"You sound like a sleuth. What angle are you
working?"
"The usual
angle. Searching. Finding Vivienne.
McGinn has her," she moaned.
“That’s what you think.” He shot her a withering look. “I had this client, basically a good
guy. He needed to get off the grid but
didn’t qualify for a legit government program such as witness protection. The
poor schmuck got mixed up with the wrong crowd. He looked at old newspapers and
found a name of a baby who’d died around his age.”
“Look, Grady.
I know this trick. Let me tell you the rest. He requested the state government to give
him a the birth certificate.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“Many people lose birth certificates.”
“Right. It’s pretty usual to lose one,” she said. “With a birth certificate,
your client got a social security card.
Maybe enrolled in college for a student ID. He used these to open a bank
account, get a credit card, and driver’s license.”
“Okay, fine. Did Vivienne disappear like this?” His
reason for the story was to work Vivienne into it. His assumption sliced through her skin.
Her outrage rasped like feathers ruffling in anger.
She took a breath to calm down, knowing he wasn’t done with his little
narrative.
“She’d have to change hair color,” he said. “Lose or gain weight. Put a tack in her shoe.
Walk with a limp. Move to a crowded
city, rent a cheap apartment. Build an
employment history by working some job.”
“Uh huh.” Not up for an argument, she shifted her
gaze back to the GPS map mirroring the Jeep as it sped onto a fly-over carpool
lane linking up to the 22 West. The map indicated ten
more minutes of travel time and small talk.
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