“What is it?”
“The real Anastasia has a birthmark. A little heart on the right tit. She’s got a crooked or an
overlapping toe or whatever the fuck they called it on the left foot, too.”
“Shit, and you just tell me now?”
“Sorry, Prez. I only knew about it tonight. It’s not listed on the bounty description. An extra
measure to watch for impostors, I reckon. It’s no big deal, though. Anything could be added to photos and videos these days. It’s actually a good thing. It’ll be enough proof so they won’t even bother with the DNA.”
“This shit is much more complicated than I thought it’d be. I’m starting to think Racer could be
right.” I lit a cigarette and took a drag. “Where the fuck is Cookie?”
“The usual.”
“Okay. Get back to your tit fiesta, but tell Viper to keep an open eye at my door. Windows, too. I’ll go see if the kid found something good.”
I went to the backyard and found the shed where Cookie had set the router. It was his hiding spot.
When I entered, he was on the floor, his legs bent under him, the light from his laptop flaring in his face in the dark.
I switched on the light. “You’re gonna go blind like this. If it’s your goal, I can think of a better way, happy way, to get it done.”
He barely chuckled. Hunkering next to him, I gave him my beer.
“Thanks, Prez.”
“You should help yourself to some girls, too, you know? The party won’t stop till dawn.”
“The party never stops here. I’ll catch the next one.” He typed some shit. “About the IDs you gave
me, according to social media, there isn’t a single Anne Harrison in San Francisco that is twenty
years old. Duke University has no records of her either.”
“Hmm so all her papers are fake?”
“Bad fake, too. Like they’ve been made in haste.” He grabbed the student card and pointed at the
student number. “You see here? That’s not even the right serial Duke issues to their students.” He
tilted it under the light. “And if you look closely, you’ll see it’s a print over with Duke’s logo, but the original is under it.”
“Which school is that?”
“San Francisco, and the number traced back to,” he pressed a button, and her photo appeared on a
website, “Gloria Morelli. Finished freshman year two years ago but…”
My eyes narrowed as I pointed at the red label beside her photo. “It says fucking deceased. What
the fuck?”
“She looks like she might have faked her own death.”
“Son of a bitch. Why would a girl like her do something like that?”
