The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(34)

“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.

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?”