Starting Over
Tor Richardson
Published by Grey Cat Press
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 © Tor Richardson
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* * *
Starting Over
Tor Richardson
Fred Turner rolled over, sliding his hand between the rumpled sheets to the other side of the bed. It was empty; the sheets were cold. She'd been gone a long time. He hadn’t really expected the girl to stay through the night, but he was disappointed at falling asleep before she left. Rented for a few hours, her kind weren't the most loyal people on the planet. There was no telling what she might have taken on her way out.
...or what she might have missed.
Throwing off the sheets, Fred rolled out of bed and planted his feet in the soft carpeting, tugging at the shag with his toes. The air conditioner hummed and blew a refreshing breeze over the love seat, tickling his bare arms and chest before sweeping across the bed to rustle an empty cookie wrapper on the nightstand. He'd enjoyed the girl and the party, but he was getting too old for the late nights and the champagne. Until he could think of a better way to end his business associations, however, they were necessary evils -- occupational hazards. Expensive hotels, late-night parties, pretty ladies... as far as hazards went, he could certainly do worse.
Crossing the plush carpet, Fred walked to the small writing desk. A soft light filtered into the room through the gauze curtain covering the wall next to it, enough to show an empty desktop. There was no note, not that he expected any. She’d been working. Writing a farewell note wouldn't have even crossed her mind.
Fred snagged the pair of black slacks that lay draped over the back of the chair and fished his wallet from the pocket. Opening it, he looked inside.
...and smiled.
It was empty.
Good girl.
The Joseph Sandoval ID and the stolen credit cards were now her problem.
Returning the slacks to the chair and tossing the wallet onto the desk, Fred padded across the room to the shower, suddenly anxious to start the new day. But if he'd known that his next stolen identity would also be his last, he might not have been in such a hurry to cleanse away the last of Joseph Sandoval and start over with his next new life.
*
“May I help you?” the clerk asked.
“Yes, please,” Fred said, smiling and handing a credit card to the pretty brunette behind the counter. He wore a blue blazer, a white shirt, and black slacks -- artfully rumpled... the standard attire of a harried business traveler. “William Smith, checking in.”
Fred watched as her fingers flew over the keyboard, absently noting her crisp blue pin-stripe suit. His lip twitched. He’d never appreciated professional women dressing in men’s business suits, but he had more important things to focus on than her poor taste in clothes.
His gaze came to rest on the corners of her eyes -- narrow, green eyes with flecks of gold. This is where he’d find the first signs of trouble. He fixed the thin veneer of a smile to his face and casually leaned against the counter, quietly searching for any telltale tightening of her skin or minute tilting of her head. If she noticed his stare, she said nothing. She might simply have been pleased that his attentions weren’t centered elsewhere; but if she realized how intently she was being watched -- or why -- she might have reconsidered.
The clerk squinted slightly as she found the entry. Her eyes flicked from his credit card to the keyboard. No signs of alarm crossed her face, just the normal stress of an overworked hotel clerk. “Is this the correct billing information?” she asked.
“If it’s the PO Box in Grants Pass,” he replied with an easy air.
The woman nodded to herself and completed the check-in. “I’ll just need to see a piece of photo ID,” she told him. "Also, we did need to charge you for last night's stay. It was a confirmed night, reserved with the card."
“Of course,” he said, making sure to smile and nod. "I completely understand. I was delayed at the last minute. Thanks for holding the reservation."
He opened his wallet to allow her a quick inspection of his drivers’ license. He’d been perfecting the art of creating fake IDs since he was a kid, but hadn’t needed to exert himself in ages. IDs were ridiculously easy these days, requiring almost no crafting whatsoever. Most states changed formats so often -- all in the name of increased security -- that the average person, or the average hotel clerk, had no chance of distinguishing between a legitimate out-of-state license and a fabrication. Anything that looked official would do. Fred almost missed the old days when his gift could be truly appreciated.
“Thank you, Mister Smith,” she said after a brief glance at the wallet. Retrieving the credit card, she scooped up a hotel key and handed both to her new guest with a plastic smile of her own. “You’re all set. Please call if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”
“I certainly will,” he assured her.
The clerk's eyes had remained calm during the entire procedure, almost bored.
William Smith had passed muster; he was safe.
Fred crossed the lobby and summoned the elevator, absently noting a middle-aged man in a brown leisure suit with reading glasses leafing through a paper on the couch by a gas fireplace along the far wall. He didn't look like a detective, but Fred's frayed nerves said there was something wrong about the man. He spent the endless seconds that it took for the elevator to arrive watching the man out of the corner of his eye and telling himself that he was overreacting, that he was simply on edge from using the Joseph Sandoval ID for too long. His inner voice had been screaming at him then, as well, but William Smith hadn’t been ready. Stealing that one had been a marvelous stroke of luck. Properly harvested, it would last him for years. Until it was ready, though, he'd stayed with Sandoval longer than he'd have liked; longer than he should. But now the pressure was off, thanks to a clever choice in sleeping companions.
Fred stepped into the elevator when it arrived, glancing back at the seemingly disinterested man and chuckling as he pictured the nasty surprise his one-time bedmate would get when she used the credit cards for the first time. She’d be blamed for everything he’d done, but she had it coming. She hadn’t simply borrowed an identity, like him. She’d robbed a man in his sleep. There was a big difference. Fred couldn't think of a better way to clear his trail than to let a true criminal take the rap. There was a certain poetic justice to the universe, and a purpose for all things -- even a thief.
The real Joe Sandoval would learn a lesson, too. The story would soon break and then another middle-aged aerospace executive would need to explain to his family how some hooker could possibly have ended up with his credit cards.
That was fine with Fred, too. People like the real Joe Sandoval thought they were so much smarter than everyone else. A little dose of humility as he tried to pick up the pieces of his life and start over might do him some good. At the very least, he might be a wiser person for his troubles. It was all part of the service.
Stepping off the elevator, Fred lugged his suitcase down a short hallway to his room. He fit the key to the lock and walked inside, noting that the bed had already been turned down and a chocolate placed on his pillow. A little early, perhaps, but it was a nice touch.
The phone rang, a startling explosion of sound thundering through a silent room. His heart jumped. His head snapped around, eyes locked onto the red message light flashing from the face of the phone.
Time stalled as he stared into that red flashing light.
Was there a problem? Had the charge been denied? He’d taken such care... could the William Smith ID have failed so soon?
The phone rang a second time. Fred took a calming breath and shook his head at his own foolishness. If there had been a problem, he certainly wouldn’t be hearing about it over the phone. Moving quickly, he hurried across the room to snag the receiver from its cradle before the phone could ring a third time.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Mister Smith, this is Julie at the front desk. I’m checking to see if everything is to your satisfaction.”
“Quite so,” he told her. “Since you’ve called, though, I do have a question. A friend told me of a quaint little diner in town. I’ve forgotten the name. Would you happen to know which one he might have meant?”
It was a safe enough request. There was always some quaint little diner in every town. Most were run by overworked and underpaid waitresses -- easy targets for identity thieves with winning smiles and photographic memories.
“We have an excellent restaurant just off the main lobby, Mister Smith. I can also have something sent up from room service.”
“Perhaps I’ll try that tomorrow,” he said. “I should really visit that diner tonight, though. I’d never hear the end of it if my friend discovers that I came all this way and didn’t try it.”
“I quite understand,” she said. “I believe he might have been speaking of Mike’s down on Second Avenue. When you're ready, the courtesy assistant out front will be more than happy to help you find a cab.”
Julie wished him a pleasant evening and hung up.
Fred smiled. With a little luck, he just might have one, at that.
*
Mike’s Diner was just as Julie promised, and just as his friend would have described -- if he’d had such a friend in the first place. Brushed chrome siding and large rectangular windows gave the exterior the appearance of a railroad dining car. The interior was pure 1950’s malt shop. Chrome stools with red leather seats stood bolted to the floor at a white tiled counter. Red and white booths crowded the walls beneath the windows. A garish jukebox blasted away in an alcove by the door, ignored by two waitresses dressed in pink and white who wound through the crowded tables, arms filled with trays and strained smiles on their frazzled faces.
Fred moved purposefully across the cluttered floor to the stool nearest the cash register, picking up an evening newspaper from a display rack on the way. This would be the perfect place to lift another identity. The conditions were just right. Fred had that tingly feeling in his stomach. Tonight, he was going to get lucky.
A blonde waitress with a ponytail passed behind him and scooted around the counter, dropping two tickets and two credit cards next to the register. She pulled a pencil and a ticket book from her apron. “What’ll you have?” she asked over the babbling crowd and the blaring jukebox.
Fred glanced at her name tag. “Good evening, Shari. You wouldn’t happen to have a deluxe cheeseburger anywhere on your menu, would you?”
“Best cheeseburger in the city,” she replied.
“Great. I’ll take one of those and a plateful of fries, and a diet cola. Oh, and the newspaper, of course.”
“Sure thing, Sweetie. Be just a second,” she said with a wink. Then she was gone, rushing down the counter to drop his order at the kitchen window.
Under the pretense of unfolding the paper, Fred glanced at the credit cards she'd left behind. Neither would do. Both were from companies that placed their security codes on the back of the card. Fortunately for him, there were still several companies that stenciled the code on the front. He was a patient man. He could wait.
Fred opened the paper as Shari returned with his soda. He needn’t have bothered. The news was the same today as it had been yesterday. It would likely be identical to the news tomorrow. Energy companies continued to reap trillions due to record prices, people continued to slaughter each other at increasingly earlier ages, politicians continued to spend all their time blaming others for their problems, and animal rights groups continued to try to give the planet back to the penguins.
...and people had the audacity to suggest that he was a criminal.
Fred Turner hadn’t stolen nearly as much as these so-called legitimate executives, he’d never killed anyone in his life, and he didn’t even like birds that were too dumb to learn how to fly. Of course, he'd recently taken a cue from the politicians. It was much more fun to frame others for crimes he’d committed. He could see why they enjoyed it so much that they never got anything else done.
“Here you go, Sweetie,” Shari said, sliding a steaming plate onto the counter.
“Thank you, Darling,” he replied with a wink of his own. If she wanted to flirt, so much the better. It would save him the need to invent an excuse for hanging around after his dinner was gone.
“Mind if I sit here?” a rich female voice asked.
Fred turned his head and was greeted by a flash of white teeth, glossy lips, a perky nose, and the deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen. A person could get lost in eyes like that and drown before he knew it, without caring if he did. She smiled, one hand resting easily on the back of the stool and the other caressing the counter. Her long dark hair spilled down the front a blue silk dress as she waited for his answer -- beaming down at him as if he were the most important person in the world; inviting him into the center of her universe.
Careful, he warned himself.
With genuine regret, he reluctantly decided to play it safe and send her on her way. He was working and couldn't afford the distraction. He'd tell her that the seat was taken -- that he was waiting for a friend.
“Please do,” his mouth said of its own accord. His hands moved without his permission, as well; sliding the paper from the counter in front of her seat over to the far side of his plate.
So much for playing it safe.
“Thank you,” she said with a deliciously huge grin. Her eyes came alive as she sat down and tested the play in the stool, swinging her slender hips first to the left and then to the right. Her laughter erased all of his cautions, picking them up one by one and floating them out the window on that carefree, bubbling melody.
“This is fun,” she said. “I knew there was a reason that everyone sat at the counter, but my ex-husband never liked to have fun. We always sat in the booths.”
“Welcome to the wild side,” Fred said with an answering grin.
“What’ll you have, Honey?” Alice asked, sliding around the counter with another dinner ticket and credit card. The brunette stared, a faint hint of panic touching the edges of those marvelous eyes.
“You need a menu?” Alice prompted, noting the reaction.
“No. Of course not,” the woman said, shaking her head; but her tone didn’t quite fit the question, almost as if she'd been reassuring herself about something else. “I’ll have what he’s having,” she said, pointing to Fred's plate and forcing a smile.
“Cheeseburger, fries and a diet cola?” Shari asked.
The woman made a face. “I think I’ll have a real cola. I’m walking the wild side tonight,” she added.
“You got it, Honey,” Shari said, ripping the ticket from her book and hurrying to the kitchen window.
Fred held out a hand. “My name is William,” he said.
“Stacy,” she replied, taking his hand. It was warm and soft, but there was plenty of grip. He’d be willing to bet she was quite a tennis player.