ColdScheme by Edita Petrick Read Free Book Online Page B

posted a ten thousand dollar cash security.”
    “And that was sufficient for the bank to issue a Gold Visa
with double the limit?”
    “The client’s credit rating was excellent. The bank had no
reason to refuse credit to this customer.”
    “But you just said he wasn’t your customer. He was an
applicant who posted a ten thousand dollar bond against the card.”
    I knew the bank wouldn’t have done a detailed background
check on someone who had posted cash. “Know your customer” business practice
would have been waived. The bank would have quickly reviewed all the advantages
of cash deposit and credit card interest, and approved a credit card for a
ghost.
    “We had no reason to believe that the credit card would be
used for fraudulent purposes.” The bank manager was annoyed.
    “Did I say I was checking fraud, Mr. Giraud?”
    He cleared his throat. I continued, “Was there ever a
dispute over charges made to that credit card?”
    “No.”
    “Were monthly payments maintained?”
    “The card balance was paid off monthly, in full.” He sounded
unhappy. I smirked. Of course his banking establishment wouldn’t be pleased
with such customer diligence. There was no outrageous interest to collect.
    “Where was the original card mailed?”
    “To the business address, as per instructions.”
    “Skip the instructions and give me the business address.” He
complied.
    I knew Washington. A mailbox service sprang in my mind.
    “When the card was renewed, was it mailed to the same
address?”
    He gave me a new “business” address, another mailbox haven.
    “Did Mr. Svenson ever visit your bank?”
    “I have never met this customer.”
    “He was never the bank’s customer, merely a card holder—at
an arm’s length. Did the bank ever check out the address and the phone numbers
Mr. Svenson provided with his application?”
    “I believe everything was in proper order.”
    I knew what it meant. He had no record of such information.
Since the card was three years old, the staff responsible for its issue was no
longer with the bank.
    “Has the bank ever received an application for a credit card
from Mr. Martin Svenson at the following address and phone number.” I dictated
the real Svenson’s residential address and phone number. I heard the clicking
of keys as he entered the information into the computer.
    “No.”
    “It saved you a lot of headaches and embarrassment, had the
real Mr. Martin Svenson of 24 Kirk Drive in Washington ever applied for a
credit card,” I said and hung up.
    I wasn’t going to bother checking the birth certificates.
Any teenager could buy one on the street. Brick’s alternate identities were not
going to give us clues.
    I phoned the Aetna Assurance, Brick’s insurance company. The
application for coverage was made over the internet. I slashed and burned my
way through three reps and two supervisors.
    Finally, I got the manager. He released the email that came
with the application. I handed it to Ken. The insurance documents were mailed
to a business address on Pratt Street. It was a private outfit, renting out
mailboxes.
    “Why is it so easy these days to obtain documents with false
information?” Ken wondered.
    “Probably because the FBI decided to supplement their
operating budget by offering courses to the public on forging documents and
obtaining replacements for valid originals with fraudulent information,” I
said.
    “You’re kidding? When did they start doing that?” He
believed me.
    I shook my head and wondered whether I shouldn’t advise
Brenda to tell her beau that she had a month to live and would like to say, “I
do,” before the “Death do us part.”
    “Brick’s car insurance was paid up until the end of the year
but other than his name and the policy number, nothing else is valid,” I told
him. “The car is a last year’s model. It was bought for cash, in Catonsville.
It was a demo, with ten thousand miles on the odometer. The dealership was
happy to