South Sacramento is thirty miles southwest of Folsom, and a place reportedly housing large-scale counterfeiting operations, especially in the production of documents for illegals. While the major operations had been shut down, a cottage industry of ex-cons selling their talent continued to thrive. For the most part the local police left them alone, hoping to use them to land bigger fish. FBI agents had swept the seedier neighborhoods weeding out the list of counterfeiters supplied to them by the local authorities. Agent Burke took the short list; he arrived at the last address.
“Who’s there?” asked the voice from the other side of the intercom.
“A customer,” Burke replied.
From the peephole, the shop owner detected Burke was no ordinary customer. The precision-style haircut was a giveaway. He opened the creaky door. “What can I do for you Agent?”
Burke flashed a photo of Simon and the composite drawing derived from the used car dealer’s description. “Have you seen this man?”
“He doesn’t look familiar.”
Burke edged his way passed the door. “You know, you’re starting to look very familiar.”
“Come on man, I’m just trying to earn a living.” He pointed to the sign over the counter that read, Passport and ID Photos. “This is a legitimate business.”
“Look at them again.” Burke held the photo and drawing under the light fixture hanging from above to provide a better view, not that he conceived the lighting was the problem.
“Oh, yeah. He came in for a passport photo.”
“No, he came in for photos for passports and driver’s licenses. Does that jog your memory?”
“Okay, okay.” The forger described the various documents he prepared for Simon and each of the different disguises. “But he never looked like that guy in the photo you’re holding.”
“What else did he ask you to do?”
“Nothing—just to prepare the documents.”
Burke was an expert at reading body language. He persisted with his questioning. The forger was lying, but his expression changed ever so slightly. Finally, a breakthrough, he thought. He could feel it coming.
“On second thought, he might have asked for information,” the forger admitted as he rubbed his fingers together looking for payment.
Burke did not relent.
“As I recall, he wanted to know where he could get his car detailed. It was worth a C-note to him. It’s got to be worth something to you.”
“Hey genius, my payment will be my faulty memory when I meet up with your parole officer.” Burke handed him the pad of paper and pen that was lying on the counter. “Write down the address.”
The forger reluctantly obliged.
“If this doesn’t pan out, get ready for a homecoming back in your cell block.”
Burke opened the creaky door and left.