Chapter Eleven

“What happened to you?” asked Solomon.

I squelched to a stop inside the doors of the PI’s office, trickles of water making their way off my hem and down my legs to form shallow pools at my feet, and heaved a deep breath.

“Did a raincloud follow you and no one else?” asked Garrett.

“Did you go to a very formal water park?” asked Delgado.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, hoping the heat from my cheeks wouldn’t turn the water into steam. “Could you pass me a towel?”

“How about a bucket to stand in?” suggested Garrett.

“You left some clothes in my trunk last week,” said Solomon. “I’ll bring them to you if you head over to the suite and take a shower.”

A drip ran down my nose and fell off the tip. “My car needs drying inside,” I said, my voice just short of a plaintive wail.

“How about you getting dry? We have an appointment to make,” said Garrett, tapping his watch.

I pulled a face. “The forger! I’ll hurry!”

“What’re you forging?” asked Delgado as I turned and slid out of the office. I didn’t hear Garrett’s answer because the door swung shut behind me. As I pushed the elevator button, Solomon came out and wrapped an arm around me.

“I’m wet,” I said as he pulled me into him.

“So am I now,” he said, a damp patch forming on his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Lily and I gatecrashed a wake in Bedford Hills, saw a corpse, got stuck in a basement, and then got soaked by the yard sprinklers.”

“That’s all?”

“The whole funeral party saw us when we dashed to the car.” My shoulders slumped.

“Do they know who you are?”

“No. We made up a back story and didn’t include our names. There won’t be any comeback on the agency.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. Corpse? ” added Solomon, his eyebrows rising a smidge.

“The centerpiece of the funeral.”

Solomon nodded slowly. “That makes more sense now.”

“It wasn’t a random body,” I clarified.

“Pleased to hear it. Do I want to know the rest?”

“We got some useful information.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“Sorry about the mess.”

“I’ll get it cleared up. You might want to think about leaving a set of clothes here permanently.”

“I’m not planning on this happening again.” I paused. “I can’t see how anything like this could ever happen again.”

Solomon smiled. “We’ll see,” he said.

We parted ways on the next floor and I headed to the small suite the agency had set up in a former interview room. The idea was that we had a place where we could put up the occasional client that needed a secure place to stay; but primarily, it had been used by the staff when working long hours that prevented them from going home. There was a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and bunkbeds, a small couch and a coffee table. Off that was a compact shower room, equipped with a variety of travel products, although I noted someone had left their toiletry bag by the sink with half-used men’s products inside.

I showered, washed my hair until it squeaked clean, and wrapped a towel around myself. When I stepped into the bedroom, my bag was on the bed. I grabbed the jeans and a blouse, socks and sneakers and dressed quickly. The only thing we seemed to have forgotten to add to the suite was a hairdryer so I settled for combing out my hair, hoping it would dry quickly in the summer heat. Gathering my wet things, I returned to the PI’s office, cleaner, drier, and ready to pursue the new lead.

“Let’s go,” said Garrett, rising and beckoning me to follow. “My contact says our forger is very prompt. I don’t want to miss this opportunity.”

“What do we know about him?” I asked as we headed down the stairs.

“Name’s Owen Weaver, he’s sixty-five years old, sentenced to fifteen years, paroled in ten. Apparently, he’s very well behaved in prison and spent time teaching some of his fellow inmates to read and write. Hopefully, not so they could help him out in future forgeries but who knows? Maybe he just has a heart.”

“Or else he was bored.”

“Or that. Single, no kids. Currently works in a small retail shop. Absolutely not allowed near computers, printing presses, commercial photography equipment, or the internet.”

“How does he get through the day?” I wondered.

“Old school style. His parole is in effect so long as he doesn’t re-offend and the restrictions are supposed to ensure that, along with him being a law-abiding, productive member of the community. In reality, the parole officers can’t monitor everything he does and neither can we.”

“So he could have returned right back to forging?”

“Sure, but then he runs the risk of someone finding out and getting sent back to prison. A sensible parolee doesn’t risk that. Certainly not on his sentence. Better to do those years outside than inside.”

“How sensible do you think he is?” We reached the parking lot and Garrett pointed to his unmarked police pool car in the visitor parking spot.

“We’ll soon find out. If he’s dry, that’s a good sign.”

“Dry? Oh, very funny.” I thwacked my brother’s arm and Garrett laughed.

~

The man walking towards us looked friendly, if not strained around the eyes. He bore a wide smile, thinning blond hair, and his forehead held deep frown lines. His checkered shirt sleeves were rolled haphazardly, one sleeve slightly higher than the other.

“Don Kempner. I kept Weaver as long as I could,” he said, shaking Garrett’s hand, then mine. “He’s one of my few clients whose appointments I can set my watch by. In on time, out as fast as he can. Always prepared to prove anything I want to know.”

“Sounds ideal,” I said.

“I want to agree with you, but his compliance is so rare, it’s suspicious. All the same, he’s ticking all the boxes and there isn’t a whiff of anything alarming so I’m prepared to give him an easy ride.”

“Your other clients are very different?” I asked as Don headed down the hallway, leaving us hurrying to catch him.

“We get them from all walks of life. Some are compliant, some aren’t. Some disappear as quickly as they can. Others have just had a bad lot in life and need guidance in turning their lives around. I do what I can but…” Don looked around and threw his hands in the air. “Budgets,” he said simply. “We could do more if we had more. It would save money down the line but it’s hard to get the powers that be interested once the person you want to help is an official felon.”

“Understood,” said Garrett. “What else can you tell us about Owen Weaver?”

“Not a lot. Always polite, keeps to himself. Speaks well and is articulate. I don’t see him chummy with any other felons although his prison record said he was an unofficial teacher to a number of them. Helped them get into educational courses, things like that.”

“What about his residence?”

“Halfway house. He has his own room, shares a living room and kitchen with five others, keeps curfew. No reported issues. I’ve done a couple spot checks and I’m satisfied with it. He’s only been there a couple weeks as the last one had a termite issue and the whole place needed fumigating. In my opinion, it should be condemned. That said, he didn’t have any issues there either.”

“Has he spoken about his crimes at all?”

“We spoke about them at the initial meeting when we went over what he could and couldn’t do. After that, no. If he’s interested in taking up forging again, I’m sure I’ll be the last to know.” Don paused outside a door, his hand on the handle without turning it. “I know you said your case involves a dead body but, for what it’s worth, I just don’t see Owen Weaver as a murderer. He’s not the type.”

“You’ve met the type?” I asked.

Don turned his attention to me. “I’ve met the type that’d make your skin crawl. There’s nothing ‘off’ about Weaver. He’s just your run-of-the-mill, non-violent criminal. I’m sure of that.”

“Good to know,” said Garrett as he nodded to the door.

“Owen, this is Lieutenant Graves and…” Don looked at me, apparently uncertain.

“Lexi Graves, private investigator,” I filled in as we filed into the room.

“What a treat,” said Owen Weaver. “If you were a cop, I’d have been arrested much sooner and more often.” He winked at me but it was friendly rather than lascivious, and any tension I thought might have appeared at our introduction seemed to evaporate. “I can guess you’re here to talk to me, not Don. How can I help you both?” he asked.

“We’re here about a case that recently resurfaced,” said Garrett.

“Should I take a guess?” asked Weaver, with a small huff of a laugh. “I can if you’d like us to be here all day but I have other things to do.”

“Do you recognize this document?” asked Garrett. He put a baggie containing the fake DMV license on the table. Weaver leaned in and studied it without touching.

“It’s a fake,” he said.

“We know that.”

“And you’re assuming I made it?”

“Did you?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to say for certain. I’m hardly the only ex-forger around.”

“Do you recognize the man in the photo?”

“No.”

“Take another look.”

Weaver redirected his gaze, taking longer this time. “Still no. But I’m assuming it was a local guy so I might have made it. Can’t confirm it though.”

“Or deny,” I said.

He glanced at me and a flicker of a smile appeared on his lips.

“You’re not going to get in any further trouble,” said Garrett. “In fact, if you’re helpful, it’ll probably work in your favor.”

Weaver’s gaze returned to Garrett. “Probably?” he asked.

“Would you take another look, please?” I said.

“For you, anything,” he said, winking again at me before he leaned in. “He wasn’t a regular but I did create a number of identification documents for him. Driver’s licenses, passports, some letters of recommendation, and employment records. They’re easy. He wasn’t a local guy and from what I recall, he asked for different names, different details.”

“What else do you recall?”

“He paid cash but I know that because I only accepted cash. I don’t recall him asking for documents for anyone else so it was just him.”

“Not a boy?” asked Garrett.

“No.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Introduction although I don’t remember who. My business was big enough and successful enough, that I didn’t need to advertise. My clientèle came from introductions from people whom I’d already assisted.”

“Do you remember the names he asked for?” I asked.

Weaver pushed the license away. “My memory’s good but not that good.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“I doubt it and I wouldn’t have told him mine either. Neither of us needed to know that kind of information.”

“So tell us how this works,” Garrett said. “He’s introduced to you. Then what?”

“A new client tells me what they’re looking for and pays up front. I take photos and any details I need. I make a note if they can pass for any other ethnicity. You’d be surprised who could pass for whom,” he said with a shrug. “I tell them to wait two weeks and give them a key to a mailbox. They get the location once I’ve made my drop off. We met only for the job. Less risk that way.”

“And if they want to commission another job? Like this guy did?” I asked.

“Then he has a way to get in touch. Back then, I’d use a voicemail box to pick up messages, or an intermediary.”

“You said ‘back then’,” said Garrett.

“Well, I’m not doing it now ,” said Weaver with a shake of his head. “Plus, I saw the driver’s license. I know this isn’t recent work and I know I haven’t seen this guy in years. A decade or two, maybe. Closer to two, I think. Then there’s the small matter of my prison sentence. I’ve been out of the game for a while.”

“And will be staying that way,” interjected Don.

“Quite right, Don,” said Weaver, nodding along, although I wasn’t sure if anyone totally believed him. He was too quick, too slick, and too congenial to be totally trustworthy. “I met this guy three or four times, and then nothing.”

“Did he give you a reason for not returning?”

“None. He just didn’t return.”

“What did you think happened to him?”

“I didn’t think anything. I wasn’t interested in his life story. Unlike you two,” he added. “I’ll admit to the forgeries but I can’t help you any further.”

“Thanks for your time,” said Garrett.

“No problem,” said Weaver. “That probably helps, right?”

Garrett nodded, and Don said, “I’ll make a note in your file that you were helpful and courteous.”

“I’ll take it,” said Weaver.

Garrett and I filed out, Don just behind us, shutting the door behind him. “I hope you got what you wanted?” he said.

“Unfortunately no, but it’s par for the course. Not everyone’s going to have a viable lead for us,” said Garrett.

Don stuck out his hand, shaking ours. “Let me know if I can be any more help.”

We thanked him again and headed out.

“It was a long shot,” I said, hoping to remind Garrett of the fact.

“Yeah. Shame we didn’t learn anything useful. A few more aliases could have been helpful in building the movements of this guy. A real name would have been better.”

“We do know he didn’t commission any identification documents for his son,” I said. “Perhaps he wanted to keep the boy well out of anything nefarious he was doing.”

“Sounds like he might have gotten one thing right in his life,” said Garrett. “Although that does make me wonder about the kid. Given that no IDs were commissioned for the boy, it doesn’t sound like he lived with him, so where was he? Who looked after him while Joe Smithson was away on jobs? Who’s the mom? Were they even related?”

“You think the boy might be, what? A friend? No way. The age gap is too big. They’d have very little in common.”

“Nephew then?”

“It’s possible but I’m still leaning towards son,” I said. “Let’s go back to the kid for a moment. There were no IDs for him so… they couldn’t have been on the run. The boy didn’t live with him and I’m sure we would have known if there was a teenaged boy being homeschooled in the neighborhood.”

“He probably lived with the mom. Dad dropped in and out of his life, kept them out of it.”

“So there should be a record somewhere of our John Doe keeping his original name. He would hardly tell the boy to call him by some other name. Imagine if our parents did that. It would be hard to wrap our heads around. Plus, he must have made provisions for him somehow if he were paying towards his upkeep. Mom recognized the school badge. She said the school was expensive.”

“It’s likely Smithson used his real name for his close personal interactions, but until a name pops up, we don’t know what that is. I’m hopeful the autopsy turns up something.”

“Any news on when that will be?”

“I’m still waiting for the ME to call. C’mon. I’ll give you a ride back to the office, then I’m heading to the station to talk to my captain about these jewels.”

“What about them?” I asked, hopeful there was news.

“He wants to know who owns them. Funny that because me too.” Garrett laughed.

He dropped me off at the agency, declining to come inside, but with the insistence to call him if anything turned up.

I crossed my fingers and hoped something would because the forgery lead had been utterly disappointing.

When I reached the office, Solomon and Delgado were sitting at the table in the boardroom. Solomon stepped out, asking, “How’s it going?”

“Dead end,” I said. “The forger recognized the driving license and admits to supplying him with forgeries but didn’t have any more to say. Garrett’s hopeful that the autopsy might turn up something useful. So far, the body is our best lead.”

“Where are you at until then?”

“Mom had a lot of background information for Garrett and me and we might have an identity.”

“Already? That’s great!”

“It would be if we didn’t suspect it to be false. Lily and I got some correlating information from Elsie Greenberg’s house so I’m going to work on that. Perhaps something will turn up,” I said, wondering if I sounded as despondent as I felt. There were so many jigsaw pieces to complete the puzzle, but I felt like we had three puzzles and all the pieces were jumbled up while the crucial ones were missing.

“Pull Lucas in if you need the manpower.”

Solomon’s phone rang. He glanced at it then put it to his ear. “Solomon here,” he said, turning away.

As I opened my laptop, I remembered in the commotion I’d forgotten to search the school my mom had mentioned. Now I called up The Walsingham School, navigating to the past yearbook pages. There were decades of entries. How long ago did my mother think Joe Smithson had lived in the end house? If the Singhs had moved in during my sophomore or senior year, that narrowed down the time frame. I started with my senior year and scrolled through the photos, disappointed by the time I reached the end.

My junior year yielded the same lack of results.

Disappointed, I hit the back button and moved the cursor to my sophomore year, my chin in my hand as I pulled the cursor down.

Halfway down, I stopped and scrolled up.

A boy with dark hair in a uniform smiled at the camera.

Yes, that was the boy in the photo but the smile… the mouth was what I recognized.

Of course he was older when we met, his features more defined, his youthful good looks having grown into handsome.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any weirder, it gave me my nemesis, the thief, Ben Rafferty.