Stolen (9 page)

O
ur apartment buzzer buzzed at nine thirty and zero seconds the following morning. The visitor was expected, but even so, Ruby and I flinched at the sound. We looked absolutely horrible—not a wink of sleep for either of us. We had watched the news and read the papers online but hadn’t left the apartment—our prison.

Rhonda’s parents, a pleasant-looking gray-haired couple from Michigan, made a tearful plea on the local evening news—rebroadcast for the morning news as well—for anybody to come forward with information to help apprehend their daughter’s killer. The gruesome details of how the body was left—the demonic redistribution of her severed fingers—was somehow kept from the media.

“That’s us, John,” Ruby said. “We’re the ones who need to come forward. We’re the ones who need to help poor Rhonda’s parents.”

“And then we’ll be the ones who will live with another dead woman on our conscience. We’ve got to play out this next round. Then we’ll come forward.”

“You think Uretsky is the one who alerted UniSol about us?” Ruby asked.

I nodded. “Play the part,” I said. “We’ve got to convince the investigator that we are who we’re pretending to be. It’s got to be what he meant.”

I said it calmly, but I wasn’t feeling calm. I was racked with guilt—guilt that once I had intentionally killed a man, and then, years later, unintentionally killed a woman. I felt guilty for Ruby’s sickness, for stealing an identity, for dragging my wife into this. I felt guilty for playing Uretsky’s game and guilty for thinking of quitting.
Blood will be on my hands. . . .
I felt trapped and hopeless and sick myself, a sickness of my own damn making.

I buzzed Dobson in and waited. Minutes later I heard a soft knock. I opened the door, blocking Ginger’s escape attempt with my leg. A man stood in the doorway. I took a close look at our judge, jury, and potential executioner. I guessed him to be in his mid- to late thirties, partly because he was balding, with clusters of sandy brown hair barely allowing for a comb-over. As for body type, he was thin up top, but thick in the middle, another sign of middle age. A bushy mustache accentuated his thin lips, and he wore glasses, round, wire-rimmed style, held in place behind ears that stuck out from his head. Dressed in a blue oxford shirt, red tie, and tan slacks, he reminded me of the accountants Ruby once worked with back when she was a graphic designer for a financial services firm. Just a regular guy.

He knows,
I was thinking.
He knows everything. How will I be able to play the part?
I thought back to what Clegg said to me.
Here’s your living proof that crime doesn’t pay. Your proof is a balding guy with glasses, waiting with bated breath to bring down the hammer of justice upon your stupid, stupid head. Happy days, John Bodine. You’ve really made a mess out of things.

Truth is, I’d be fine with a prison sentence for what I’d done. Maybe the national media attention would guarantee Ruby enough donations to fund her Verbilifide treatments. Maybe Uretsky knew all that, which was why he vowed to kill another woman if I failed to play the part. Win or lose at Uretsky’s game, I was certain of one thing: if Uretsky didn’t kill me, the guilt eventually would.

I unconsciously straightened my posture while extending my hand to Dobson. He set down his well-worn, black leather flap-over portfolio to shake hello. The man’s smile seemed genuine and congenial, though his teeth were noticeably coffee-stained yellow.

“Elliot Uretsky?” he asked.

I nodded. My stomach churned at the sound of my stolen name.
Uretsky.

He spoke from his throat, not his gut, so his voice came out muffled and a bit nasal. If asked, I’d place his upbringing somewhere in the Midwest.

My stomach clenched and released spasmodically as I said, “That’s me.”

“Henry Dobson,” the man said, strengthening his already firm grip on my hand.

He let go of my hand and removed from his rear pants pocket a brown leather wallet, well worn, too. He flipped the leather billfold open, showing me his UniSol Health investigator’s identification, which he kept protected behind a clear plastic shield. He held the wallet close enough for me to read the name, Henry Dobson, and see that his face matched the picture on the ID.

“I didn’t realize this was the building where that murder took place,” Dobson said, still standing in the hallway.

“Last night,” I said, somehow summoning up a convincingly calm composure.

“I got stopped by the police on my way in,” Dobson said. “That’s when I found out.”

“Horrible, isn’t it?” I said.

“You hear about murders on the news all the time,” Dobson said.

“But I never thought about the people who live in the buildings where a murder takes place. Until now, that is. And here I am, adding to your troubles.”

I kept blocking the door to our apartment. I wasn’t ready to let him inside just yet.

“Do you mind telling me what this is all about? My wife isn’t feeling very well.”

The real Elliot would be a bit indignant at the intrusion, I had decided. To play the part meant needing to find the right balance between anger and cooperation
.
In actuality, Ruby was in the bedroom, hiding out until she had to make an appearance, not that Dobson needed to know all that.

“Of course she’s not,” Dobson said. “And I do apologize for the intrusion. I just have to do some quick verification work. You see, somebody called our fraud line and reported you.”

“Fraud line?” I asked.

“We have an anonymous tip line for folks to report medical fraud. You ask me, it’s been a mixed blessing so far. We’ve uncovered some fraud, but we’ve also got our fair share of angry exes or envious coworkers wanting to stir up trouble. Regardless, we’ve got to investigate all reports.”

So that was it—Uretsky had called the UniSol tip line to report our crime.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Know what?” Dobson replied.

“If someone is committing fraud.”

Dobson smiled, pushing his mustache up against his nose. “I’m really good at my job,” he said.

If Dobson brushed the back of my neck, he would wonder if I suffered from hyperhidrosis, excessive sweating, and perhaps would ask why I never filed any medical claims for treatment. Dobson indicated with a nod toward the living room that he wished to come inside, and not wanting to be truculent, I opted to let him in.

Ruby emerged from the bedroom, her skin so white, it appeared almost translucent. Her hands were trembling, too. It was a subtle waver, but I could see it easily because I knew Ruby. Dobson did not, so if he happened to notice and think it out of the ordinary, he’d probably assume it was a condition of her cancer. Meanwhile, Ruby looked at me with these benumbed, wide eyes and a defeated expression that broke my heart. My guilt revved up well past the red line once again. I put on a false exterior—one of pure confidence—hoping Ruby would absorb some of my self-assurance. She stood, albeit shakily, and came to greet us in the small foyer.

“Hello,” she said to Dobson, her voice weak.

“Hello,” Dobson said, giving Ruby’s outstretched hand a proper shake.

When they each let go, I saw Dobson nonchalantly rub his hand against his pant leg, perhaps to clear away the perspiration he’d picked up from Ruby’s palm.

“Would you like something to drink?” Ruby asked, straining a smile. “Tea, perhaps?”

Dobson smiled warmly, but those yellowish teeth must have looked like bared fangs to my wife.

“No, thank you,” Dobson said. “I really don’t want to take up much of your time. I’ll just be a few minutes. Routine questions, that’s all. I’m sorry to be of any inconvenience at this difficult time. I promise to be out of your hair as quickly as possible.”

I saw Dobson glance nervously at Ruby’s gorgeous strawberry blond locks. Perhaps he thought Ruby had lost her hair to chemo, and his last statement could have been construed as a thoughtless remark. I preferred a sensitive investigator to a hard-nosed one.

“Before we sit down, do you mind if I have a look around?” Dobson removed a clipboard from within his portfolio and held it up for me to see. “Part of my investigation requires that I do a quick inventory of your living arrangements. We need to make sure you’re actually residents here.”

I felt like now was as good a time as any to show my indignation.

“I have to be honest, this is feeling like quite an intrusion. We’re suffering a pretty significant ordeal already. I really don’t appreciate UniSol treating us like criminals.”

If you catch on to me,
I was thinking,
another person, someone I know will die
.

Dobson made a face, as if to suggest this wasn’t the first time he’d heard that complaint. “It’s uncomfortable, and I completely understand your frustration,” he said. “Unfortunately, some of the more brazen fraud attempts we’ve investigated have involved apartments rented under false names or P.O. boxes used for mail drops. Believe me, if there’s a way to commit a crime, somebody is going to think how best to do it.” Dobson laughed, perhaps to shake off the uncomfortable aura that had settled over the room. “I promise, I’ll be quick,” he added.

“Do you mind if I ask what exactly you are looking for?”

“Evidence that Elliot and Tanya Uretsky reside at this address,” Dobson said. “Pictures. Mementos. Mail in your name, that sort of thing. It’s pretty easy to tell with just a cursory inspection when someone is using an apartment for illicit purposes. Of course, you can refuse my search request. I’ll have to report that back to UniSol, and they’ll probably expand the claims investigation, which regrettably could impact your claim status until it’s resolved.”

My mouth fell open. “That sounds like blackmail,” I said.

Ruby gripped my arm.

“Easy,” she was saying to me. “Take it easy, John.”

“Again, I completely understand,” Dobson said. “I promise, it’s just a quick check around. It’s obvious to me that you are who you say you are.”

I allowed my face to show pure outrage. Meanwhile, Ruby appeared ready to make a dash for that blue bucket tucked under the sink.

“By all means,” I said, gesturing toward the bedroom where we’d slept for less than three months.

My acting chops were limited to a middle school production of the play
Harvey,
in which I gave an infamously dreadful interpretation of the Dr. Chumley character. I guess that past episode wasn’t fully reflective of my inner thespian, because, somehow, I managed to maintain an air of pure indignation as Dobson walked into the bedroom, peeked into our bathroom, and then returned to the living room, seemingly satisfied. At least, he made several marks on his paper that were suggestive of his satisfaction.

“Just a few quick questions,” Dobson said, “and then I’ll be gone.”

“I really don’t appreciate being put through this,” I muttered while I took my seat at our rented pinewood dining table. The ceiling mounted light above us was a cheap model that cast wide shadows, making it difficult for Dobson to read his paperwork. Ruby took a seat opposite to me, with Dobson plunked down in the middle of us both.

Play the part. . . . Play the part. . . . Play the part,
I was saying to myself.

Every other second I thought about Rhonda. I could tell Ruby was thinking the same. I recalled Uretsky’s chilling words.
I wish you could have seen what I did to her. . . . It would have definitely inspired you to try a little harder.

“I just need to see some identification. Again, you can refuse. . . .”

I held up a hand to stop him.

“Here you go,” I said, handing over our Massachusetts ID cards with the name Uretsky on the front.

If Dobson wondered why we didn’t have driver’s licenses, he didn’t ask. He just jotted down some information on his sheet. Meanwhile, at his request, I produced several bills, cable TV and electric, all in Elliot Uretsky’s name thanks to the paperwork I had previously filed. Dobson seemed satisfied with that as well. His writing speed accelerated proportionally with my desire to have him leave. Perhaps he sensed his welcome wearing out.

“What now?” I asked.

Dobson pushed his chair back and shoved his clipboard back into his leather case. “Nothing,” he said. “I do feel terrible for having put you through all this rigmarole, and I greatly appreciate your time and cooperation. Damn system. We’ve got to check into every whistle-blower’s accusation. Believe me, you’re the last people I’d want to investigate. Personally, this is very hard for me.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, curious.

Dobson smiled, albeit somewhat sheepishly.

“Prostate cancer,” he said, putting a hand on his belly. “Early diagnosis saved my life. So while I love my job and get a lot of satisfaction bringing the bad guys to justice, I don’t derive much pleasure having to investigate a couple going through what I know to be a difficult ordeal. And my timing couldn’t have been worse.” His eyes went to the floor and might as well have burned a hole into Rhonda Jennings’s apartment below. “I’m not just giving you lip service here. I know. This is a tough battle you’re facing, and I hate being another obstacle in your way. But that’s the job.”

Ruby seemed to have lost her earlier nervousness. Despite all our troubles, she connected with Dobson on a level I couldn’t, not without being a cancer survivor myself.

“I’m so sorry,” Ruby said to him.

“No,” Dobson replied. “I am.”

“So we’re all set, then?” I asked.

I wanted Dobson out of our apartment, shared painful experience notwithstanding.

“All set,” Dobson said.

“What now?” I asked.