The Other Mr. Bax by Rodney Jones Page B

just for the fun of it. You see what I’m saying? The only purpose I can imagine this having is deceiving someone about his state of residence. You know of any reason he’d want someone to believe he lives here in Akron?”
    Joyce was only half-listening. A chill passed through her as she realized just how congruent this story—the cards she was holding—was with Roland’s story—his claim that he lives in New York, or did, up to the night of his disappearance from Phoenix, anyway.
    Ting, ting, ting . Joyce lifted her eyes. Waterman absentmindedly tapped his coffee mug with an ink pen—his lazy blue eyes on her.
    “Do you, Mrs. Bax?”
    “I’m sorry.” She blinked. “Do I, what?”
    His eyebrows lifted. “Know why your husband would want anyone believing he lives here?”
    “No.” She dropped her eyes to the folder lying on the desk. “Do you have anything else?”
    He pulled open a desk drawer, removed a wallet made of a coarse, black fabric, and handed that to her. It appeared old, worn—not the wallet she remembered him carrying, the one she’d given him for his birthday nearly a year before. She peeled it open, ripping the hook and loop apart. The plastic photo insert inside contained a variety of notes and cards, but no photographs—typical of her husband.
    “There’s a few more things,” he said, going through the folder in front of him. “A grocery store card, a movie-rental card”—he tapped the card with his index finger—“from a store that never existed.” He shrugged his eyebrows, turned his head, coughed, then continued. “Social security, bank debit card. We checked them all out, including those in the wallet.” His breath left his lips in a huff. “Except for the social security card, none are valid.” He flipped his hands open, shoulder height, palms up. “I’m stumped. That stunt he pulled in Akron, this stuff… It’s useless for the most part. So what’s it for?”
    She slipped the remaining cards into the wallet, then dropped that into her purse. “That’s everything?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “Sorry I couldn’t be of any more help to you.” Joyce stood. “I have to get going, I have a flight to catch.”
    “Yes, of course. Please, feel free to call me if there’s ever anything I can do for you. Or if anything comes to your attention that you’d be willing to share.”

    Protein! Her body demanded it. Joyce was one of these people whose moods were at the mercy of a regular eating schedule. Her shortness with the cop was a testimony to this fact. While on her way back to the hospital, she pulled into a restaurant parking lot. The clock on the dashboard indicated she had plenty of time.
    After ordering an omelet and coffee she pulled Roland’s wallet from her purse and again went through its contents. She removed his social security card, remembering what Waterman had said about it being the one thing in Roland’s possession with any validity. Though it appeared authentic, the signature was odd; his middle initial, which he typically ignored, was included. She compared it to the signature on the back of the credit card—no initial, and the handwriting was different. She couldn’t recall him ever signing his name in that way. But then the SS card, she realized, was probably signed when he was young, perhaps a boy.
    As she studied the card, it came to her; he’d lost his wallet some years back, with that card in it. The card she now held was mushy with age, his signature smeared as though it had been through the wash. She laid it on the place mat, before her, and dug another card from the wallet—a voter’s registration, Board of Elections, County of Erie—same address as the one on his driver’s license.
    Joyce removed card after card, all of which supported Roland’s claim of being a resident of New York. And while there were no hints of a life with her, there was nothing suggesting another woman either. She opened the bill pocket and found a small amount of