“Why is that?” Hauck asked.
“I don’t know…Thibault’s company lists Simpston Mews, Limited, as one of the real estate transactions they have been a part of. It’s a big development along the Thames. Along with the Kai Shek Waterfront Project in Shanghai.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I asked our people who would know here. No one’s ever heard of Christiana or Trois Croix in this arena. Not to mention something else…”
Hauck flicked his pen. “What’s that?”
“Thibault also lists the AMV Bank in Belgium as a place he once worked. I contacted the head of personnel there. A man named Gruens. He confirmed that a Dieter Thibault did, in fact, hold a position there. Between the years of 1992 and1994. His title was key account-holder manager. Looked after VIP depositors, I assume. Very efficient, Gruen remembered. Well regarded. Good marks from his clients as well. In 1994, he moved on.”
“To Bank AGRO. In Amsterdam,” Hauck concluded, checking Thibault’s history.
“No. To manage some investment fund in Switzerland, as Gruen recalled,” the Brit corrected him. “It’s been almost fifteen years. The records are boxed away in some warehouse somewhere.”
“Switzerland? I don’t see that in Thibault’s background anywhere,” Hauck said, flipping through his papers.
“No,” Snell confirmed, “you won’t.” The Brit seemed to be hesitating, as if he was holding something back.
“Gruen asked me why I was interested in Thibault after all these years. Not to divulge anything, I said he had a cash bequeath set aside for him, that he’d been named in a will. Which seemed to generate no small surprise…”
“Why?”
“Because Herr Gruen, as it happens, seemed to recall that the Dieter Thibault who worked at their bank went missing while on a business trip to France and was never seen again. A year or two after he left.”
Hauck stopped writing. “That would be 1994 or ’95?” he said, surprised.
“He said that one of Thibault’s clients had read about it somewhere and passed it along to the bank. As I said, fifteen years ago. I went so far as to wire him a photo of your Thibault, from the Internet.”
“And?”
“And the Thibault who worked there was apparently short and already starting to go bald,” Snell said flatly.
“Oh,” Hauck grunted, his mind flashing to Merrill Simons, sinking back in his leather chair.
Thibault had falsified his past. More than that, he had taken over someone’s identity. A likely dead person’s. If that was false, everything about him could be false. Who did that—except a person with a great deal to hide? Hauck thought of Merrill. The awkward smile, the hopeful expression on her face when she talked about how she hoped things would turn out. I suppose you could say we’ve fallen in love.
“It would be of help if you could find me a set of fingerprints,” Snell said. “Or better yet, a sample of his DNA. Soon as you give me the go-ahead, we’ll track down just who this bugger really is.”
Wednesday and Saturday nights Hauck coached a team of twelve-and-under kids in a local youth hockey league. The dad of his second-line winger was the sponsor: the Trident-Allen Value Fund Bruins.
Hauck had played peewee and Catholic league hockey since his early days in town, when he was more of a football star. When he moved back, he’d played defenseman in an over-forty league until a bullet from the Grand Central bombing case (coupled with another to his abdomen) put an end to his playing days.
Now he took some joy in teaching the kids a few of the basic skills and how to come together as a team. Not to mention twice a week he got to lace up the skates—though a few of the kids could outrace him end-to-end without even busting, and he could barely spray up any ice these days.
Wednesdays, they practiced at the Dorothy Hamill rink in town. That night, he picked Jared up at Annie’s place. He had taught the boy how to skate and Jared liked being on the ice in makeshift pads and a helmet with a stick in his hands. Hauck thought it was good for him to be with the regular kids. And Annie agreed. There was always a shoot-around net set off in one of the corners and Jared would try to steer pucks into it, never quite able to lift them off the ice. Every once in a while he’d call out to Hauck in an elated voice. “Look, Ty, er, coach, I scored a goal!”
That night, practice was getting a little spirited. They were playing a team from Long Island that weekend that was supposed to be really strong and nothing seemed to be working. Jeremy Purdo, the goalie, was stopping everything that got to him, daring the offense to get one by. By the time Annie showed up after nine to take Jared back, tempers were flaring. He didn’t want to leave until the team did. Hauck said it was okay for her to let him stay.
The frustration on the offense grew. “Schuer, you’re supposed to be over here!” Tony Telco, the first-line center, shouted. Another kid yelled, slamming his stick, “Balzon, are you even awake, dude?”
Maybe Hauck let it go on a bit too long.
Near the end, a shot from the point came in and there was a scrum in front of the net. One of the attackers went down as the forwards tried to jam the puck in the net. Jared skated close by.
“Hey!” Hauck blew the whistle loudly, trying to settle everyone down.
For a second, no one stopped. A lot of pushing and shoving. The pile moved closer to Jared. Hauck grew a little worried. He skated in Jared’s direction and blew the whistle three times. “Alright, that’s enough, now!”
The players finally stopped and the puck squirted out of the pileup in front of the goal. With everyone standing around, Jared slowly wove his way in and pushed out his stick, lifting a neat chip shot past Purdo, the sprawled goalie, who shot out his stick to try to stop it as the puck went by.
“Goal!” Jared shouted, raising his stick into the air.
For a second everyone just stood around, Jared’s call echoing through the rink. Then the buzzer went off and the rest of the attacking squad shot their sticks up. “It’s in!”
Jared gleefully looked around. “Goal, coach! Goal!”
“It’s a goal!” Hauck confirmed, signaling with a point toward the ice that it was in.
The members of the power play all skated over, smirking at the goalie, patting Jared on the helmet. Even Purdo came up and tapped his stick against Jared’s pads. “Sweet one, dude!”
Jared made his way along the boards to where Annie was seated, bundled in a knit cap and muffler. “I scored a goal, Mom!”
“I saw! I saw! Yes, you did, babe.”
Hauck skated over. He affectionately patted
