The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7)
Page 12“Everything but the friends in high places.”
“Then he was pretending to be you.”
“What you told me, the Imposter could have learned that just by Googling my name on the Web.”
The chief could only shrug at that.
“Car? Tracie said that the Imposter drove into town.”
“Rental. Originated in Minneapolis. He used your name on a credit card to rent it.”
“The Imposter stayed at the Pioneer Hotel. Most hotels demand a credit card.”
“I checked,” the chief said. “The card was issued in your name; it was the same as the one that he used for the car.”
“I have a financial adviser who runs a credit check every month to help me avoid this sort of thing. If a guy was using a credit card in my name—you say he’s been here since spring?”
“Since early April,” Tracie said. “He didn’t stay all that time. He came and went.”
“Still, if he used my credit cards during all that time, I would have known it.”
“Not necessarily,” the chief said. “Apparently he stole your identity, not your cards. He opened accounts in your name, but he had the invoices delivered to a different address. He also used a birth date and Social Security number that were different from yours—at least they were different from the ones you gave me. There’s no way you could have known the Imposter was pretending to be you.”
“Where were the credit card invoices sent?”
“To a mail drop in Grand Rapids, Minnesota.”
“What?”
“I own some property near Grand Rapids. A lake home.”
“Hmm,” the chief said. “The Imposter rented a PO box in your name for six months. It expired last week.”
“You checked it out, huh?”
“We’re not completely helpless.”
“Did you run the Social Security number?”
“Both that and the birth date were taken from a man who died of cancer twelve years ago.”
“What was his name? Where did he live?”
“His name was Andrew Manning. He lived in Grand Rapids.”
“If you knew all this, why did you send the bounty hunters after me?”
“I didn’t.”
The chief glanced down at Miller, who was pretending to be somewhere else.
“Are you going to help us?” Tracie said.
“What will it take to convince you?”
I spread my arms wide. “Clothes, food, a place to clean up, a telephone, aspirin.”
Miller rose slowly from the chair and reached behind him. He produced a thick, worn wallet from the sucker pocket, unfolded it, and slipped out a credit card. He handed the card to Tracie.
“Anything he wants,” he said.
I snatched the card from Tracie’s fingers.
“It’s gonna cost you, pal,” I said.
I could read the startled expression on the face of the old woman behind the cash register when I entered the store. “Sir?” she said.
There was a row of wire shopping carts near the sliding glass door, and I took one.
“Sir? Sir? You can’t be in here.” She left the cash register and circled the counter. “Sir, the sign says no shirt, no shoes, no service.”
I gave her a smile, which must have been pretty damn frightening considering my appearance—no doubt she thought I was an escapee from the nearest fun house.
“You do sell shirts,” I said. She stopped on the other side of the cart. “You do sell shoes, and I presume you do provide a modicum of service.”
“Sir?”
“So clearly the sign is inaccurate.”
“Lady, you’re making my headache worse.”
“Sir, don’t make me call the manager.”
Tracie came in through the sliding doors, collapsing the cell phone that had delayed her and dropping it into her bag.
“What’s going on?” she said.
I pushed hard against the cart, causing the cashier to slide backward about three inches.
“He can’t come in here,” she said.
“It’s all right, Linnea,” Tracie said.
“No, it’s not. I’m calling the manager.”
Linnea stepped out of the way and released the cart. I shot forward a good three feet before I regained my balance.
Linnea grabbed a red phone beneath her cash register. Her voice echoed from every corner of the store as she spoke into it.
“Manager to the front, please. Manager to the front.”
I smiled at Tracie. “Now you’re going to get it,” I said.
“Having fun, McKenzie?”