Identity Thief

by JP Bloch

  “It’s that detective I hired, isn’t it?” she replied, with unusual accuracy. It wasn’t at all the main point, yet for once she intuited something that had something to do with something. “He put you up to it. I bet he controls your mind. Like some sort of shrink.”

  “Did you hire someone to be Biff?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  I thought, Shrink . . . Randy . . . Photo . . . Jesse Falcon . . . Then everything got jumbled. It was hard to remember what really happened versus what I thought happened or maybe had a dream about.

  You know those dreams where you never get to where you’re supposed to go or nobody hears what you’re saying? You can shout at them or push them off a cliff and still nothing penetrates the slow, gooey molasses we call life.

  I realized that it was all the same. My life was no different from my bad dreams. Of course Betsy would never tell me the truth. Of course my mother would never change. Of course Jesse Falcon . . . I was stupid, I was noble, I was a crook, I was cruel, my enemy was my friend, I destroyed my friend.

  I remember looking at Betsy, the pathological liar, as if she were an oracle of truth. I heard myself say, “I hate my . . . ” But I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. “I hate . . . ”

  There was a heavy thud to my head and that’s the last thing I remember.

  I TOLD ESTHER I GOT MUGGED, changed out of my dirty wet clothes, and ran under a hot shower. Esther insisted on putting some ointment on my scrapes. I kissed her in thanks and fell into a deep sleep. I slept for a full day, and by the time I woke up, it was night again. There’s something weird about waking up at night. I suddenly remembered being a little kid and being upset when I woke up from a nap when it was dark outside. Though, of course, I didn’t cry now.

  I couldn’t get a grip on anything. I was exhausted. I felt like I had woken up from a coma.

  There was one obvious solution. I told Esther I had to go to the store for something. Yes, my excuse was that flaky. I went to where the whores hung out on the street. I couldn’t even be bothered with going to a hotel. Driving through the rubble and closed up storefronts, I thought, What a shitty neighborhood. What a shitty world. I noticed one very pretty girl with big tits, and I was about to pull up next to her. But then I spotted another girl who wasn’t nearly as hot to look at, yet for some reason captured my attention. I pulled up next to her.

  “Hey, big guy,” she smiled. “Like to go for a ride?”

  “Get in.”

  She did as she was told. “You know, Mister, I . . . ” She paused for some reason. “I really like your kind of man. You seem so—”

  “How much for a blow job? How much for a fuck?” I was in no mood for her perfunctory bullshit.

  She told me her rates.

  I pulled the car over on a dead-end street, where our only company was a couple of abandoned warehouses. The streetlamp cover had been smashed, so there was a bright glare from the big naked bulb. Right in front of us, on the street, I could make out a piece of roadkill. It was a pregnant rat. Little pink rat fetuses oozed from its dead stomach.

  “Blow me,” I told her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to fuck?” she asked hopefully, like any salesperson trying to make more money.

  “Nah. I don’t feel like looking at anybody.”

  We positioned ourselves so that she could get to work. “Wait,” I decided, with a slight moan. “Don’t blow me. Let me do it. Hold still, and let me fuck your face. Like your mouth is just another fuck hole.”

  After a moment, she said, “Sure. You’re the boss.”

  I thrust into her mouth. “You’re nothing but a fuck hole,” I kept repeating, which really got me excited. In fact, to my profoundest disappointment, I had a premature ejaculation.

  “I don’t suppose that gives me fifty percent off?” I joked, zipping up my pants.

  She smiled. “A man with a sense of humor. I like that.” As she sat up in the car, her face got caught in the brightness of the light bulb high above.

  “Hey, wait a second.” I took her face in my hands and moved it side to side.

  “Are you by any chance a Hollywood talent scout?” she said, though I could tell she was nervous. “My real dream is Broadway, because that’s where the great acting is.”

  I fumbled for my reading glasses, then remembered they were in my shirt pocket. “Put these on.”

  “Uh, sure.” She smiled wanly as she put on the glasses.

  I grabbed her hair and pulled it back. “Holy motherfucking shit. You’re Melanie.”

  She tried to act dumb. “My name’s Amber, Mister. Amber La Rue. I mean, it’s not my real name, but it’s the name I use for . . . like, this stuff. I have different names I use as an actress. I think I’d better get going. I can walk back.” She reached for the door handle. But I grabbed her by the throat. I reached over to my glove compartment and took out the handgun I’d bought after coming back from the island. I’d figured I should be on the safe side, in case anyone came after me about Biff. I pulled back on her hair, and as her mouth opened in reflex, I stuck the gun inside it. She was whimpering in terror.

  “Are you going to tell me everything?”

  She frantically nodded her head.

  “Okay, then.” I slid the gun from her mouth, which made her say ouch. “Talk to me.”

  She stopped sniffling and grew calm, in the manner of someone accustomed to talking her way out of trouble. “I don’t know much, I swear. This guy and his wife asked me to pose as his wife a couple of times. No sex, just a performance. I’m a drama major, you know.”

  “I’m sure you’ll win many awards.”

  “They say that’s how a lot of big stars began . . . you know, like me.”

  “If that’s true, I’m sure they at least knew who to fuck. Enough of this bullshit. Go on with your story, and I’ll decide whether or not I believe you.” I looked at her with all the intimidation in me, which I must admit was considerable.

  “That’s really about it. They didn’t tell me why I had to do it, and I didn’t ask. The only times I did were when you came over. I didn’t recognize you at first, not until I got up next to you in the car. And by that time, it was too late. I had to hope for the best. Your name is Robby, right?”

  “It’s Randy,” I said, with a conviction that took me by surprise.

  She gave a wry grin. “I meet a lot of guys. Say, do you by any chance know anyone in show biz? You seem like an important man. No bullshit. You really do.”

  “Yeah, I’m the fucking President of the United States. Now get out of my car. And if you say anything to that couple—”

  “Don’t worry. I know when to shut up. Oh, and thanks. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Whores could be so sarcastic.

  “My pleasure,” I replied with equal sarcasm. But as she was about to leave, I told her to wait. I had one more question. “What did this guy’s actual wife look like?”

  “She was gorgeous. The most beautiful long hair I ever saw. A face like an angel. And she had this way about her. It’s hard to describe. Like a princess.”

  “Shit.” I saw she was staring at me. “Will you just go?”

  I drove around aimlessly for a while, trying to figure out my next move. Then I remembered Esther. I called her from the car and said that I couldn’t explain now, but I had to do something. She started asking about million questions at once. I told her I loved her and hung up the phone. When she called back, I didn’t answer.

  I mentally beat myself up about Astronaut, the bulldog. I thought he looked like Jeremy, and he was nuts about me. True, when I saw Jeremy at Sabrina’s studio, he ignored me. Of course, a dog’s emotional response to a human being can be unpredictable. And I should’ve realized that. Anyway, I had a lousy memory even for people, let alone a dog. I was so angry at myself for not noticing this that I literally punched myself in the face.

  I couldn’t believe that I’d let myself be betrayed again. By my own daughter. She’d married the gu
y at the bank robbery. How did he convince her to lead such a complicated double life? Of course if it was Biff, he could have paid her off or something. Or maybe he threatened her. Yes, that was the nicer possibility to ponder. She was doing all this to protect Esther and me.

  But what about my so-called friend? He was in on it with Biff from Day One. No wonder he knew so much. When he hacked into those bank accounts, he’d been doing it all along. And he certainly was not trying to protect me. He took advantage of my daughter to keep her from coming forward. He even let Biff’s thugs beat him up on the island to make it look good. All to keep me away from Biff. He was, after all, Biff’s impoverished best friend for all those years, so it wasn’t hard to see that he could be bought. Besides having some insane loyalty to Biff. Of course, super-rich people sometimes have that sort of power over people. I should’ve thought of this much sooner. Instead, I stupidly assumed he was living off of Melanie’s money. What a numbskull I was. And me, a shrink.

  Yet as my shrink self kicked into gear—I’d almost forgotten I wasn’t always a PI—I thought of another way my fake friend could’ve gotten involved. His mother treated him like crap, and his father died—abandoned him. Then Betsy dumped him for Biff. Since Biff was a crook, my pal had to become one, too. It was a way of holding on to Betsy, to not feel abandoned. Beneath that vanilla exterior, he was a total lunatic. As a shrink, that should’ve made me feel sorry for him. But I was a human being first and foremost, and I hated him almost as much as Biff. I’d leave the forgiving to God, assuming there was a God.

  I called the Paradise Cul-de-Sac. Sabrina answered the phone, and I said, “I’m on my way, Sabrina, don’t you dare leave.” I figured she needed to leave with me. If she simply left on her own, her creepy husband would go after her or even worse. Pulling up in front of Number 11, I pounded on the door and rang and rang the buzzer. There was no answer. I saw that there was an alarm system, so I prowled around the house to see if there was an open window. I lucked out. The sliding back door was unlocked. I touched the handgun in my pants pocket for a sense of security.

  I made no effort to be quiet as I stepped inside the kitchen. “Anybody home?” I shouted. “Sabrina? Mr. Asshole?”

  Since it was the middle of the night, I figured I’d find them upstairs. I was about to give a new definition to the term, “rude awakening.” I didn’t intend to kill anyone. Even killing Biff was making me crazy with guilt. I wanted to tell them I knew what was up and for my daughter to be able to leave him and get her life back.

  It never occurred to me to call the cops. They probably wouldn’t do anything even if they believed me. And I still worried about having pulled the plug on Linda Goldstein.

  I opened the master bedroom door, though the thought of seeing them in bed together grossed me out.

  The bed was empty. But it was unmade. I checked the master bath, and no one was there. Suddenly, I heard a voice and followed it down the hall.

  “There’s blood everywhere. Naked and so much blood. Dead.”

  After a pause, the voice said: “I . . . I never wanted this to happen.” Obviously, someone was on the phone. I couldn’t quite make out who it was because the person was talking very low, but I took a wild guess it was my daughter’s theoretical husband. As I listened, it sounded like a 911 call:

  “Oh God, oh God . . . Christ, please, hurry! . . . It’s not just one—I mean, yes. I don’t know. Just get an ambulance . . . I’m home, damn it. In my bedroom . . . I told you, it’s not just one person. Why can’t you listen? Can’t you send an ambulance? . . . I’m in the Paradise Cul-de-sac, Number 11. I’m . . . I’m Dr. Jesse Falcon.”

  At the sound of my name, I opened the door with such force it came loose from its hinges.

  “I’m not that kind of doctor, you dumb shit. I’m a—I’m a psychologist.”

  And there he was, before me. Scotty, talking in a deep voice to sound like an adult. At the sight of me, he said, “No . . . Please, no more,” and hung up the phone.

  It was only then I saw the bodies on the floor. Both were face down, but I recognized their hair. One was Betsy, and one was . . . I could see it was my beautiful daughter, Sabrina. The pools of blood around them told me they were dead. Betsy was naked. But I checked Sabrina’s pulse to make sure; I felt something. I kissed her wrist in gratitude. Thank God help was on the way. Then I thought I might as well check Betsy’s pulse. Nothing, nada. She was a goner.

  “Please don’t be mad at me, Mr. Van Sant.” He said this as if I found out he broke my window playing baseball.

  I grabbed the boy by the shoulders and lifted him off the ground, shaking him hard. “Scotty, you tell me everything right now, or I’ll take you to jail. You’ll be in prison for the rest of your life with rats and cockroaches and other prisoners who will—” I stopped myself. I wanted to kill him for what he did to Sabrina and maybe I would, but first I needed to know what happened. I owed it to my daughter. In a much calmer voice, I set him down and quietly said, “Just tell me what happened.” I wasn’t a shrink all those years for nothing. I knew how to coax the truth out of people. I might as well have had a multiple personality disorder. Life will do that to you. Yet a strange sense of peace flooded my body, as if my blood had turned to warm milk. Something that couldn’t be helped was finally over.

  Of course, looking back, I simply was in shock. I didn’t even cry.

  Scotty looked down at the floor as he spoke, as if too ashamed to look at me. “Mom came over. I was supposed to be asleep but I heard her. She told my stepmom that Dad had been hurt. She said he broke into her house and tried to kill her and this guy—who was, you know, like, a boyfriend—came out of the bathroom and hit him over the head really hard. Then the police came and arrested the guy. My dad is in a coma.” He started to cry. “I knew it wasn’t true because Dad would never kill Mom. Dad is the best guy in the world, and Mom is a liar. I knew my grandma had a gun in the house for when she stayed here. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, but I saw her hide it. I climbed up on a chair and got it out of a box in back of the top shelf of the hallway closet. I cried out that I was having a bad dream. I do that sometimes. You know, for attention. I feel all the time like I’m not even here—like I’m invisible or something. The grown-ups are always talking about stuff they don’t want me to know about. I hate being a kid.”

  “That’s an awful way to feel, Scotty. Invisible. No wonder you get upset.” I could see his little fists tightening, as if something inside him was exploding. It was a feeling I knew well. “Please go on, Scotty. I am very interested in what you have to say.”

  He actually smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Van Sant. I never knew before you were such a cool guy.”

  “Thank you. I think you’re cool, too.” Remembering that dumb high five his father did with me once, I repeated the gesture with Scotty, who grinned even wider.

  “Well, both my moms came into the room. I turned to my real mom and pulled out the gun. ‘You take back what you said about Dad, or I’ll shoot.’ She started to laugh, though my stepmom looked worried. My real mom said, ‘Scotty, don’t be dumb. Put down the gun and go back to sleep.’ That made me mad. ‘I’m not dumb,’ I said. Then I started screaming. ‘I’m not dumb, I’m not dumb.’ And then the next thing I knew, I pulled the trigger and shot. The bullet missed my mom. But it . . . it hit my stepmom, right in the heart. She fell over. My real mom laughed and said, ‘Jesus, what a lousy shot. Or should a say a great shot? I hated that bitch. Now, give Mommy the gun, Scotty.’ I gave it to her, all right. I shot her through the neck. You should’ve seen the blood! I kept looking at my mom, I mean my real mom. I was so confused. Did I really just kill her? On TV, they examine the bodies, so I . . . I know it was naughty, but I took off her clothes. I wanted to see the bullet hole and just . . . I wanted to see her. I wanted her to be okay. I put my head between her . . . her, you know, uh, breasts. I don’t know why, but I started crying. I put her arms around me. She never liked to hug me, and I . . . I just wanted to
feel her, you know? Really feel her. Then I figured I’d call 911.”

  I nodded encouragingly throughout this confession, so that I did not scare him into stopping. “Why did you say you were Dr. Jesse Falcon?”

  “From sneaking into Dad’s computer, I knew there was this guy named Dr. Jesse Falcon that he was looking for. Dad was even in contact with the police. I figured Dr. Jesse Falcon was someone bad, so I gave his name. You know, so that I wouldn’t get caught.”

  Obviously, Scotty misunderstood what was in the computer. I thought about asking him to show it to me. I heard the cop car sirens from a distance.

  “Scotty, you like your grandmother, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give me the gun. Now, we’re going to sneak out the back door very quietly. If you hear the cops breaking into the house, you keep following me and don’t make a sound.”

  “What about my dog?”

  “We’ll get Jeremy—I mean, Astronaut later. Now, do as I say, young man.”

  We made it to my car with seconds to spare. From my rearview mirror I could see the cop cars entering the cul-de-sac. I drove to his grandmother’s—my old condo—and banged on the door. Fortunately, the old bag was still awake. Drinking, I presumed.

  “Mr. Van Sant,” she said. “Scotty. What are you doing here?”

  “Get Scotty a lawyer this very moment. Then make him tell you what happened. He needs . . . he needs something.”

  She was smart enough to know that whatever it was, she should do it. “Got it,” she said, and as she closed the door, she added, “Thanks.”

  My reasons for getting Scotty to safety were quite calculated. I wanted to make sure neither of us were around when the cops came, to buy myself some time. He shot my daughter. Yeah, it was an accident. Yeah, he was only a kid. But I had to think of some way to avenge her death, and I needed to stay clear of the cops to do it.

  I drove to the hospital and went to the emergency desk. The receptionist asked if I had a question.