“What do you want to bet the library’s a madhouse too?” Faz said.
Seattle had spent millions on a one-of-a-kind glass-and-steel eleven-story library in downtown, but a public building is open to the public—all the public. The library had become a safe haven for the homeless, the mentally disturbed, and those seeking to use one of the facility’s four hundred public computers to search the Internet for porn and do unspeakable things right there in the public domain. Those numbers swelled in the winter when the temperature dropped near or below freezing, and again in the summer when Seattle baked.
“If you build it, they will cum,” Del said, laughing.
“Wouldn’t touch those computers with your hands,” Faz said.
Television and computer screens indicated the numbers the clerks in the booths were serving, but the numbers everyone intently watched were on the digital clock: 4:18.
“The office closes at four thirty,” Del said.
“Good thing we ain’t waiting,” Faz said.
“You wanna bet?” Del asked.
“Early dinner?” Faz said.
“Loser buys sandwiches at Salumi,” Del said.
“I like that bet. I win either way. I can also pick up some pasta for Vera and be twice blessed.”
“Happy wife, happy Faz,” Del said.
At the counter, Faz showed his badge and ID to a woman behind the partition. She didn’t look impressed.
“We have an appointment with Henrik . . .”
When he fumbled over the last name the woman said, “Engvaldson.”
“That’s it,” Faz said. “Tongue twister.”
She didn’t smile, pointing to the chairs, then picking up the phone. “Take a seat.” Del smiled as they turned for the white plastic chairs. “I can taste the grilled lamb sandwich already, and you know what is going to make it especially good?”
“It’s free,” Faz said.
“Bingo,” Del said.
Del wasn’t cheap; he’d bought his share of meals. He just liked a good bet. He couldn’t watch a game or a fight without placing a bet of some kind. It was never much, just a couple bucks, and Faz admitted it did make things more interesting.
Faz hoped Engvaldson could provide a little detail on what Andrea Strickland had used to obtain a driver’s license in Lynn Hoff’s name. At this point, any information would be welcome.
They didn’t wait long. A very tall man in khakis and a light-blue button-down greeted them in the lobby. “Detectives,” he said, extending a hand as if it were on the end of a crane. “I’m Henrik Engvaldson. Which of you did I speak with on the phone?”
“That would be me,” Faz said, feeling small, and that was saying something. Faz stood six foot four and, as of that morning, he weighed 268 pounds, butt naked. Del was an inch taller and ten to fifteen pounds heavier, though he would never admit it. The gut, however, didn’t lie.
They followed Engvaldson to a door at the back of the room. He had to duck to pass under the header, which confirmed he was taller than six foot eight. Faz gave Del a look as they continued down a narrow hallway.
“What nationality is ‘Engvaldson’?” Faz said.
“Apparently, it’s Swedish,” Engvaldson said. “I grew up thinking I was Norwegian until my wife did that Ancestry.com thing. Big mistake. Turns out my ancestors are from Sweden.”
“Like that commercial,” Faz said.
“Exactly.”
“Me? I don’t want to know about any of that,” Del said. “I’m liable to find out things I don’t want to know.”
“Like maybe you aren’t human?” Faz said.
Engvaldson led them into an office typical for a government employee, small and utilitarian, but serviceable. When he sat, he looked too tall for his desk. He opened a file and handed Faz an eight-by-ten copy of a photograph of Lynn Hoff’s—aka Andrea Strickland’s—driver’s license. “She preapplied for her license—”
“Preapplied?” Del asked. “What does that mean?”
“Filled out her application online, then came in to finish it. It saves time.”
“Good to know,” Del said.
“What did she use for ID?” Faz asked.
“Certified birth certificate,” Engvaldson said, reviewing the file.
“So a legitimate person then,” Faz said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Our clerks have access to the forms used by each state, but unfortunately detecting a forgery is not so simple. The feds have been working on a standardized document, but back in 1992 each state used its own form.”
“So what, she could have forged the certificate and faked the name?” Del asked.
“She could have,” Engvaldson said.
“This your busiest office?” Faz asked.
“It is,” Engvaldson said, clearly knowing where Faz was going with the question. “And with the federal government requiring everyone to now have an enhanced driver’s license, we’re busier than ever lately.”
Which is likely why Strickland chose to come here, Faz thought; the busier the clerk, the less time she had to spend on something like this, especially if the certificate looked like it passed muster.
“She provide a Social Security number?” Faz asked.