The Double (4 page)

“You never went to where he lived?” said Lucas, just to say something.

“No. He said he had a housemate he was trying to get rid of, that the atmosphere wouldn’t be right.”

“So you don’t know his address.”

“I don’t.”

“Or where he worked.”

“All he said was that he was in finance.”

“You communicated by cell?”

“Yes, we texted back and forth and sometimes I called him.”

“You still have that number?”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Give it to me.”

Lucas wrote it down. “Did you see a credit card of his? A driver’s license?”

Grace shook her head. “The one time we went out, he paid the tab in cash.”

“So you don’t know if his name is actually Billy Hunter.”

“I can’t be sure,” said Grace. She picked up her glass and stood abruptly. There was sweat beaded on her face. Lucas’s shirt was also damp. “I’m ready for another glass of wine. Would you like another beer?”

“I would.”

“Meet me inside. It’s cooler in there. Bring the file with you, okay?”

She disappeared into her condo. Lucas sat for a few minutes, digesting their conversation, then followed her inside. The volume on the stereo had been turned down very low. She was on a couch set before a glass table, where she had placed a fresh glass of wine and a new bottle of beer. Lucas dropped the file on the table and sat beside her. He noticed that Grace had run a brush through her hair.

“Are you shocked?” she said.

“Not at all,” said Lucas, telling a lie. “How did this all end?”

“I came home one day to find that I’d been burgled.”

“The painting was gone.”

“Yes.”

“Just the painting?”

“Yes.”

“Was your condo broken into?”

“Nothing was broken. He had a key. I suppose he could have made an imprint of mine in putty, like thieves do. Or had one made off an original, then returned it discreetly. I keep an extra in a bowl by the door. ”

“He, meaning Hunter.”

“Of course.”

“You’re certain?”

Grace shrugged. “I haven’t heard from him since the burglary. Stealing that painting was his way of screwing me again, one last time. It’s in character for him, don’t you think?”

“You tried texting or calling him?”

“I did, and I got dead air.”

“He was probably using a burner,” said Lucas.

“What?”

“A disposable cell. Let me ask you something: did you and Hunter ever discuss the value of the painting?”

“We never talked about the painting at all.”

Lucas thought this over. “You said that you now think this was all a setup. That you were a mark. How so?”

“There are additional papers in that file. Take a look.”

Lucas opened the file and withdrew a set of pages paper-clipped together, a series of printed e-mails between Grace and someone named Grant Summers. The earliest dated e-mail, from Summers to Grace, read:

Hello,

I am selling this beautiful, well-maintained forest-green 2003 Mini Cooper S because my brigade will deploy for 14 months to Afghanistan. I’m under enormous time pressure cause I need to sell it fast, that is the reason I sell it so low. It is immaculate condition, non-smoker, well maintained, and hasn’t been involved in accident…I have the title, free and clear, under my name. It is gently used with only 69,320 miles!!

It is still for sale if you are interested, price as stated in the ad: $2,990. The car is in Troy, NY, and in case it gets sold to you I’ll take care of shipping. Let me know if your interest, e-mail me back!!

I’ve attached 90 photos.

Thank you,

Grant Summers
4th Combat Engineer Battalion
United States Marine Corps
One team, one fight

Below the name and battalion designation, the sender had included a replication of the Marine Corps insignia. Lucas felt his eyes narrow.

“I was looking for a Mini Cooper,” said Grace. “My pre-midlife crisis. I could have bought a new one, but I’m a bit of a bargain hunter. I found an ad for one on Craigslist that looked like a great deal. It was the exact color I wanted, too.”

“That’s how they rope you in,” said Lucas. He knew the rest but he allowed her to tell it.

“I e-mailed him back,” said Grace. “I asked if we could speak over the phone, but he returned with a message saying that deploying marines aren’t allowed to use a phone. He suggested we use an authorized third party for the escrow; I think it was Google Checkout.”

“I suppose he took the liberty of opening an account.”

“Right. Said he’d give me a five-day period to inspect and test-drive the car before the escrow account would release my payment to him. In that way, I would be protected…No disappointments, he said. He’d ship it free of charge with the title and two sets of keys. The money would have to be wired via Western Union. I was wary, but it was the car I really wanted at a very good price.”

“Did you do it?”

“I tried. Drove over to my bank, withdrew the cash, and went to the nearest Western Union office. I was all set to wire the money when the lady behind the counter, nice Pakistani woman, talked me out of it. She’d seen this scam worked before. When I came home, I called the FBI and reported the whole thing. The guy on the other end of the line took my name and number but he never called me back. ”

“The Feds don’t have the time or manpower to chase a couple of thousand dollars down a rabbit hole.”

“Is this a common crime?”

“It’s the Nigerian four-one-nine scam,” said Lucas. “So named for that country’s four-one-nine code, after this type of Internet crime. Shame the Nigerians get tarred for the car thing too, but there it is. Why do you think Hunter was connected to this?”

“One night we were talking,” said Grace. “One of those pointless conversations about what we’d do if we hit the lottery. Billy said, ‘You could buy that Mini S you’ve always wanted.’ And then he got a weird look on his face, like he knew he’d messed up. How would he know I had my eyes on a Mini Cooper S? I never told him. But Grant Summers knew, and I had given him my home address for the shipping of the car. Later on it made me think, maybe Billy Hunter and Grant Summers were the same man. That he saw me as an easy mark after the car thing and followed me from here to the Safeway that first night.”

“Did Hunter have a foreign accent?”

“No.”

“Most of the guys who pull these car scams are foreigners. Just by reading this top e-mail, there are several mistakes in the tenses and verbiage. That tells me that English was a second language for Grant Summers.”

“You don’t think the two events are connected?”

“I don’t know. It’s a stretch. But I’ll look into it. That is, if you decide to hire me.”

“Amanda said you get forty percent.”

“I take it in cash. In this case, that equals eighty thousand dollars, based on the assessed value of the painting. It’s a lot of money, Grace.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Frankly, I find it odd that you would spend eighty grand getting back a painting that you got for free.”

“Actually, I don’t have the eighty yet. But I do have a buyer for the painting. Assuming you retrieve it for me.”

“A buyer,” said Lucas, trying to keep the skepticism from his voice.

“A serious collector has given me a pledge, in writing, that he’ll purchase it for two hundred thousand dollars. When I sell
The Double,
I’ll cut your eighty thousand out of the payment.”

“This is real?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. But you could take that money and buy a fleet of Minis, brand new and loaded, and pay retail this time.”

“It’s got nothing to do with money,” said Grace. “I want to see that painting on my wall again, if only for a little while. In a way, he raped me, and he won. I need to take something back from him. When the painting is hanging on my wall, I can get started with my life again.”

Lucas wasn’t so sure. Grace Kinkaid’s washed-out eyes, her pencil-thin arms, her increasingly slurred speech all told him she had a long way to go before she’d ever be right. “You want me to provide some references?”

“Not necessary. Amanda says you’re competent and straight.”

“So I’m hired?”

“Yes.”

He touched his finger to the file. “Can I have this?”

“It’s for you,” said Grace, and she looked him over. “I hope you’re as advertised. Billy’s all kinds of twisted.”

“Thanks for the work, and your confidence.” Lucas picked up the file and stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

FOUR

T
he following morning, Lucas worked at home. On his laptop, he typed in the names William Hunter and Bill Hunter and searched for them via his premium People Finder program. He came up with several hits in the District/Montgomery County, PG County, Maryland/Northern Virginia area, which folks now called the DMV. He recorded the most recent addresses of all the listings and, where available, the phone numbers, and made some calls.

Lucas reached a couple of men, discounted them due to age and their responses, and made a note to follow up on those William Hunters he couldn’t reach. But he was not encouraged or particularly hopeful. Billy Hunter was most likely a fake name the predator had created. It had come to Lucas at the tail end of the previous night, when he had returned from Grace Kinkaid’s apartment, smoked some herb, and sat thinking, expansively, in his living room chair.

Billy Hunter = Pussy Hunter.

A sociopath would create a name like that deliberately, and laugh about it.

Lucas opened the file Grace Kinkaid had given him. He looked at the e-mail from Grant Summers regarding the sale of the Mini Cooper S. Lucas figured that Summers’s e-mail address, ending with @msn.com, had been set up as a throwaway, as scammers tended to use companies like MSN, Yahoo!, and Hotmail, which required no verification for the setup. Without a subpoena, which he had no chance of obtaining, tracing the address back to a specific computer or person would be impossible.

Lucas Googled and Bing-searched the address, and came up with nothing. He took the next step: e-mail tracking. Using three of his investigative database searches, IRBsearch, LexisNexis/Accurint, and Tracers, he attempted to identify the owner of the Grant Summers e-mail address. Again, nothing.

He was pretty sure the message had been sent from an Internet café in Paris, London, or Amsterdam, but for shits and grins Lucas highlighted the Grant Summers e-mail address and clicked on Options. A dialogue box opened, and at the bottom of the box there appeared a section, displayed in very small letters, called Internet Headers. There he found a series of numbers: the originating IP address of the Grant Summers e-mail. Using Melissa Data, he was able to locate the city, state, country, and zip code of origin, as well as the latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates of the e-mail’s origin. Looking at the information, he felt both high and caffeinated. He Google-Mapped the coordinates and came up with a row house on a local street. The location lookup was not an exact science, and there was a chance that this was not the house he was looking for, but it put him on a block, enough for a neighborhood canvass. Grant Summers, whoever he was, might well have been a foreigner, but he was operating his car scam out of D.C.

Lucas saved the data.

He did four sets of forty push-ups on rotating stands, and two hundred crunches, his prison workout and daily ritual. He took a shower, dressed in utilitarian clothing, and drove his Jeep over to Prince George’s County, where he had arranged an interview with the mother of Edwina Christian.

Lucas made a low hourly wage working for Tom Petersen, and he was looking at an eighty-thousand-dollar payoff on the Kinkaid job. A smart guy might have prioritized the work. But Lucas liked to honor his commitments, and he had promised Petersen he’d get him something useful before the trial. Also, he was curious.

Virginia Christian lived in a boxy brick apartment building in Hyattsville, off Ager Road, near the Northwest Branch of the Anacostia River. Lucas sometimes passed through this area on his long bike rides out to Lake Artemesia, and while pedaling through the partially wooded area of the neighborhood he always took care. Gang signs were sometimes spray-painted on the paved trail, and often he came across groups of young and not-so-young men smoking weed and drinking beer in the middle of the day. It wasn’t the marijuana or the alcohol use that bothered him, as he partook himself. There had been several rapes and assaults on this stretch of the bike trail the past few years.

Virginia Christian let him in to her apartment, which smelled of nicotine and fried food, and led him to a breakfast table. She was in her midforties, heavily made-up, large of leg and back, large-featured, with treated, tinted hair worn in waves and touching her shoulders. Rolls of excess weight showed beneath the lower portion of her deep red blouse.

Over the phone, Lucas had simply identified himself as an investigator, as he always did, which implied authority without detail or explanation, and Virginia had immediately said, “For who?” Lucas gave up the fact that he was working for Tom Petersen, the attorney defending Calvin Bates, who was charged with her daughter’s murder. Surprisingly, she said he could come on over and talk. She had been a police officer at one time, she explained, and she understood the process, adding, “And the game.”

The stale smell of alcohol came off Virginia Christian as they talked across the table. It was early, and the scent could have been a remnant of the night before. If so, it had been a long night of drink.

“You mind?” said Virginia, pausing before lighting a Newport that she had extracted from a deck.

“Not at all.”

Lucas opened his notebook and uncapped a pen. Virginia used a blue butane lighter to put fire to her cigarette.

“So y’all trying to get Bates off?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m an investigator working for the defense. And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“So am I.”

“I mean you no disrespect.”

“I was in law enforcement myself. You’re just doin your job.”