DeWitt pulled the Toshiba into his lap, opened the clamshell screen and switched it on. It was time for him to assume a new identity, but which one? Where to go now? Kent Llewellyn was only a getaway alias, devised solely for the purpose of making quick escapes. Beyond the plane ticket and a single credit account, there was no extensive background for this disposable persona: He was a name and some conjured numbers, that was all. Now DeWitt had to assume another verifiable, flesh-and-blood alias.
The documents crèche of the menu had a file marked ADDRESSES . DeWitt moved the cursor to that column, tapped ENTER , then entered the password. There were three names in the new column: Dwight LaCosta, Phillip Carson, and Jeremy Schneider.
Creating new aliases had become a necessity for DeWitt, but it was also a kind of hobby: the complete invention of new men, identities which he could slip into at a momentâs notice. He had learned the knack in the rehab school in Ithaca where he had spent his wonder years, when he had participated with the other kids in fantasy role-playing games during their nightly recreation hour before lights-out. Dungeons and Dragons, James Bond, Traveler, GurpsâRP games had taught him how to concoct three-dimensional shadows of himself, complete with all the obligatory background, assets, and quirks. The lessons he had learned had been some of DeWittâs best-kept trade secrets; the well-meaning psychologists and social workers had not been able to ferret out that aspect of his profession.
DeWitt was a professional imposter; this was how he viewed his job description. As a pro, he knew the primary rules of real-life RP. A false identity must be completeâresearched and documentedâfor it to operate faultlessly. The new persona also must be intimately assumed, much as a chameleon instinctively takes on a new color to blend into its new environment. Taking on the wrong identity, and its attendant scam, could be perilous; DeWitt had learned that lesson when heâd attempted to use the Yale scam at Everett College. What worked beautifully in one place could spell disaster in another.
The three names on his screen presented a range of possibilities. Dwight LaCosta had the background for a Connecticut real estate agent: His social and academic records were on file with the appropriate state and federal agencies, and he even had a brokerâs license on record with the state board in Hartford. The sixteen-year-old kid in Groton whose life had ended in 2002 when he had wrapped his ancient LeBaron around a tree would never miss his fingerprints, birth record, or Social Security number; he had been reincarnated as a young, ambitious, once-divorced realtor.
It was temptingâbut, studying the file, DeWitt shook his head. He was running too hot in New England at the moment; news would be soon getting out about a fraud case at Geller Piperidge, and now was not the time to assume an identity that too closely resembled the late Mr. Jurgensonâs.
Phillip Carsonâs persona was also unsuitable, although for entirely different reasons: Carson was still an incomplete identity. He had the makings of a publishing entrepreneurâDeWitt had tinkered with the idea of assuming Carsonâs role in order to buy a small newspaper somewhere out Westâbut his background was still too sketchy. The birth records and Social Security number were there, but the academic record and past work experience had yet to be created and inserted into the national data matrix, where would-be investors could study Carsonâs past accomplishments. Which was too bad; DeWitt was looking forward to an excursion into the realm of publishing. But not now, alas â¦
The cab moved up the ramp onto the Fitzgerald Expressway, hurtling through traffic toward the Callahan Tunnel entrance. The driver was taking a roundabout way to the airport, adding an unnecessary mile or two to his meter, but DeWitt barely
The documents crèche of the menu had a file marked ADDRESSES . DeWitt moved the cursor to that column, tapped ENTER , then entered the password. There were three names in the new column: Dwight LaCosta, Phillip Carson, and Jeremy Schneider.
Creating new aliases had become a necessity for DeWitt, but it was also a kind of hobby: the complete invention of new men, identities which he could slip into at a momentâs notice. He had learned the knack in the rehab school in Ithaca where he had spent his wonder years, when he had participated with the other kids in fantasy role-playing games during their nightly recreation hour before lights-out. Dungeons and Dragons, James Bond, Traveler, GurpsâRP games had taught him how to concoct three-dimensional shadows of himself, complete with all the obligatory background, assets, and quirks. The lessons he had learned had been some of DeWittâs best-kept trade secrets; the well-meaning psychologists and social workers had not been able to ferret out that aspect of his profession.
DeWitt was a professional imposter; this was how he viewed his job description. As a pro, he knew the primary rules of real-life RP. A false identity must be completeâresearched and documentedâfor it to operate faultlessly. The new persona also must be intimately assumed, much as a chameleon instinctively takes on a new color to blend into its new environment. Taking on the wrong identity, and its attendant scam, could be perilous; DeWitt had learned that lesson when heâd attempted to use the Yale scam at Everett College. What worked beautifully in one place could spell disaster in another.
The three names on his screen presented a range of possibilities. Dwight LaCosta had the background for a Connecticut real estate agent: His social and academic records were on file with the appropriate state and federal agencies, and he even had a brokerâs license on record with the state board in Hartford. The sixteen-year-old kid in Groton whose life had ended in 2002 when he had wrapped his ancient LeBaron around a tree would never miss his fingerprints, birth record, or Social Security number; he had been reincarnated as a young, ambitious, once-divorced realtor.
It was temptingâbut, studying the file, DeWitt shook his head. He was running too hot in New England at the moment; news would be soon getting out about a fraud case at Geller Piperidge, and now was not the time to assume an identity that too closely resembled the late Mr. Jurgensonâs.
Phillip Carsonâs persona was also unsuitable, although for entirely different reasons: Carson was still an incomplete identity. He had the makings of a publishing entrepreneurâDeWitt had tinkered with the idea of assuming Carsonâs role in order to buy a small newspaper somewhere out Westâbut his background was still too sketchy. The birth records and Social Security number were there, but the academic record and past work experience had yet to be created and inserted into the national data matrix, where would-be investors could study Carsonâs past accomplishments. Which was too bad; DeWitt was looking forward to an excursion into the realm of publishing. But not now, alas â¦
The cab moved up the ramp onto the Fitzgerald Expressway, hurtling through traffic toward the Callahan Tunnel entrance. The driver was taking a roundabout way to the airport, adding an unnecessary mile or two to his meter, but DeWitt barely
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