Identity of the Heart (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 1) Read online

  I want to respond with a really good argument, but I don’t have one. She’s spot on when it comes to my dad. When I was born, I had a blood clot in my lungs. Fortunately, the doctors caught it and were able to remove most of it before it traveled anywhere dangerous. But, because I had to be on blood thinners as an infant and spent many months in the hospital, my parents have a tendency to view me as fragile and they lean toward the overprotective side. It took several campus visits and a meeting with the Dean of Students at the University of South Florida to convince them to allow me to attend school out-of-state. They even insisted on meeting Jessica and her grandparents before we became roommates. Fortunately for me, they found it amusing and not a sign of sociopathic behavior.

  “You’re right, Jess. That’s why I have to head this off at the pass,” I reply, as I put my hair up in a scrunchie. “I think I know someone who can figure this out for me. There has to be some sort of explanation. I think somebody might be pretending to be me. Although, for the life of me I can’t figure out why. But this guy, Tristan, figures this stuff out for a living. Maybe he can come up with an answer.”

  The expression on Jessica’s face is hysterical as she inquires, “You’re going to pay somebody to figure this out?”

  Shrugging, I’m nod slightly as I reply, “Well, it’s not like I have the expertise to figure it out. Besides, I’ve got finals coming up. I don’t have time to deal with this and I need to keep my grades up to keep my scholarships. My classes this term are sucking out all the joy I ever had toward learning. I’ll be lucky if I don’t flunk all my classes.”

  Jessica’s mouth is still moving like a guppy out of water. “But how in the world are you going to pay for it?” she asks, confused. “If you ask your dad for money he’s going to know something’s up.”

  “Well, you know the pottery workshop I was hoping to go to?” I reply, regret tingeing my voice. “I guess there’s always next year.”

  “No way!” Jessica exclaims, “You’ve been saving for that for a year and a half. You even gave up lattes for it.”

  “I did,” I confirm wistfully, “but, this is more important to me. I don’t want to freak my parents out and I don’t want to leave Tampa even though I don’t really like accounting.”

  I HAVE TO FIGHT TO contain the stream of cuss words which threaten to come flying out of my mouth when the bell over the front door chimes. Normally, this is a good thing, but not when I’ve just spent the last three and a half hours chasing down code on a nasty computer virus that allows perverts to turn on people’s laptop cameras remotely. The sound caused a momentary lapse in my concentration and I missed the anomaly that I’ve been searching for.

  I try to take a few calming breaths before I turn around and face my potential customer. I plaster what I think is a semblance of a smile on my face and turn to confront her. “Welcome to Identity Bank. How can I help you?” I ask.

  When a customer comes into my shop, I usually play a little mental game with myself and try to guess what they might need. Although this beauty seems somewhat nervous, she doesn’t have the look of an abused girlfriend or spouse. She is stunningly gorgeous, but she doesn’t look high maintenance enough to be on the run from the IRS or anything underground. Quite frankly, she doesn’t really fit any of my stereotypical clients. It will be interesting to hear her story. I’m surprised when I hear her softly address me by name.

  “Tristan? Are you Tristan Macklin?”

  I nod curtly as I reply. “Yes, ma’am, and you are?” I hold out my hand.

  She grasps my hand and shakes it. I notice she’s not afraid to make eye contact and that she’s not much shorter than my six-foot one.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my name is Ivy Love Montclair. I go by Ivy. You were recommended by a fellow student,” she replies.

  “What’s her name? I can give her a referral discount,” I offer.

  “That’s really nice of you, but my friend gave the impression that he’d rather decline,” Ivy answers diplomatically.

  I chuckle at her careful answer. “I suspect your friend may have an issue with me.”

  Ivy grins at me as she concedes, “Yes, that’s entirely possible. It’s also not my business, so I just thanked him for his referral and moved on.”

  I really appreciate clients with a sense of discretion. Consequently, her willingness to move on without gossiping earns major points with me.

  “What can I help you with today?” I ask as I balance a yellow legal pad on my knee.

  For the first time since she walked into the shop, I notice real tension and stress in her demeanor.

  She starts to nervously fiddle with the cuffs of her sweatshirt as she haltingly explains, “Look, I’ve probably made a huge mistake in coming here. This likely isn’t even worth the time it’s going to take me to explain what’s going on. You’re probably going to think this is the most idiotic thing you’ve ever heard.”

  I hasten to assure her, “Ivy, one of the earliest lessons I learned in this business is to never underestimate the instincts of a woman. If they encounter something that makes the hair on the back of their neck stand up, it’s something worth looking into.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asks, looking for reassurance.

  I nod encouragingly. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me your story?” I prompt.

  “Okay, it started with this really stupid challenge from my roommate. She wanted me to get out of my boring rut, so she dared me to create a profile on BrainsRSexy.com. Apparently, several people who she knew from high school have met their ‘perfect soul mates’ on that site, so she thought it was worth our while to create profiles. It was going pretty well for a few days. I mean, I got a few really lewd pictures, but I guess that’s to be expected on this kind of site. I reported them to the site administrator and shrugged it off. I was corresponding with a few guys I thought sounded cool. But, I got feedback from a couple of them who claimed that I changed personalities on them during our live date. There’s just one problem: I never scheduled live dates with any of these guys. I’m in the middle of studying for exams and don’t really have time to go out right now. So far, two guys have come forward and said they talked to me when I know there is no possible way I could have been out on a date. This would all be funny except stuff on the internet lives forever. Not to mention I would never lie about that. If this is as serious as I think it might be, it could have severe negative career ramifications.”

  “You’re right, it does sound serious,” I confirm.

  “But what if I’m wrong and it’s nothing?” she asks, panic setting into her voice.

  “Or, what if you’re right and it turns into a big deal and you’re the voice of reason that stops this person before they could do irreparable damage to someone?” I suggest.

  I watch as Ivy wilts a little in front of me. She trembles for a few seconds before she pulls herself together and explains, “I don’t have a whole lot of money for a deposit, but I could make small monthly payments. Hopefully it won’t take you too long. I already have a first name for you and I might even be able to run down a last name. She supposedly even has a Florida driver’s license using the first name Rogue.”

  “I don’t want you to stress too much about the fee. I have a feeling this case may overlap with another case that I’m working on, so we’ll discuss the nitty-gritty of the fee later. For now, just give me twenty bucks so that I’m officially on the case,” I offer.

  Ivy rewards me with a misty-eyed grin. The expression changes her from stunning to beyond breathtaking.

  “Sure! I can definitely do that,” she digs through the small purse she has securely placed across her chest. From the way that she’s defensively carrying her purse, I wonder if she’s had self-defense training. When I see her remove a small bottle of mace from her purse so she can better reach her wallet, my suspicions are confirmed. She removes a $20 bill and hands it to me with a grateful smile.

  “So, do you have a physical desc
ription of this Rogue?” I ask as I pick up my pen and paper, ready to take a detailed physical description.

  Much to my surprise, my question elicits a snort and a smirk from Ivy. “Well, I haven’t seen her personally, but I’m told that she looks identical to me,” Ivy answers. Her eyes are so filled with mirth that I’m not exactly sure she’s not pulling my leg.

  “Seriously?” I ask, kicking myself for the question. Way to sound like a professional, Macklin.

  “Yes, I’m dead serious. The people who have seen both profile pictures thought that we were the same person. I’ve had a couple of long conversations with Mitch—he’s one of the guys looking for dates on the dating website. He went on my Facebook page to see if this Rogue woman was using my Facebook pictures for her profile page and he said that it was a different picture. I’m a little creeped out because I don’t know where the picture came from. I don’t know why anyone would even almost want to cat-fish my life. My life is so exceedingly tedious that I bore myself most days. Why would someone want to pretend to be me? It doesn’t make any sense,” her explanation trails off as she runs out of steam.

  “One thing I’ve learned is that the motives of criminals rarely ever make sense,” I respond. “You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to figure out how they think. You can’t apply logic to the illogical. But, before we decide that it’s criminal, we need to rule out that it isn’t just an honest mistake.”

  Ivy perks up a little. “It really could all just be a fluke, right?”

  “It’s unlikely, but there is an outside chance that there’s a simple, non-nefarious explanation for everything that’s going on,” I explain, trying to let her down as easy as possible without giving her false hope.

  “Can I have your login information to BrainsRSexy.com? I’m going to try to see what’s going on at a programming level to see if I can view both profiles. I’m also going to sign up as a 'client' to see if I’m matched up with one or the other of you or both of you.”

  “Sure, my sign-on is IDreamInColor and my password is TrustbutVerify911,” she replies.

  I smirk at her sense of humor. It’s too bad she’s a client.

  “Does anyone else use this login?” I inquire.

  She shakes her head, as she says, “No, only me. My dad is paranoid. He bought me a new laptop when I came to college and he made sure it had biometric security features on it to ensure that other people weren’t plagiarizing my work in the dorms. If he knew how poorly I’m doing in my accounting classes right now, he’d know that there’s no danger of anyone else working off of my papers.”

  “This might be a dumb question and none of my business, but if you don’t enjoy working as an accountant, why are you majoring in accounting?” I ask genuinely curious. It’s not about judgment; I’m just fascinated about how she got here.

  “Well, interestingly, that seems to be the $64,000 question this week. The short answer is, I don’t know. I guess it’s like being with a guy who doesn’t really care if you’re a good parent or a good wife. It’s easy to go through life on autopilot trying to make other people happy,” she replies with a small frown.

  “What about what makes you happy? Isn’t that the most important thing? Doesn’t every other decision you make in your life flow from that? If you’re not happy, you can’t have a happy relationship with anyone else. You can’t have an unhappy marriage and expect that your kids won’t pick up on your stress,” I comment.

  “You know, for a guy, you give pretty solid relationship advice,” she compliments.

  “I guess I don’t really see myself as a relationship guru, I just know what I lived through as a kid. My parents decided to stay together to keep up appearances. Unfortunately when there were not people around to show off for, they completely forgot to be nice to each other, and especially to the kids. Even when I was little, I understood the level of hate and vitriol in that household was not normal. But I was far too young to have the power to do anything to fix it. I swear if I ever get married, I’m never going to put my kids in that situation. If my marriage is ever on the rocks, I’m going to have the courage to do the right thing and not stick my kids in the middle,” I state emphatically.

  “I totally understand why you would feel that way. I would hope if I were in that situation, I hope I would be brave enough to do the right thing too. It sounds like you’re going to be an amazing dad someday. You’re right, I need to decide what I want to do for me instead of trying to make everyone else happy,” Ivy concedes.

  An alarm goes off on Ivy’s phone. She glances down at it and gasps as she looks at the time. “Oh Crap! I’ve got to go. I have a test in a few minutes,” she declares as she picks up her backpack and snaps the closure on her purse.

  I touch her on the shoulder as she’s headed out the door. She pauses for a moment as I say, “Ivy, don’t worry about this. I’ve got it covered. I’ll figure this out. It’s as good as done.”

  Ivy gives me a small tight smile as she says, “Yes, I know. We women have an intuitive sense about these things.”

  I scrub the sleep out of my eyes and try to rub the impressions of the keyboard from my cheek. If there is anything predictable about this case, it’s that nothing, I mean nothing, has followed the normal script. Just when I think that I’ve run down a lead and followed it to a conclusion, something else pops up.

  I’m going to meet Rogue Medea Cisneros Betancourt face-to-face and see if I can get a better feel of the threat level. If she is trying to cover her identity, she’s done a really crappy job of it. It’s all pretty much out there for the world to see. Ms. Betancourt has a habit of being chronically late with her rent, but somehow manages to not get evicted. She seems to patch her income together from several sources, including a scholarship.

  I watch her enter the coffee shop and tuck herself into an isolated booth. She removes a large textbook and yellow highlighter from her backpack. On the surface, she looks nearly identical to Ivy. But that’s where the similarity ends. This woman is much more self-aware and wary. Her eyes are watchful and openly suspicious as I approach her table with a steaming cup of coffee. “Would you like some coffee?” I ask as I hand her a cup. “I had the barista sign and date the lid around the rim so you would know that I didn’t tamper with your drink or anything.”

  “Oh, okay—” she responds looking confused.

  “Hi, I’m Tristan,” I continue, grabbing a table near hers.

  “Tristan, if you’re good enough to buy me coffee at o’dark thirty on a Sunday morning, you’ve earned a spot at my table. Not that I’m in a great mood for company—” Rogue says as she gestures for me to have a seat.

  I move my book bag over to her booth. “It’s okay, I don’t think anyone is here this early on a Sunday morning,” I reply with a grin.

  Rogue is taking great care to scrutinize me from head to toe. I force myself to relax and breathe normally.

  “How about you tell me why you’re really here, Tristan? I have homework to do; otherwise, I might enjoy a little game of cat and mouse. I’m just going to put it out there. I have serious doubts that you’re just some college student out bright and early on a Sunday morning trying to pick me up,” she challenges, her body language screams closed off, if not totally hostile.

  I can’t help but smile at her uncannily accurate reading of the situation. I nod my head in acknowledgment as I address her, “Please allow me to more formally introduce myself Ms. Betancourt, my name is Tristan Macklin. I run a security company called Identity Bank and your name has come up in connection with a case. I have some questions that will just take a few moments of your time, if you don’t mind.”

  I watch as her eyes widen with alarm. “Security Company? Is my mom okay?” she demands, her voice growing husky with emotion.

  Once again, this case is not following the typical script. That’s not even close to the reaction I expected to receive. “Yes ma’am, as far as I know, the case I’m working on has nothing to do with your mother. I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean to alarm you,” I explain.

  “Does this have to do with my so-called-father?” she asks pointedly. “Do you know he ditched my mom when he found out she was pregnant? He was even a no-show in the delivery room even though he promised to drive her and stay by her side.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have any information about him either. Although it would be tempting to try to find him just so your mom can get what she’s owed,” I comment.

  Rogue slashes her fingers through her hair and it settles around her shoulders in an intoxicating puddle of wild beauty. For a second, I am completely mesmerized. “I don’t understand. Why are you here?” Rogue whispers harshly.

  For the first time in a long while, I really don’t want to have to do my job. Usually, there are pretty clear-cut good guys and bad guys. In this case, none of that’s clear. In fact, I’m not even sure there are any bad guys at all. Well, with the exception of Rogue’s dad. But I owe Rogue at least some sort of explanation, and I owe Ivy a satisfactory resolution to this case. I won’t get that resolution unless I figure out what role Rogue plays in this drama. I have a theory that is growing increasingly likely with every second I interact with Rogue, but if it’s true, it’s going to rock the world of both women.

  I hear a snap in front of my face. “Tristan? Did you hear a word I said?” Rogue asks with a look of exasperation on her face.

  “I’m sorry, I was gathering my thoughts and I missed that,” I confess.

  Rogue’s shoulders slump in defeat as she hisses, “Oh God! You must have to tell me something really f-ed up. Do I need to have somebody here with me?”

  “What? No… well not unless you want to,” I stammer. Geez, I must’ve left my professional demeanor in my other pants pocket this morning. “I don’t necessarily have bad news for you. It’s just an extremely complicated situation I’m trying to puzzle out. I’m still not sure how it’s going to resolve itself. A lot of it depends on the information you provide,” I explain. I hate how disjointed I sound.