Page 106 of Before She Disappeared

“Victimless crime?”

He shrugs. “Plenty of bigger things to worry about.”

“What if it’s not all about drinking? I mean, an ID can get you access to all sorts of things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, if you’re under eighteen, your own cell phone.”

“After-hours phone,” he states, no prompting required.

“You know about those?”

“Everyone knows about those.”

I scowl. “Then it gets you...” I honestly falter. Being eighteen or twenty-one, depending on your preference, is worth the right to vote, the honor of joining the military, and... well, access to Boston’s night life.

“How many kids you think want a fake ID?” I ask him, changing gears.

“Plenty. Boston’s a college town. Most of the freshmen want to drink or party. And owners like me take carding seriously or risk losing our licenses. You know what it costs to get a liquor license?”

“A small fortune?”

“A large fortune. Enough most establishments aren’t playing it fast or loose anytime soon.”

“So there’s a decent enough demand for fake IDs. A person could make some cash.”

Another Stoney shrug. “If you’re into counterfeiting, why not just print money?”

“Turns out that’s really hard.”

“No shit. Well, what about stocks or bonds or bank notes on one particular ancient neighborhood bar?”

I hear what he says. “Might be possible. I don’t know.”

“Green card.” A voice speaks up from the end of the bar. One of the regulars. Michael Duarde. I’ve served him several nights, but this is our first conversation. His accent is definitely not from here, though I’m hard-pressed to pick a country. The fact that he’s slightly slurring his words doesn’t help. “Gonna fake something, fake a fucking green card. Or work visa. That’s what everyone wants.”

Michael raises his beer and takes a long pull. Both Stoney and I watch him.

“You have TPS status?” I ask him. As in Temporary Protected Status, which is what most of the Haitian immigrants, such as Angelique and her brother, were granted post-earthquake.

“Not me. Plenty of others.”

“Can you fake a visa?” I ask Stoney, genuinely curious. Because the drunk guy raises a good point.

“Can you fake a passport?” he asks me.

“Not without a lot of expertise.”

“There you go.”

“Harder than a hundred-dollar bill?” I ask him.

“Beyond my pay grade.”

He’s right, but he’s got me thinking about Lotham’s point from the car ride home. Even if Angelique and Livia were making thousands a month dealing fake IDs, that’s small potatoes compared to illegal drug revenue... Why kidnap two girls over small potatoes?

Counterfeiting green cards or work visas would be big leagues. Crazy amounts of money. Except if you can’t nail a hologram on a Massachusetts driver’s license, how the hell are you going to fake a document on par with a U.S. passport? Forging a visa is terrorist-cell kind of crazy. Or Russian-printed-bills kind of savvy.

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