© 2008 Josi S. Kilpack.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kilpack, Josi S.
Her good name / Josi S. Kilpack.
p.cm.
ISBN 978-1-59038-965-2 (paperbound)
1.Single mothers—Fiction.2.Identity theft—Fiction.I.Title.
PS3561.I412H47 2008
813'.54—dc22 2008015777
Printed in the United States of America
Worzalla Publishing Co., Stevens Point, WI
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my sisters—Jeni, Cindy, Lizz, and Crystal
Mom: “One day you guys will be best friends.”
Us: “Mom’s nuts!”
Fast forward twenty years:
“Wadayaknow, Mom was right!”
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Author Notes
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Thanks again to Willard Boyd Gardner, a talented author and retired police officer, who helped ensure my storyline rang true. I had several pre-submission readers, namely: Erin Klingler who helped with making Idaho Falls sound and look like Idaho Falls; Annette Lyon for going grammar-Nazi all over me; and Carole Thayne Warburton, Heather Moore, and Julie Wright for pointing out the multitude of overall plot and character issues that needed more attention. Thank you to my writing group partners: Ronda, Jody, Becki, Anne, Janet, Carole, and Jolynne. Getting feedback throughout the writing process is priceless.
Big thanks to LDStorymakers—my family of writers—and to Deseret Book: Jana Erickson for overseeing the entire process, Lisa Mangum for her editing and feedback, Tonya Facemyer for typesetting, Shauna Gibby for cover design and a whole team of folks for marketing and PR. With groups like this behind you, how can a girl go wrong?
Thanks to my fabulous sister, Cindy, and my mucho-coolness brother, Sam, who used their fluency in Spanish to keep me from sounding like the translation web site I thought would be good enough. They also gave me some insights into Latino culture, conversation, and personality that helped a great deal in fleshing out my Latino characters. I tried very hard to follow their advice, but if I fell short it is surely my own deficiency and nothing to do with them.
Thank you to the readers who take the time to share their thoughts; they help more than you know as I approach each new project. Thank you to my kids who are the cutest cheerleaders you’ve ever seen and to my wonderful husband who loves me despite the fact that I live in a world of my own making far too often. Above all, thank you to my Father in Heaven for the people in my life, the stories in my life, and the love that surrounds me every day.
Chapter 1
Idaho Falls, Idaho
Wednesday, February 20
“I need an ID.”
“General?” Tony asked the caller, reaching for his notebook. Freddie was a pretty basic client, buying general IDs every few months; nothing fancy. Tony didn’t know specifics but he assumed Freddie used the IDs for quick fixes, a few thousand on a couple cards, maybe clean out an existing account if he could get access fast enough. Two weeks and he’d be done with the name, discarding it along with the others and moving on to the next. It wasn’t a bad business model so long as you could keep from being discovered, which, thus far, Freddie had been able to do quite well.
“Custom.”
Tony smiled, glad to see Freddie was moving up in the world. He flipped open his notebook to a clean page and picked up a pen. Custom IDs were just that—customized to fit a specific purpose—a very different animal than the quick fix. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Female, thirties or forties, South American, good credit history, legal. I’ll need a full workup as soon as possible. With documents.”
Tony finished writing then reviewed the specifications. He let out a breath. For a buyer who had always been so low-key, this was a huge change in MO. “Dang, Freddie, this is tripped-out custom.” He wondered how he’d find that kind of ID in Idaho Falls—his current city of harvest. Bringing in ethnicity was unusual and meant his hunters would need to target a different demographic than they usually did. Quite frankly Tony wasn’t sure a custom ID like this would be worth his time. “How much?”
“Seven grand if I get it within ten days.”
Tony’s eyebrows went up. Seven thousand! Visions of Florida danced in his head. After four months of brutal winter he was ready for the beach. Seven thousand could make that happen.
Freddie kept talking. “You’re not the only trader I’ve talked to. The first one to get back to me with a verified ID gets th
e job.”
“Got it,” Tony said, eager to get off the phone and round up his contacts. He never found the initial ID himself and wouldn’t be able to do anything until he had that name.
“The sooner the better,” Freddie added.
“I’m on it,” Tony said before ending the call. Then he typed up a text message to send out to his taps. He’d have to hurry if he was going to beat out the other hunters. He proofed his message before hitting send.
Mexiwmn—30 2 40—solid—NOW
Chapter 2
Chrissy walked through the door of the café and paused long enough to scan the room and find the guy she’d been set up with. Amanda, her best friend since junior high, had said he’d be wearing a Boise State baseball cap. Sure enough, on the other side of the restaurant was a man sitting by himself, wearing a bright blue hat with a blazing orange Bronco’s logo. He was already watching her.
She put on a polite smile and made her way toward him, asking herself yet again why she’d let Amanda talk her into this. Oh yeah, Amanda had promised her a pedicure. Chrissy adored pedicures but could rarely afford the luxury. She looked away from him in an attempt to distract herself from what lay ahead. Gingham curtains contributed to the forgettable nature of the café, which seemed appropriate since she had no expectation of anything but a forgettable date—well, other than the hat maybe. She’d likely remember that.
She reached the table and slid onto the vinyl-covered bench, adjusting her long denim skirt so that it didn’t get bunched up underneath her. Skirts were her thing, as were high-heeled shoes of every variety. The skirts accentuated her curves without drawing attention to thighs that were on the thick side, and the heels helped disguise just how short she was—come spring they would also show off her calves, one of her best features. Chrissy was all about focusing on the positives.
“You should know up front that I haven’t been on a second date with the same guy in two years,” Chrissy said as she unwrapped the scarf from around her neck and shrugged out of the coat that was supposed to keep the freezing temperatures at bay. February in Idaho was certainly a force to be reckoned with.
Once sufficiently unwrapped, Chrissy crossed one leg over the other, folded her hands on the table, and finally made eye contact with her date for the evening. Nice eyes, she thought immediately. Bummer.
“Maybe that has something to do with your approach,” he countered, and she felt a thrill of anticipation rush through her at his challenging comeback. This might not be so bad after all.
She spread her hands as if to show her imaginary cards. “Well, I spent over a decade playing games and quite frankly, I’m tired of ’em. These days I figure it only makes sense to be completely open right off the bat, then we can both decide whether we’re up to this, or pack our bags and go home before it gets ugly.”
He looked at her and she had no choice but to hold his gaze as his eyes peered out from under the bill of his baseball cap. To go along with the hat, he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. Apparently he wasn’t much into dressing up to impress his dates. His blue eyes had little star patterns and he wasn’t bad looking—not like the last guy Amanda had said would be perfect for her. And he wouldn’t look away, forcing her to do the same and study him in the process. He had a round face, but a strong jaw and a small cleft in his chin. Her eyes started to burn, yet he still didn’t blink. Dang, he is good. She wondered if a bribe had been involved on his side as well. He was nothing like her last few dates, all of whom had exuded desperation.
“You’re quite self-defeating, ya know,” he said, a smile turning up one side of his mouth.
“Only in that I still meet men for blind dates.” She blinked. The other side of his mouth pulled his face into a smile. Shoot! He’d won the staring contest.
He finally dropped eye contact and leaned back against the bench, folding his arms over his chest as if cross-examining her. Nice arms too—and shoulders.
“So, no games, huh?” he asked, cocking his head to the side just a little.
She nodded sharply and straightened in her seat, trying not to squirm amid this new set of circumstances. She’d counted on an awkward, but free, meal where at the end he’d hurry to his car and she’d never have to see him again. What was this guy’s name? Matt? Michael? Melvin? She should have written it down when Amanda called her. In her own defense, however, she didn’t think she’d need that kind of information.
“I can ask you anything and you’ll tell me the truth?”
Chrissy nodded again. “I have nothing to hide.”
“How much do you weigh?”
She was speechless. He didn’t bat an eye, still staring her down as his smile slowly grew. Three seconds ticked by as she argued with herself. Completely inappropriate and rude. What kind of guy asks about a woman’s weight? And yet, why not? She agreed that he could ask anything. “One hundred thirty-three pounds as of last month. But I think I’m down a little this week, since I usually lose a couple around the time I’m ovulating.”
His face jolted the tiniest amount. She couldn’t hide a smirk of her own as she gave herself two points—one for being so quick on her reply, and another for having upped the ante.
“Divorced?” he asked a second later.
An adolescent waiter with a bad complexion interrupted them with water and a basket of rolls. He pulled out his notepad and asked for their order. Neither of them had looked at the menu, but Chrissy suspected that he, like her, had eaten at places like this enough to know what was on the menu without having to look—burgers, a pot roast dinner, chicken cooked four ways, and a pasty white sauce used as the base for everything from gravy to Alfredo.
“Double cheeseburger—no onions—french fries and a root beer,” he said.
“Me too,” she said. “But extra onions, steamed veggies instead of fries, and lemon for my water.” He held her eyes again as the waiter left. What was with the watching? she wondered. And shouldn’t it bother her?
“Divorced?” he asked again.
She shook her head and reached into her purse, pulling out a stat sheet she’d typed up last year just for fun and kept on hand for moments like this. Amanda would be furious. She handed him the paper before using her fork to fish out all the ice from her water glass. Ice cubes tinkled as they piled up on her bread plate.
He glanced up from the paper to see what she was doing.
“I have very sensitive teeth,” she said as if he’d asked for an explanation. “Ice tends to really tick them off.” Had the waiter asked about drinks before bringing them out she’d have specified.
“Right,” he said, looking at the paper again. “You made a list?”
She shrugged and grabbed a roll. “Like I said, no games. You want to know, you’ve got it.” She stole a glance at the cheap plastic clock on the wall above the sign that said Restrooms. She was supposed to pick up Rosa at eight—an hour from now—which made time of the essence. Her niece was at her very first Young Women’s activity, and Chrissy’s stomach was in knots over it. She hoped and prayed and begged that Rosa would like it now that her mom, Chrissy’s sister, had given permission for her to go.
He began reading the stat sheet out loud. “Chres-y-aid—”
“Chressaidia—Cress-aid-ee-uh—but you can call me Chrissy.”
He nodded and kept reading. “Chressaidia Josefina—”
“The J is an H sound in Spanish.”
“Josefina,” he said again, emphasizing the H. “ . . . Salazar, thirty-five, Mexican-American, never married, no kids, convert at sixteen but not baptized until eighteen.” He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows.
“My parents wouldn’t give permission.”
“Oh,” he said, turning back to the paper in his hand. “Five-foot-one without size seven shoes on. Owns a home. You help take care of your niece and nephews who live a few houses down the street from you. Work as office manager at Almo Insurance company.” He looked up at her.
“And I have to pick up my
niece by eight,” she added, smearing butter across the jagged edge of the torn roll. “Your turn,” she said, looking at him and taking a bite.
“My turn to pick up your niece?”
She pushed the bite of roll into one side of her mouth and smiled at his purposeful misinterpretation. “No, your turn to give me your statistical rundown. How else am I to know what I’m dealing with?” She glanced again at the clock on the wall. “I’ve only got forty-eight minutes.”
He put the paper down and for the first time didn’t meet her eye as he spoke, which she found interesting. “Divorced, three kids, forty-one years old . . . Caucasian.”
His discomfort was proof that she was still earning points, though she wasn’t sure what the prize was. The part about three kids definitely caught her attention, but she continued forward. “Height, shoe size, living arrangements?”
He sat forward and picked up a roll—stalling, she figured. She inspected him a little closer. He was very white and likely one of those men who should shave twice a day, as he already had a reddish beard dusting his chin. Judging by his muted-red eyebrows, she assumed his hair, hidden under the baseball cap, would be the same color. She looked at his arms again, the way the muscles pushed against the sleeves of his T-shirt when he was only buttering a roll. Brazos muy agradables—Very nice arms. He either worked out or was employed in a labor-intensive job. He looked up at her, and she went back to her own roll in hopes that he wouldn’t realize she’d been checking him out so thoroughly.