Dead Secret

Security number, and when they were arrested, instead of giving their own name and number, they gave your mother’s.”
    “But wouldn’t something come out in a trial? People would recognize her.” Diane was having a hard time wrapping her brain around this whole situation. Nothing made sense.
    “The real perp could have pled out—no trial, no witnesses called—then escaped,” said Frank. “She wouldn’t have to worry about being caught, because the outstanding warrant would be for your mother.”
    “But what about fingerprints?”
    “When they picked up your mother they wouldn’t necessarily have a reason to check her prints. She probably confirmed her name and Social Security number. So with the right name and Social Security number, maybe the approximate age and appearance, she goes back to prison.” Frank took another bite of pizza.
    “But the prison personnel would recognize that it wasn’t her—the guards would know, wouldn’t they?”
    “Depends on how long since the real perp escaped and the circumstances of the escape. They may never have seen her. What prison is she in?”
    Diane hated to say the word. “Tombsberg.”
    “Damn. That’s a bad place. It’s so overcrowded they may not have noticed the difference in appearance. The real perp may have picked your mother because she had a passing similarity and that was enough to fool the guards.”
    “This makes much more sense than what Alan came up with.”
    “Alan? Would that be the ex-husband Alan?”
    “That would be him,” said Diane.
    “You were married before?” said Star. “Really? Why did you divorce him?”
    “Not now, Star,” said Frank.
    “But—”
    “You said there are a couple of ways they could hold her without a trial,” said Diane.
    “Someone could have hacked into the Justice Department computer files and changed the name and Social Security number of someone already in the system, or could have made up a record and slipped it into the database, so when the police did a warrant check, there was your mother’s name.”
    “Who could do that—and how?” asked Diane. “Aren’t government files hackproof?”
    Frank smiled and took another bite of pizza. “Nothing’s hackproof for a determined hacker. However, the easiest way is to pay off someone on the inside who has legitimate access to the computer files. As to why . . .” Frank shrugged. “Aren’t your parents well-off; doesn’t your dad work in high finance—stockbroker or something? Perhaps the motive lies there.”
    “How do I get her out?”
    “Your parents are in Birmingham, right?”
    “Yes.”
    Frank stroked his chin a moment. “There’s this criminal lawyer—Daniel Reynolds. He’s expensive, but he earns his money. Get an appointment with him right away. He’ll make them look at the fingerprints. You find out which bank she was supposed to have robbed, the date, and if it was actually robbed. I’d go with you, but I can’t get any more time off. I can take you to the airport in the morning, though.”
    Diane laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. “Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate all this.”
    “It’s what I do.” He slid his arm from under her hand and grabbed hold of it. He looked around and saw the couch made up with bedsheets and a pillow. “Guess we had all better get some sleep. I’ll take the couch and you and Star can have the bed.”
    “No,” said Star. “I have dibs on the sofa. It’s not like I don’t know you two probably sleep together—occasionally. I can handle it. I’ll be in college this fall. What you think we’ll do when we go to Paris, all get separate rooms?”
    “So,” said Frank, “you are planning on making the grade.” He winked at Diane.
    “Of course. I can do it. I plan on being the best-dressed person in Rosewood. Now what’s this about an ex-husband?”

    Before Diane left for the airport, she and Frank stopped by the hospital to see Mike. The third-floor hallway wasn’t crowded. An orderly pushed a breakfast cart with squeaky wheels down the hall. A young girl with a pained expression on her face was walking down the hall looking at the floor, her IV in tow. Monitors beeped and chirped at the nurses’ station. Diane didn’t like hospitals, and she’d been in this one a lot in the past year.
    She and Frank met Neva coming out of a doorway labeled VENDING MACHINES carrying a soft drink and a can of juice. Her dark strawberry-blond hair, down from its usual casual twist, hung