“What did the vet say?” she asked Bill, who was filling her bowl with water.
“She’s gonna be fine. But she can only go out on the leash, no exercise, for two weeks. And we have to check her incision for swelling and redness every day.”
Lucy stroked the dog’s silky ears. “What did you eat, you silly girl?”
“This,” said Bill, producing a bit of plastic.
Lucy took it from him and turned it over, studying it. It seemed to be a rather old Massachusetts driver’s license, from the days before holograms and digital photos, when they simply laminated a cardboard license with plastic. The name was gone, but the photo was still quite clear. In fact, Lucy realized, the face on the license looked a lot like Tommy Stanton. But it couldn’t be him, because his license would be a freshly minted Maine license with a black electromagnetic strip on the back. Then she remembered the wallet and felt for a moment as if Bill had slipped an ice cube down her back. The face looking up at her through the cloudy plastic was the face of the homeless man. A man who bore a very strong resemblance to Tommy Stanton.
CHAPTER 16
As she studied the tattered bit of plastic and cardboard Lucy’s thoughts suddenly came into focus. She’d suspected all along that the homeless man was connected with Mimi and his strong resemblance to Tommy certainly seemed to confirm it. It also served to deny Fred’s assertion that Mimi had no family. She did have a family, but not, perhaps, a family she wanted to acknowledge. Perhaps a very troubled family, if the homeless man was any indication. A family that both Mimi and the homeless man had left behind.
Lucy carried the card over to the kitchen sink and held it under the bright down-light there, but the name and address remained illegible. The license number, however, was faintly discernible and Lucy eagerly wrote it down. First thing tomorrow she’d call the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles and get the man’s identity. She would finally fill in the who in her story.
“Why exactly do you want this information?” inquired the voice on the other end of the line, a voice with a strong Boston accent.
“Like I said,” Lucy began, for the umpteenth time, “I’m a reporter with the Pennysaver newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine. A homeless man was recently found dead here and I’m trying to identify him from a fragment of his driver’s license. All I have is the number and his photo.”
“What happened to the card?” asked the voice, pronouncing card without the r. Cahd.
“Actually, my dog ate it.”
“They’re plastic. That shouldn’t hurt it.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and leaned her elbows on her desk. There was no point in losing patience with the clerk, not if she wanted her help. All she could do was hope to interest her in the story. “It’s one of the old paper ones with a laminated coating.”
“Really? That’s before my time.”
“The dog’s teeth did some damage.”
“My dog ate my wedding ring but she pooped it out.” The voice paused. “I made my husband buy me a new one.”
“Good thinking,” said Lucy. “Actually, it made my dog sick and she had to have an operation.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. She’s recovering nicely, but after all we’ve been through it would be great if you could help me identify this guy. Like I said, the license is all we have to go on.”
“Sorry. I can’t divulge that information.”
“Why not?”
“We only give information like that to law enforcement. It’s a privacy issue.”
“The guy is dead.”
“It’s department policy. I’d get in big trouble.”
Lucy didn’t want Little Miss Boston to get into trouble. “Okay, just one more question. Do you actually have the information from such an old driver’s license on file somewhere?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, thanks for your help.” Why did she keep saying this to people who didn’t help her at all?
“No problem. It was nice talking to you. I hope the dog’s okay.”
Lucy got the last word. “Have a nice day,” she said.
“That didn’t sound as if you meant it,” said Phyllis, whose long nails, painted magenta today with a scattering of glitter to match her harlequin reading glasses, were clicking against the keyboard.
“I didn’t,” grumbled Lucy. “It was classic passive-aggressive behavior. I wanted to wring her unhelpful little neck.”
“So much hostility and so early in the morning, too,” clucked Phyllis. “You should try to have a more positive attitude.”
“That’s what my exercise coach says,” muttered Lucy, reaching for the phone. Seeing Phyllis’s eyebrows shoot up she offered a quick explanation. “Fun and Fitness with Debbie every morning.”
Amazingly, Barney was actually at his desk in the police station. Lucy had seen it, a cluttered monument to disorganization, and understood why he tried to avoid it.
“Cruiser’s in the shop,” he explained. “Brake linings.” He sighed a long sigh. “I’m catching up on paperwork.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “Would you like a diversion?”
“Not if it will get me into trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I just want you to run a Massachusetts driver’s license for me. I think it belongs to the homeless guy. In fact, I’ll even give it to you and you can get credit for identifying him.”
“So who is he?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. All that’s left is his photo and the number. No name or address.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“In the woods. The dog actually found it, in an old wallet. She ate most of the wallet and the license, too. She had to have surgery.”
“Gee, that’s quite a story. But how do you know it belonged to the homeless guy?”
“Trust me. I’ve got a real strong hunch.”
“Okay, come on down,” said Barney.
He was chatting with the dispatcher when Lucy got to the station and promptly escorted her into an interview room. “It’s more private here,” he said.
“And neater,” observed Lucy.
“Yeah. So let me see it.”
Lucy produced the license and Barney leaned over it. “He looks a lot like Tommy Stanton,” Barney said.