Practice to Deceive by David Housewright

fine, November: 110 in 55 zone $500 fine, March: 105 in 55 zone, pending; freshman Macalester College, St. Paul, MN; previous occupation: waitress Dixieland Barbecue, quit September; no current employment; parents: John & Sybil Wolters, St. Cloud, MN; John, construction worker, Sybil, grocery clerk; no marriage license filed her name Ramsey, Hennepin, Scott, Dakota, Washington counties …
    “Apartment on Cathedral Hill? Porsche? Think she’s paying for all this with what she earned from tips?” I asked.
    “The credit card,” Sara said in reply. “It’s in Crystalin’s name, for her exclusive use. But all the bills are sent to Levering Field—at his office, not his home.”
    “Ahhh.”
    “What do you want to do?”
    I gave it a moment’s thought, then said, “Cancel the card. Can you make it look like it was on Field’s orders?”
    “Sure.”
    “Good. When she calls the company, that’s what they’ll tell her.”
    “What about the cards in Field’s name?”
    “How often can you spoof the system?”
    “I only want to go in once; gain root status, mess with Field’s cards, get out—no sniffers, no back doors, no fingerprints. Man, I gotta tell ya,” Sara said excitedly, using Steve’s voice, “this is really juicy, but it’s scarier ‘n shit.”
    “Then don’t take any chances. Leave his cards alone for now. I have a use for them, anyway.”
    Sara nodded her agreement, then added, “I’m trying for his bank accounts now.”
    “Don’t take any chances,” I repeated.
    “Not to worry, I’m using cutouts.”
    “Cutouts?”
    “The telephone company keeps records of all local phone calls—”
    “MURs,” I volunteered.
    “Message unit records, right. Any local call you make is recorded on your personal MUR; the cops can check it to see who you called. Well, you know that.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Anyway, with a cutout, every time I make a call, the record of the call is assigned to a random telephone number—my calls are listed on somebody else’s MUR.”
    “What about a direct trace?”
    “I set up a special number last night, goes all around the world—Rome, Singapore, Nova Scotia—through a half dozen long-distance telephone companies, a few local exchanges, three cellular-phone companies. I own the telephone companies, man.”
    I believed her.
    “When I go in, I watch the line carefully. Someone tries a trace, I’ll know and break the connection before they can complete it. No way they can find me if I’m quick enough.”
    “You are a marvel.”
    Sara smiled. It was not the smile of an elegant, sophisticated woman receiving a compliment. It was the smile of a mischievous boy planning his next prank.
    “Be careful,” I stressed yet again. Sara was too cocky, and it made me nervous.
    F REDDIE CAME OUT of nowhere. Before I even knew he was there, he was sitting at our table. “Hiya, Taylor, how you been?” he said without looking at me. He was looking at Sara, staring into her hazel eyes. He took her gloved hand. “I’m Sidney Poitier Fredricks,” he announced.
    “Sara VanderTop,” Sara replied quickly.
    Freddie kissed the back of the glove. “It is my great pleasure,” he said. Sara smiled and withdrew her hand, holding it like she had no intention of ever washing it again.
    “I’m an old friend of Taylor’s,” Freddie added.
    “No, he’s not,” I corrected him.
    Freddie was the only black private investigator I knew. He was also one mean sonuvabitch. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, and while I didn’t mind sharing a booth with him in a crowded bar if we met by accident, we certainly were not friends.
    “He’s just saying that because I intruded on his party without asking,” Freddie claimed. “But when I saw you from across the street, I couldn’t resist.”
    Sara smiled. “I’m glad,” she said.
    Oh, man …
    “I bet you work out, a figure like yours,” Freddie said.
    “Every day at the Y,” Sara