You Can't Catch Me(7)

He nods again. “Clever little scheme. You did make it simple for her, being so public and all.”

“I guess I did.”

“Your generation, living your life online. Makes it easy picking for the criminal class, I’ll tell you that. Like that Kardashian woman with that robbery in Paris—”

I cut him off before he goes on another long tangent. “Could you get a warrant to get information on the account she transferred my money to?”

“I doubt it’s still there. It’s more likely that she transferred it right away to another account, and then another, et cetera. See those numbers there?” he says, pointing to my account statement. “That numbering means it was transferred to an offshore account. Untraceable.”

So that’s why she needed the ATM cash. If her money’s offshore, it’s probably not as easy as just going to an ATM and making a withdrawal to get access to it.

“It’s worth trying, though, isn’t it?” I ask with a note of hope in my voice.

He turns and taps on his keyboard. “There’s nothing in the system under that name. If that is her real name, she doesn’t have any priors.”

“You have access to the DMV database, don’t you? What about finding the other Jessicas born on my birthday? That’s not a long list.”

He looks at me over his shoulder. “Didn’t you tell me her driver’s license was from Ohio?”

“Yes, but—”

“We don’t have jurisdiction there.”

“How about the airport? Can you check if she used that name to go through security or buy a ticket?”

“That’s the TSA’s bailiwick.”

“I thought that stuff was all connected now, because of 9/11?”

He gives me a look. “That’s for stopping terrorists. Not catching grifters.”

I slouch down. “So, you can’t do anything.”

“I didn’t say that.” He hits print, and his dot-matrix printer starts to buzz. He takes the paper off the printer and puts it at the bottom of a large stack. “I’ve put it in my to-do pile. That’s the best I can do for you right now.”

“Are you trying to make me mad?”

He swivels toward me slowly. “Course not, ma’am. I’m simply trying to give you a realistic expectation about what’s going to happen here. I’m sorry it’s not any different.”

When the ma’am-ing starts, I know I’m done for. I stand to go.

He hands me his card. “If you learn anything else, you feel free to call me.”

I take it and stow it in my pocket.

“You’ll receive the police report by mail in four to six business days.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck to you, Jessica.”

I thank him again, though it’s not luck I need now.

It’s Liam.





Chapter 4

Enter Liam

Liam finds me sitting at the bar in Fiddlesticks, not my regular haunt, but a place I started going to a couple of months ago, right before everything started.

There’s nothing special about this place. A shiny bar top, a mirror along the back wall with gold lettering that’s half-covered by beer bottles and glasses hanging from a rack. Flags of the world paper the ceiling, each dipping slightly toward the floor in the middle. I like the fish tacos and the Coney Island IPA on draft. It’s a neighborhood bar in a neighborhood in which I’ve been mostly anonymous. No one here knows my name.

It’s five o’clock on a Monday in the second week of June. The city hasn’t heated up yet to that suffering sauna it becomes in full summer. The bar’s a quarter full, and even though it’s a bit dark in here, I can feel the sunlight on my back through the stained-glass windows. I should be outside, soaking it in. Instead, I’m inside, planning, plotting, anxious.

“Job hunt?” Liam says, taking the stool next to me without asking, motioning to the notebook on the bar that I’ve been making notes in.

My heart hitches. I flip my notebook over. “Something like that.”

“You drinking the IPA?”

“Yep.”

“Any good?”

“It’ll do.”

He catches the bartender’s eye, points to my glass, and puts up two fingers. The bartender nods and takes two glasses down.

“What’s up, kid?” Liam asks.

“Shouldn’t you stop calling me that by now?”

He gives me what I call his “charming” smile. Liam’s six feet tall, and at forty-two, he still looks like he’s in the merchant marines—his skin halfway between tanned and burned, with deep lines ingrained in his forehead. His dark-brown hair is peppered with gray, and his eyes are a hazel color that’s the opposite of mine, closer to brown than green. “Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes. Plus, three people called me ma’am today, so I think I’m past the ‘kid’ stage.”

He gives me a quick once-over. “It might’ve been the outfit.”

“Shut it.”

The bartender delivers our beers and Liam slips him a twenty. He’s the king of overtipping, which gets him goodwill and access, both of which are useful in his profession.