Engvaldson handed Faz another document.
Faz compared the number with the number he had obtained from the Social Security Administration for Lynn Cora Hoff. It matched. “So it’s an active number,” Faz said, sounding surprised.
“What does ‘active’ mean, that she’s alive?” Del asked.
“Not necessarily,” Faz said. “Back in the old days, before computers, the con would go to the cemetery and find a tombstone of a child who’d died but would have been about the same age as the con. He takes that kid’s name and date of birth and gets a Social Security number. With computers, the SSA now links its data to the database of deaths.”
“Right, so we’d know if she’s dead,” Del said. “So how did she get a living person’s number?”
Faz said, “Drive to Chinatown with a couple thousand dollars in your pocket and you can get just about anything you want. It could also be that the person, Lynn Cora Hoff, was indigent, had no criminal record, and had no relatives or anyone to identify her body. If that was the case, her death would have never been reported to SSA. She just ceased to exist.”
“I’m surmising that takes a lot of research by somebody,” Del said.
“Yes, it does,” Faz agreed. “Which is why I’m surprised it’s active.”
“So this isn’t like when my son spent twenty bucks to get a fake ID so he could buy beer,” Del said.
“No, it’s not,” Engvaldson said. “It’s much more elaborate.”
“At least we know how she did it.” Faz stood and extended a hand. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem.” Engvaldson unfolded from his chair like the stalk in the children’s fairy tale.
“How do you fly?” Del said, looking up.
Engvaldson thrust out his arms in a Superman pose. “Usually like this.” He laughed. “I get that question quite a bit. I ask for the bulkhead or the emergency row. The airlines have to accommodate me.”
“Yeah? Do they have to accommodate fat guys like us?” Del asked.
“That, I don’t know. I’ll let you out.”
The main room had cleared out. Engvaldson unlocked the glass door and pulled it open. They thanked him again for his time and walked to the elevator.
“So if she gets a driver’s license, can we assume she intended to live in the state?” Del asked.
“Maybe. Could be why she was also getting her looks changed, but not necessarily,” Faz said. “She might have obtained the Social Security number so she could get the driver’s license to make it easier to get a passport and take off. And you need a license to open a bank account. Think about it. What was she going to do with her trust? If you’re going overseas you’re not going to be flying with a bunch of cash in your suitcase, and she couldn’t use her real name. She would have needed a license to get the money into an account in the name Lynn Hoff, or some shell corporation. Then she begins to wire it out of the country. From there, you move it a couple more times to places that provide confidentiality. Eventually, it disappears.”
“She must have been pretty desperate,” Del said.
“It’s called pseudocide,” Faz said. “The person fakes their death, usually to collect insurance money or escape creditors, then resurfaces as somebody else.” Faz looked at his watch. “Banks will be closed.”
“Yes, but Salumi is open and I’m hungry,” Del said.
When Tracy and Kins arrived back at Police Headquarters they had a surprise waiting on their desks—sandwiches wrapped in white butcher paper. The sticky note said it all.
Don’t say I never gave you nothing.
“Isn’t that like a triple negative?” Kins said.
“I love him anyway.” Tracy ripped open the wrapping. “I’m starving and I’m betting these are from Salumi.”
“If you’re starving, why didn’t you order something to eat at the restaurant?”
“I lost my appetite when Fields started talking.”
Kins’s forehead furrowed. “I didn’t think he was that bad.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Sounds like something my wife says when I’m in trouble and don’t know why. What’d he do?”
“You mean besides undressing the waitress with his eyes every time she came to the table? How much cheese can you put on linguini and clams?”
“Really?” Kins said.
“You didn’t notice?”
“I noticed the waitress.”
She rolled her eyes. “Pig.”
“Actually, mine’s lamb,” Kins said, holding up half his sandwich. “Did you get the pork shoulder?”
“Idiot.”
Kins laughed while rummaging in his desk drawer for a couple bucks. “I’m going to grab a soda. You want one?”
“I’m good,” she said.
Tracy took a bite of her sandwich. Faz had bought her the pork shoulder. Not that she was going to tell Kins.
“Crosswhite.”
Tracy cringed at the sound of Nolasco’s nasal whine. She set down the sandwich.
“Where’s Kins?” Nolasco said, entering their cubicle.
“Getting a soda,” she said, finishing her bite.