Jasmine Cresswell - Payback

“It can’t hurt, I guess, since we’ve come this far so quickly. Thanks, George. Some information about Mr. Jones’s forwarding address would be useful. Can you dig deep enough to find out if we’re talking about a mail drop or a residence?”

“Sure thing. I could also check with the Australian foreign ministry and confirm whether or not they have a Stewart M. Jones on their diplomatic roster.”

“That would be great. Although Mr. Jones passed the background check conducted by the Elm Court management company, so I’m not sure that we’re going to unearth any discrepancies without going to a lot of trouble.”

“You’d be surprised—make that alarmed—at how easy it is to pass a standard credit check. I’ll just peel back a couple more layers and see what we uncover.” George paused. “It would help if I knew what I’m trying to find out.”

“For now, I’d prefer just to tell you that you’re right, and I think Stewart M. Jones is a stolen identity someone has adopted.” Luke gave up on the unrealistic pretense that he was conducting a simple search for an old friend. “If the Australian authorities acknowledge they have a diplomat called Stewart Jones, could you get a description of him? That way, I can compare the man I saw with the Stewart Jones employed by the Australian government. I don’t want to make any accusations or leap to any wild conclusions until I’m sure I didn’t just see a hardworking Australian guy who happens to look like somebody else.”

“I’ll do my best. In fact, if I tell the Aussies that I’m investigating a suspected identity theft, they’ll probably be quite willing to cooperate.”

“Thanks for all you’ve done so far, George. I’m very grateful.”

“Glad I could be of help. I’ll hold off on sending you a bill until I’ve contacted the Australian authorities and traced this address in Adelaide.” The investigator’s voice took on a tinge of laughter. “If I give you the damage in one fell swoop, you’ll only be shocked once.”

Luke avoided thinking about Ron Raven for the rest of the night, which wasn’t hard, chiefly because the pressures of serving top-quality food in three crowded restaurants, one with an injured sous-chef, occupied every scrap of his attention. He assumed George would take at least a couple of days to get back to him and he was almost glad of the delay. However, he’d underestimated George’s efficiency. Luke opened up his e-mail the next evening and found a note from the detective already waiting for him.

Thought it might be easier to put this in writing, instead of interrupting your work schedule. Mr. Jones’s forwarding address in Adelaide turns out to be for an abandoned warehouse. I’ve attached an aerial picture of the site, which as you can see is surrounded by a chain-link fence and appears deserted. I spoke to a local cop (local to Adelaide, that is) and he assures me that any mail forwarded to this warehouse from the States during the past six months would have been returned to sender or delivered to a dead-letter box, since the ownership of the site is in dispute between two companies.

I checked again with the superintendent of the apartment building in McLean, Virginia. He has no memory of any mail either being forwarded to Stewart Jones or being returned from Australia. It seems likely, therefore, that no first-class mail for Mr. Jones ever arrived at Elm Court after he left there in late June.

I also contacted the Australian embassy in Washington, D.C. I informed them somebody might be fraudulently using the identity of a supposed Australian diplomat, Stewart M. Jones. The embassy informed me that there has been no diplomat of that name serving in any capacity in the United States for the past two years. They wouldn’t comment on whether they have a diplomat of that name assigned elsewhere.

The management company for the Elm Street rental properties at first declined to share with me how they checked the credentials and references for prospective renters. After some persuasion, a clerk parted with the information that all applicants are required to provide a security deposit equal to three months’ rent. If the applicant’s check clears, the rest of the credit check is cursory. Renters are required to provide a work phone number, and this number is always called. However, since applicants provide the work number themselves, they—in this case, Mr. Jones—have complete control over how the call is answered. Mr. Jones could pretend that a caller had reached the Australian embassy, and then provide himself with a glowing reference. Child’s play for anyone with experience in setting up a scam. Sometimes I wonder why anybody in this country bothers to be honest, when deception and fraud are so easy.

Bottom line: Anyone wanting to rent accommodations at the Elm Street location could use almost whatever name they pleased with little risk of having their alias exposed.

Let me know if you need to investigate further. Sincerely, George Klein.

P.S. Invoice attached.

October 12, 2007

Tim, one of the sous-chefs at Luciano’s on Chestnut, stuck his head around Luke’s open office door. “There’s a woman waiting to see you in the main dining room. Says she arranged to meet you here.”

Luke glanced up from the stack of vendor accounts he was checking, one of his least-favorite chores. “Is it Mrs. Fairfax?”

“Could be. Something like that. Sorry, you know me and names.” Tim, who happily obsessed over the most obscure herbs and heirloom vegetables, and agonized over precise details of recipes, had only a perfunctory interest in the humans who would eventually consume his dishes. He gave Luke a casually apologetic salute and moved on to the kitchen.

Luke made his way into the dining room, breathing in the faint aroma of freshly chopped herbs. The restaurant was closed at this early hour of the morning, the tables shrouded in starched gray linen cloths, waiting for the stemmed water goblets, silverware and signature damask napkins that would be added later.

Even now, five years after the grand opening of his flagship restaurant, Luke’s heart still beat a little faster each time he walked across the stylish dining room. This morning he was especially aware of the fact that his success would have been impossible without Ron Raven. His requests for financing to start his own restaurant had been turned down by half the banks in Chicago. He was too young, the bankers said, not even thirty, with grand ideas but insufficient practical experience. Besides, restaurants were a notoriously risky investment.

And then he catered a meal for Raven Enterprises and everything changed. Ron agreed to underwrite the first Luciano’s to the tune of a quarter million dollars in exchange for twenty-five percent of the equity. The restaurant had been a success almost from opening night, and plenty of banks had fallen over themselves to finance Luke’s next two ventures. But the undeniable bottom line was that without Ron, there would have been no Luciano’s.

Luke had wrestled with the question of what he owed Ron for several days before finally placing his call to Avery Fairfax. In the end, he’d decided this couldn’t be about gratitude toward Ron; this had to be about honesty owed to Ron’s wife and daughter.

He pushed lingering doubts aside and smiled a greeting at the slender, elegant woman waiting by the door. “Avery! It’s great to see you again. Thanks for making the trip across town.”

Avery Fairfax turned to him, her classic features warmed by the friendliness of her smile. “Luke, how are you? It’s been much too long. I’ve missed you.”

He shook her hand since Avery wasn’t the sort of woman who invited random hugs. “I missed you, too.” He was surprised at how true that was. “Can I get you something to eat? A croissant? Some coffee? Juice?”