My Only Vice. Elizabeth Bevarly
started talking again before Sam had a chance to finish. “And then there’s the fact that no record of Rosie Bliss exists anywhere in the entire United States.”
Okay, that got Sam’s attention. Not so much the part about there being no evidence of Rosie Bliss’s existence, but that Ed had taken it upon himself to look into Rosie’s background and had possibly violated police procedure—not to mention Rosie’s basic human rights—to do it.
“Ed, seeing as how you’re head of campus security,” Sam said cautiously, “I’m not sure it’s within your jurisdiction to run a background check on a Northaven citizen.”
Ed seemed in no way perturbed by Sam’s suggestion that he may have overstepped the bounds of his position. On the contrary, looking quite calm and complacent, he turned around to face his computer, typed a few keys and then moved out of the way. “Switchboard-dot-com,” he said as his browser opened a page on the Internet. “It’s a matter of public record for any private citizen who might be interested in looking.”
Sam duly noted the other man’s emphasis on the phrase that indicated he hadn’t been snooping on Rosie’s private life while he was on the clock. Which, it went without saying, was a huge reassurance to Sam. Not.
“No Rosie Blisses are listed in the entire United States,” Ed continued. “Not even in Northaven.”
“Ed,” Sam said patiently, “Switchboard-dot-com is an online phone directory. If someone has an unlisted number, it won’t show up there. Obviously, Rosie’s kept her number unlisted, which is something a lot of women who live alone choose to do for the sake of security.”
Ed blinked at him, looking a little nonplussed now. But all he said in reply was, “Oh.”
“Besides, Rosie’s probably a nickname,” Sam pointed out. “Try Rose Bliss this time.” And he tried not to think about how he was just encouraging Ed. Okay, so maybe he was interested in Rosie, too. Just in a non-criminal way. Except for the fact that the way she made him feel sexually was actually pretty criminal.
Ed turned back to the computer and entered the altered information, and this time more than a dozen names appeared.
“See there?” Sam said.
“There’s not one listed for Northaven,” Ed pointed out, though with considerably less flair this time.
“Like I said, Ed. Unlisted.”
Sam thought the other man would just let it go at that, and started to rise to make his way out. But he halted when Ed reached for the gold-tone badge pinned to his blue uniform shirt and unpinned it, then unhitched the gun on his belt and set it on the desk.
“Oh, now, Ed, there’s no reason to go to that extreme,” Sam hastily reassured him, taking his seat once more. “You don’t have to resign over something like this. It’s no big deal, really. You and I can just keep your investigation of Rosie Bliss that may or may not be a violation of police procedure,” he inserted meaningfully, since it never hurt to emphasize a reminder like that, “between ourselves. No one else has to know. Now put your badge and gun back where they belong.”
Ed looked confused for a minute, then when he seemed to understand what Sam had said he looked shocked. “Resign?” he echoed indignantly. “I’m not resigning. I’m taking a break. As of this moment, I’m a private citizen, off the clock.” He pointed to his watch. “It’s lunch hour. Man’s gotta eat.” And with that, he pulled a paper sack out of the side desk drawer and unwrapped a sandwich, chips and can of soda.
Feeling a little confused himself now, Sam nevertheless said, “Well, then, I’ll be off.” Though he still wasn’t confident Ed had let the matter of Rosie Bliss go.
That was only reinforced when Ed said, “And maybe while I’m having lunch, I’ll just do a little surfing on the ’Net. I like to surf the ’Net to search for things. Search for people. You never know what’ll turn up. You ever surf the ’Net, Sam?”
Sam closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten. However, it was less because he was trying to manage his impatience with Ed and more because he was trying not to think about, ah, surfing the ’Net of someone whose net he very much wanted to, ah, surf. In fact, he was probably thinking about, ah, surfing the net of the same person Ed wanted to surf the ’Net for. Just, you know, not in any Internet sense of the word.
“Ed…” he began wearily.
But Ed had turned around to the computer again, and was punching more keys. This time, the Web site that popped up on the screen was for an online private investigative firm called WeFindEm.com. In big red letters at the top, it said, When You Can’t Find ’Em, We Can! And We Can Find Out Things About ’Em You Never Knew! In A Matter Of Minutes! In smaller letters, it said how much it would cost someone to have WeFindEm.com do just that. Very little, to Sam’s way of thinking. Amazing how people’s lives and secrets could be purchased so reasonably on the Internet.
“So since I’m on my lunch hour,” Ed said, “and since I’m not, technically, in uniform, I’m visiting this site as a private citizen. Which means I’m not violating police procedure.”
Maybe, Sam thought. It was a blurry line Ed was walking. Of course, it really didn’t matter, since the idea of Rosie Bliss being a drug pusher was still laughable, so any information Ed may uncover about her—or even purchase about her—was beside the point. If it was even reliable. Were those online investigators monitored? Hell, were they even licensed? Who knew what Ed would get for his $49.99? Other than the shaft? $99.99 if he wanted Rosie’s criminal records along with the shaft.
“Ed,” Sam began again.
He chose his words carefully, reminded himself to be gentle. It was common knowledge in Northaven that Ed Dinwiddie’s dream in life was to make a major bust that would gain him national acclaim. It was also common knowledge in Northaven that that wasn’t likely as long as he was head of security at the college. Hell, Ed being Ed, that wasn’t likely to happen even if he found a job with a metropolitan police department. Any force in their right minds—assuming they lost their minds long enough to hire Ed in the first place—would assign him to desk duty. Preferably in the fund-raising department where the most damage he could do would be to the decorating committee of the Policeman’s Ball.
“This’ll just take a few minutes,” Ed said as he turned to the computer, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as he did.
“Ed,” Sam tried again.
But Ed started humming “Stairway to Heaven”—loudly—interspersing it with admonitions like, “I can’t hear you. I’m humming ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ La la la la la. I can’t hear you. Buying…the stair-way…to heaven. La la la.”
So Sam had no choice but to give up and accept the inevitable. The inevitable being that Ed wasn’t going to let this go until Sam had had a look at the report with him. Which actually might not be such a bad thing. Because once that report came through and showed that Rosie Bliss wasn’t the hardened criminal Ed was certain she was, he’d have no choice but to abandon his conviction and leave Rosie alone.
WeFindEm.com was as good as their word, and by the time Ed finished his lunch—and a few more fractured Led Zeppelin numbers—the computer was telling him he had mail. The report was attached, and Ed immediately printed up two copies, one for himself, and one for Sam, who accepted it grudgingly and gave it a perfunctory look.
The look became less perfunctory, however, as the information became more inculpatory. Because if WeFindEm.com was right, Rosie Bliss hadn’t existed anywhere in the entire United States before she moved to Northaven.
“There you go,” Ed said triumphantly, having obviously read to the end as Sam had. “No evidence of Rosie Bliss’s existence prior to her having moved here two years ago. No birth records, no work records, no addresses, no licenses for anything, nothing. She doesn’t show up anywhere until she moved here.” He glanced up at Sam, looking even more triumphant than he sounded. “Now how do you think she’s