“Audrey,” I said as I opened the door for her, “it’s almost June. A scarf?”
“Well,” she said with a grin, “what good is being imaginary if you can’t ignore the weather?” She threw her scarf dramatically over one shoulder, then piled into the car, elbowing J.C. on her way past.
“If I shoot you, woman,” he growled at her, “it will hurt. My bullets can affect interdimensional matter.”
“Mine can go around corners,” she said. “And make flowers grow.” She settled in between Ivy and Tobias, and didn’t put on her seat belt.
This was going to be an interesting mission.
We pulled out onto the roadway. Morning was upon us, the day bright, and rush hour well under way. I watched out the window, lost in thought for a time, until I noticed J.C. fishing in Ivy’s purse.
“Uh . . .” I said.
“Don’t turn,” J.C. said, batting away Ivy’s hand as she tried to snatch the purse back. He came out with her compact makeup mirror and held it up to glance over his shoulder out the back window, not wanting to present his profile.
“Yeah,” he said, “someone’s probably following us.”
“Probably?” Ivy asked.
“Hard to say for certain,” J.C. said, shifting the mirror. “The car doesn’t have a front license plate.”
“You think it’s her?” I asked. “The assassin?”
“Again,” J.C. said, “no way to tell for certain.”
“Maybe there is a way,” Audrey said, tapping her head and the new knowledge inside of it. “Wanna try some hacking, Steve-O?”
“Hacking?” Ivy said. “As in computer hacking?”
“No, as in coughing,” Audrey said, rolling her eyes. “Here, I’m going to write some instructions for you.”
I watched with curiosity as she scribbled down a list of instructions, then handed them to me. It was imaginary paper—not that I could tell. I took it and read the instructions, then glanced at Audrey.
“Trust me,” Audrey said.
“I only read you one book.”
“It was enough.”
I studied her, then shrugged and got out my phone. Worth a try. Following her instructions, I called up F.I.G, the restaurant where I’d eaten—or, well, ordered food—last night. It rang, and fortunately the breakfast staff was already in. An unfamiliar voice answered, asking, “Hello?”
I followed Audrey’s instructions. “Yeah, hey,” I said. “My wife ate there last night—but we had a family emergency, and she had to run before finishing her food. In fact, she was in such a hurry, she used the business credit card to pay instead of our home one. I was wondering if I could swap the cards.”
“Okay,” the woman on the phone said. “What’s the name?”
“Carol Westminster,” I said, using the alias Zen had used for her reservation.
A few minutes passed. Hopefully the receipts from last night were still handy. Indeed, after shuffling about a moment, the woman came back on the phone. “Okay, what’s the new card name?”
“Which one did she use?”
“It’s a KeyTrust card,” the woman said, starting to sound suspicious. “Ends in 3409.”
“Oh!” I replied. “Well, that’s the right one after all. Thanks anyway.”
“Great, thanks.” The woman sounded annoyed as she hung up the phone. I wrote the number down in my pocket notebook.
“You call that hacking?” J.C. said. “What was the point?”
“Wait and see,” Audrey said.
I was already dialing the bank’s credit card fraud prevention number. We continued in the car, taking an exit onto the southbound highway as I listened to holding music. Beside me, J.C. kept an eye on our supposed tail with Ivy’s mirror. He nodded at me. They’d followed us onto the highway.
When I finally got through the menus, holding patterns, and warnings my call might be recorded, I ended up with a nice-sounding man with a Southern accent on the other side of the line. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I need to report a stolen credit card,” I said. “My wife’s purse got taken from our house last night.”
“All right. Name on the card?”
“Carol Westminster.”
“And the card number?”
“I don’t have it,” I said, trying to sound exasperated. “Did you miss the part about the card being lost?”
“Sir, you just need to look online—”
“I tried! All I can see are the last four digits.”
“You need to—”
“Someone could be spending my money right now,” I cut in. “Do we have time for this?”
“Sir, you have fraud protection.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just worried. It’s not your fault. I just don’t know what to do. Please, you can help, right?”
The man on the other line breathed out, as if my tone change indicated he’d just dodged a potentially frustrating incident. “Just tell me the last four digits, then,” he said, sounding more relaxed.
“The computer says 3409.”
“Okay, let’s see . . . Do you know your PIN number, Mister Westminster?”
“Uh . . .”
“Social security number attached to the card?”
“805-31-3719,” I said with confidence.
There was a pause. “That doesn’t match our records, sir.”
“But it is my social security number.”
“The number I have is probably your wife’s, sir.”
“Why does that matter?”
“I can’t let you make changes until I authenticate, sir,” the man said in the neutral, patient voice of one accustomed to talking on the phone all day to people who deserved to be strangled.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I suppose you could call her,” I said. “She’s off to work, and I don’t have her social handy.”
“I can do that,” the man said. “Is the number we have on file all right?”
“Which one is that?” I asked. “Her cell was in her purse.”
“555-626-9013.”
“Drat,” I said, writing down quickly. “That’s the stolen phone’s number. I’ll just have to call her when she gets to work and have her call you.”