Chapter 2: It takes a thief

DAG NEEDS INFORMATION. That amazing brain of his put together a puzzle. Angel and Simon had tattoos with part of the security key. Dag says Bradley Keane had the missing set of numbers. He asked me to go find Bradley’s body and copy down the characters on the tattoo.

I can’t handle the truth of why I went on this foolish errand tonight. Dag asked me to. That’s all I can handle and by God, I’m determined to do what he asked.

Term life insurance

I left the hospital and went to the office. An hour later, I found myself standing at the window staring out at the ferries and traffic like Dag did. When I realized what I was doing, my eyes were leaking. They’ve been doing that a lot lately. Ever since Sunday.

I started making calls. The city morgue was no help. No, they didn’t have any record of Bradley Keane. I called the hospital where Dag is and they said they could only give information to next of kin. I wondered who that could be.

Funny.

I’ve examined a ton of Bradley’s dirty little plans over the past month. I picked through his email. I looked at his bank accounts. I tracked his travel with Brenda. But I haven’t really found out much about Bradley. I wondered who his next of kin was.

I started with a quick online search and the first thing that popped up was the newspaper story that ran on Tuesday. It was a small article in the back of the paper saying that Federal agents had broken a software counterfeiting ring on Sunday. Two suspects were killed. One was Bradley Keane, 49, who was a partner in the firm Barnett, Keane, and Lamb Ltd. Senior partner Simon Barnett was reported missing and presumed dead a week ago when his plane crashed in the Caribbean. Keane is survived by his widow, Sarah Keane and two children.

Whoa! Bradley was married? He was fooling around with Muffin-Top and he was married with children, too? This guy was too disgusting for words. I did a search and was rewarded with a home phone and address, compliments of the big name in telephones out here. Then I had to determine what I would do. I didn’t have Simon’s laptop anymore but I scanned through the old one Oksamma brought in when he cased our office. An insurance policy on all executives. Perfect. I would become an insurance adjuster and pay a little visit to Mrs. Keane.

People who pretend to be other people have it a lot easier now than a few years ago. I surprised Lars once after handing him a business card for a bank that no longer exists. He hadn’t seen through my disguise as a banker. A quick search of the Internet this afternoon got me a logo for the American Insurance Company. I grabbed a photo from my private store of headshots in a conservative brunette wig, used one of my aliases, and had a professional glossy business card printing out of my inkjet in a matter of fifteen minutes.

I needed my car and that was a challenge. Sunday, I’d left it in the Condo parking garage. It was all I could do to steel myself to go back into that building. I know the Condo itself is sealed off and there isn’t any danger now that Bradley and Oksamma are dead and Brenda’s in jail, but still ... It was hard to walk in there and just get in my car and drive out of the garage. And it cost me like a hundred bucks that I had to put on my credit card.

I got home okay and changed clothes into a nice conservative suit and my brunette wig. I was instantly Paula Winslow, insurance adjuster. I headed for the address in West Seattle where Bradley lived. Now, how much should the policy be for? Half a million? That sounded about right.

When I reached the house, I had to brace myself again. I clutched my folio in my hand and headed to the door, hoping my makeup was sufficient to hide the bruises on my face.

“Mrs. Keane?” I said when a matronly woman of about 50 opened the door. “I’m Paula Winslow of American Insurance Company. I don’t want to disturb you but I was handling a matter in West Seattle and though perhaps I could speed things up and spread a little comfort on this dreary afternoon. Is it convenient to talk with you for a few minutes?”

She looked me up and down like she was going to cut me a new suit. But she opened the door and let me in. She hadn’t said anything but hello and I was a little spooked by the way she just turned and walked away. She motioned to a chair and sat on the sofa in the living room.

“I suppose you’ve come about Bradley,” she said at last. I was beginning to feel like a schmuck.

“Yes,” I said, plowing on. “Since I was near, I thought I might get a couple of details from you to help expedite the insurance payout. First, let me tell you how sorry I am to hear about your husband. It must be terribly hard on you.”

“Thank you,” she said, still watching me intently. I pulled out a yellow legal pad and started writing.

“The report we have indicates the time of death as shortly before noon on Sunday. Is that correct?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“And what was the cause of death?”

“He fell through a window and was pierced by a piece of glass. That’s the word the coroner used. Pierced, like it was for earrings.” I had a vivid image in my mind of Oksamma crashing into Bradley and through the window. I wouldn’t have used the word ‘pierced.’