The Night Fire (Renée Ballard, #3)(97)

“Laurie?” Ballard said.

She wanted to keep the interview friendly, not adversarial, and going with first names was prudent.

“That’s me,” Wells said.

“Hi, I’m Renée and this is my partner, Harry,” Ballard said.

Wells smiled but looked a long time at Bosch, not able to hide her surprise at his age and the fact that he wasn’t doing the talking.

“Come on in,” she said. “I hate to say this because I’ve actually played this part in a TV show, but ‘What’s this about?’”

“Well, we’re hoping you can help us,” Ballard said. “Can we sit down?”

“Oh, sure. Sorry.”

Wells pointed to the living room, which had a couch and two chairs clustered around a fireplace with fake logs in it.

“Thank you,” Ballard said. “Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way. You are Laurie Lee Wells, DOB February twenty-third, 1987, correct?”

“That’s me,” Wells said.

“Have you been on jury duty any time in the last five years?”

Wells furrowed her brow. It was a question from left field.

“I can’t—I don’t think so,” she said. “The last time was a long time ago.”

“Definitely not last year?” Ballard asked.

“No, definitely not for a long time. What does it—”

“Were you interviewed last year by two LAPD detectives investigating a murder?”

“What? What is this? Should I call a lawyer or something?”

“You don’t need a lawyer. We think someone was impersonating you.”

“Oh, well, yes—that’s been going on for almost two years now.”

Ballard paused and sent a glance toward Bosch. Now they were the ones thrown a curveball.

“What do you mean by that?” Ballard finally asked.

“Someone stole my ID and has been impersonating me for two years,” Wells said. “They even filed my taxes last year and got my return, and it’s like nobody can do anything about it. They ran up so much debt I’ll never be able to buy a car or get a loan. I have to stay here because I already own it, but now my credit is shit and nobody will believe it’s not me. I tried to buy a car and they said no way, even though I had letters from the credit-card companies.”

“That’s terrible,” Ballard said.

“Do you know how your identity was stolen?” Bosch asked.

“When I went to Vegas,” Wells said. “My wallet got stolen when I was at a show. Like pickpocketed or something.”

“How do you know it happened there?” Bosch asked.

Wells’s face turned red with embarrassment.

“Because I was at one of those shows where men are the dancers,” she said. “I had to pay to go in—it was a bachelorette party—and then when I wanted to get my wallet out to give a tip to the dancers, it was gone. So it happened there.”

“And you reported it to the LVPD?” Ballard asked.

“I did, but nothing ever happened,” Wells said. “I never got anything back, and then somebody started applying for credit cards in my name and I’m fucked for the rest of my life. Excuse my language.”

“Do you happen to have a copy of the crime report?” Ballard asked.

“I’ve got a ton of copies because I have to send one to explain things every time I get ripped off,” Wells said. “Hold on.”

She got up and went out of the room. Ballard and Bosch were left to stare at each other.

“Vegas,” Ballard said.

Bosch nodded.

Wells soon came back and gave Ballard a copy of the two-page crime report she had filed in Las Vegas.

“Thank you,” Ballard said. “We won’t take too much more of your time but can I ask, are you getting regular reports on the usage of your name by the identity thief?”

“Not all the time, but the detective will call me every now and then and tell me what the thief is up to,” Wells said.

“What detective is that?” Ballard asked.

“Detective Kenworth with Vegas Metro Police,” Wells said. “He’s the only one I’ve ever dealt with.”

“‘Ken … worth,’” Ballard said. “Is that two names or one?”

“One. I don’t remember his first name. I think it’s on the report.”

“Well, what did he tell you was going on? Was it just local purchases?”

“No, she moved around. It was travel and hotels and restaurants. She kept applying for new cards because as soon as we got a fraud alert we’d shut it down. But then a month later she’d have another card.”

“What an awful story,” Ballard said.

“And all because of a bachelorette party too,” Wells said.

“Do you remember the name of the place where this happened?” Bosch asked. “Was it at a casino?”

“No, it wasn’t a casino,” Wells said. “It was called Devil’s Den and it was usually a strip bar for men. I mean, the dancers were women—but on Sunday nights it’s for women.”

“Okay,” Ballard said.

“Do you vote?” Bosch asked.