from behind my hiding spot. No sign of Tripp.
I stayed scrunched down for a few minutes, waiting to hear the comforting sound of the warehouse doors closing again before making a dash for my car.
Seconds later a rat the size of Godzilla ran across my foot.
I gave a silent scream, cupped my mouth, and was out of that garbage heap, down the street, and back in my car faster than an Olympic runner on steroids.
• • •
After my breathing returned to near normal, I tried calling Aunt Abby as I headed back to Fort Mason. No answer. That couldn’t be good. I left a message that I’d called and would be back at the School Bus soon. I hoped Dillon was still with her, and that the cops—or whoever—hadn’t caught up with him. I needed to talk to him. He might be able to figure out what was going on with Tripp and all that computer equipment in that warehouse.
I smelled like crap, but there was no time for a shower. I’d wash up in the sink, put on a fresh apron, and hope the cooking smells covered any unpleasant odors. When I arrived, I parked the car in the lot adjacent to the food trucks again and headed directly for Aunt Abby’s Big Yellow School Bus. At four o’clock, the serving day was pretty much over for her comfort food, but the lights were still on in her bus—a good sign, I hoped. I bounded inside and was relieved to see her and Dillon still aboard. Dillon, not surprisingly, had changed into yet another disguise. This time he wore a pair of white overalls and a white cap. The words sewn onto the front of the uniform read “San Francisco Health Department.”
Where did he get these outfits?
“You’re kidding me,” were the first words out of my mouth. “Health inspector? Why not Inspector Gadget?”
“Who?” Dillon said.
“I think it’s brilliant,” Aunt Abby commented. “He blends right in. No one will recognize him dressed like a health inspector.”
I shook my head, then felt a burning on my arm. I held it up to check the spot where I’d scratched it earlier. It was in nearly the same spot as the wound I’d collected when I’d fallen, but on the other arm.
“What happened to you?” Aunt Abby asked, her eyebrows raised to an alarming height. “And your hair? It looks like a rat’s nest. What have you been doing?” She reached into a cupboard for the first aid kit and pulled it down, then went to work on my scratch.
Did she have to say “rat’s nest”?
“It’s nothing. Could have been worse,” I said, reminded of the rats. Black plague. Hantavirus. Ugly teeth marks. Not to mention nearly being caught by Tripp Saunders. Who knew what he would have done if he’d found me. “But I did find out where Tripp works. It’s no meatpacking plant—that’s for sure.”
“How did you find him?” Dillon asked. “I tried to find his business online but came up empty.”
“That’s because his business is bogus. I followed him.” I winced as Aunt Abby dabbed alcohol on my wound.
“Sweet. What’d you find out?” Dillon asked
I described the equipment I’d seen through the hole in the covered window.
“Anything else?” Dillon asked.
“A bunch of papers,” I said.
“What kind of papers?”
“I don’t know. White. Some were cut into the size of business cards. There were a few photographs of people—head shots. Small. Oh, and something that looked like squares of sandpaper.
Dillon nodded. “He’s making fake IDs.”
“What?” I said.
“Fake IDs.”
“You mean, like, so underage kids can buy beer?” I asked.
Dillon shook his head. “I doubt it. He’s probably making them for illegals and selling them for megabucks.”
“Seriously?”
“Sounds like it, from what you described,” Dillon said. “Fake IDs are big business these days. Against the law, of course, but there’s a huge demand for all kinds of fake documents, especially for illegal aliens. And they’re pretty easy to make.”
“You know how to make fake IDs?” I asked as Aunt Abby placed a large Band-Aid over the scratch on my arm. She would have been a great nurse.
He shrugged. “You don’t need to be a genius or anything. The easy way is to just scan an ID into your computer, open it in Photoshop, insert a photo, change the text fields—name, birth date, hair, eye color, stuff like that—then print it on heavy cardstock, cut it out, and laminate it.”
“That’s the easy way?” I asked, realizing I could never enter the fake ID business if my life depended on it.
“Yeah, but from what you described, it sounds more like Tripp is using professional equipment. The initial setup costs a bunch, but the results look totally real, and the payoff can be huge.”
“What’s the professional method?” Aunt Abby asked. I wondered if she was thinking of starting up a side business.
“Same as the easy way, but you also need Teslin paper, butterfly pouches, a laminator, and a magnetic strip encoder, just to get started. You have to find a template for your state on Internet sites like Peer-2-Peer file sharing or BitTorrent. Then use Photoshop to change the text fields—that’s standard. Scan in the photo and signature image files. If you have a passport photo, that works best. Change the background and color variance, then add a PDF417 bar code. You can find those online too. Last, you’ll need to encode a magnetic stripe so it’s scannable. They aren’t cheap, but there are discount suppliers online if you know where to look. Then just print everything on synthetic microperforated paper with an inkjet printer, laminate it in the butterfly pouch, add a hologram, and you have a whole new life.” Dillon grinned, proud of his questionable knowledge.
I was sorry we’d asked.
“Who are you?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Where do you get a hologram?” Aunt Abby asked.
“Like everything else—online,” Dillon said matter-of-factly.
Ha. I wondered if Amazon carri
ed them. They sold everything.
“A generic one is fine,” he continued. “Most people don’t bother looking at it. But if you really want it to look pro, you use the shield-and-key hologram—it’s a transparent rainbow, and pretty much impossible to tell that it’s fake.”
“And this really works?” I asked, finding it hard to believe that making fake IDs could ever be a simple task for someone like me.
“If you know what you’re doing. There are tricks, like sanding the edges a little to make the card look worn.”
Hence the sandpaper I’d spotted on one of the tables.
“Dillon,” Aunt Abby, said, “you haven’t made any of these fake IDs, have you?”
“No way. It’s totally illegal,” Dillon said.
As if that had stopped him from hacking into computers.
“But I know a few people who do, and they’re making hella cash,” Dillon continued. “They sell them through a bunch of different outlets. I’ll bet Tripp sold his through places like Boris’s food truck. It would be pretty easy to buy, say, lunch, then pay a little extra for it and get a fake ID along with it.”
Hmm. Could be the connection to Boris’s death we’d been looking for. “How much do people pay for fake IDs?” I asked.
“Anywhere from a hundred to a grand, depending on what kind and how many.”
A grand! “Can these friends of yours make any kind of ID you want?” Aunt Abby asked.
“Yep. Driver’s licenses, green cards, social security cards, credit cards, library cards, just for starters. There was this big ring in New York last year that was finally busted. They were making around two mil a year. People ordered the IDs in the morning and had them by afternoon. They were distributed by pawn shops, street food carts, knockoff jewelry shops, places like that. I’m telling you, identity theft has become big business.”
“So really, Dillon, how do you know all this stuff?” I asked. “Who are these ‘friends’ of yours?”
Dillon shrugged.
“Darcy, he knows all of this because he’s supersmart,” Aunt Abby answered for him.
He’s more like a savant, I thought. I’d read about Asperger’s syndrome when I’d first met Dillon years ago. He had so many of the characteristics—lacking social skills, fixated on routine, avoiding eye contact, preoccupied with computers, talks a lot about his favorite subject, prefers the quiet of his bedroom. But no one had ever approached Aunt Abby about his possible disorder. To her he was simply “supersmart.”
“So if Tripp is making and selling these fake IDs, and using places like Boris’s truck to distribute them, why would he kill Boris?” I asked.
“I dunno. Maybe Boris didn’t want to do it anymore,” Dillon said. “Didn’t you say you overheard him say something like he was finished with whatever? Maybe he threatened to rat on Tripp and Tripp killed him to shut him up.”
I thought about Cherry Washington. “How does Cherry fit into all of this?”
“You said you saw her with Tripp,” Dillon said.
I nodded. “And she seems quite eager to take over Boris’s business. But again, there’s no connection to Oliver Jameson’s death.”
“Maybe Oliver was selling IDs for Tripp too,” Aunt Abby suggested, packing up the first aid supplies.
I turned to her. “You think Oliver might have been involved in this? But why?”
“You said his business was dying,” Aunt Abby suggested. “Maybe he needed the money.”
“And you think Tripp is going around killing all his middlemen?” I said. “Seems unlikely.”
“Maybe I can do some digging on Cherry Washington—see if there’s a connection to Jameson we might have missed,” Dillon offered.
I nodded. “While you’re at it, see what you can find out about Tripp Saunders. Is your laptop here?”
Dillon nodded.
“Okay, tomorrow I’ll go back to Bones ’n’ Brew and see if I can find out anything more about Oliver from his sister—what’s-her-name.” I said. “Maybe if I ask the right questions, she can provide some kind of link between these two chefs and/or Tripp. As soon as we get cleaned up here, I’m heading home to take a long hot shower and get the smell of rat poop off me. If I never see another rat in my lifetime, it’ll be too soon. And that includes your rat, Dillon.”
Dillon shot me a look. I made a face at him.
I spent the next half hour helping Abby and Dillon clean up, so we’d be ready for the next day’s customers.
“You smell!” Aunt Abby said. “Go on home and take a shower. Dillon and I will finish the rest.”
I took off my soiled apron and dropped it in the laundry bag. “Okay, See you at home,” I said as I headed down the School Bus steps.
“I’ll be right behind you, dear,” Aunt Abby called to me.
“Lock up tight,” I called back to my aunt and Dillon. “Tripp may have figured out it was me snooping around his warehouse, so we need to be extra-careful.”
I stepped out of the School Bus and shuddered as a cold, damp bay wind blew across my face. I glanced around the food truck area and focused on Boris’s truck. No sign of life. I checked Jake’s place. The lights inside appeared to be on, but I didn’t see Jake through the windows and wondered where he was.
As I walked toward the parking lot, I got the eerie feeling I was being watched, and I tried to shake it off as paranoid jitters. When I arrived at my car, I noticed a ticket on my windshield and snatched it off.
“Damn!” I said aloud. “I paid the parking fee!” I was about to curse the faceless parking attendant when I unfolded the white paper and saw the words scrawled inside in black marker.
“Mind your own business, or you might find a little rodent meat in your next potpie.”
Chapter 18
I glanced around the parking lot for any sign of trouble, peeked in the backseat of my car just to make sure no one was hiding inside—including a rat—then quickly got in and locked the doors.
I shivered. Someone was on to me. Someone knew where I worked, which car I drove, and no doubt a lot more about me than I realized.
Was it Tripp? Was he watching me now? Did he mean to follow up on his threat and taint my aunt’s food with a dead rat?
Or did he know about Dillon’s pet rat?
I pressed the button to turn on the engine and headlights and backed out of the spot. My sweaty hands slipped on the steering wheel. As I pulled up to the parking lot exit, I thought about the other people on my suspects list. They all knew I was looking into the murders. If one of them was the killer, then he or she had good reason to try to stop me. The question was, if it wasn’t Tripp, who was it? Or had I overlooked someone not on my list?
The car idled at the exit as I waited for a break in traffic to pull out. So much for a fast getaway. Good thing no one was chasing me at the moment.
Or was someone following me and I just didn’t know it?
I tapped Aunt Abby’s number on my cell phone. If the killer knew about me, then he surely knew about my connection to my aunt. After all, he’d just left a threatening note relating to a rat in Aunt Abby’s food. I had a feeling she wasn’t safe either.
“Hello?” my aunt said brightly.
“Aunt Abby? Are you all right?”
“Of course, dear. Why do you ask?”
“Someone left a nasty note on my car. I think it might have been the murderer, and he knows where I live, so to speak. I’m worried we both might be in danger.”
“Oh goodness, Darcy. What about Dillon?” I hadn’t thought to worry about my cousin. I decided not to mention the reference to rodent meat, in case the note referred to Ratty. “Oh, I’m sure he’s safe after using all of those disguises. But tell him about the note and make sure he keeps an eye on you, will you?”
“Dillon’s not with me, Darcy,” my aunt said. I heard alarm in her usually ch
eery voice. “I’m already on my way home. I left him in the bus. It’s locked, but now you’ve got me worried.”
Aunt Abby was never a fan of the hands-free cell phone law.
“Listen, I’ll give him a call. Just take care of yourself. Go straight home and lock the doors. I’ll be there soon.”
“All right,” Aunt Abby said, “but you’ll call me if Dillon’s in any kind of trouble, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll talk to you soon.” I ended the call, then tapped Dillon’s cell phone number. He answered on the fourth ring, just when I was about to panic.
“’S’up, Darce?” Dillon said. I could hear his laptop keyboard clicking in the background.
“Dillon, I’m worried about your mother. I found a threatening note waiting for me on my windshield when I got to my car. Whoever left it knows I’ve been digging into the murders. And I think he made a veiled threat involving your pet rat.”
The clicking stopped. “What? What did the note say exactly?” Dillon asked.
“Just that if I didn’t stop snooping, there might be a little rodent meat coming our way. I told Aunt Abby to go directly home and lock the doors.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Goose bumps rose on my arms. “Dillon? Are you there?”
I heard some noise; then he answered, “Yeah, I’m on my way.”
“But, Dillon, the cops are after you! They’re probably watching the house. And if they are, they’re sure to spot you.”
“Don’t worry. They won’t see me. Gotta go. Later.”
Dillon hung up, leaving me holding a dead line.
I set down the phone. I had mixed feelings about Dillon going home. I was glad that he’d be there to protect his mother, but I didn’t want him to get arrested.
I was just about to pull into the street when I heard a knock on the hood of my car.
I jumped a foot, accidently hitting the horn and managing to kill the engine.
