"John Dalmas - The Puppet Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dalmas John)

Tuuli shrugged. “I don’t know. If you’re interested in Ashkenazi, look way back. To when he was young.”
She paused. “Ashkenazi’s not his real name, his original name.”
“How do you know?” I assumed she’d read it somewhere. “What is his real name?”
“I don’t know. You should be able to find out. And it’s something you really should look into. And find out
about his twin. His twin brother. I’m pretty sure it’s a brother.”
I didn’t know how to take that—whether she’d read something, or if she was being psychic. “And you say I
can find something criminal about Pasco if I try?”
“I’m not sure. The feeling I get is a little confusing. It may be something he hasn’t done yet.”
“Huh! I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her. “But tomorrow I start checking on Ashkenazi.”
 3

An investigation contract with a public agency gets you direct access to the confidential State Data Center
through your computer. You call and enter your case ID. Their computer checks the ID and your face and
thumbprint against their records, then you insert the contract card so they know what it’s all about. After that you
tell them what you want, with a brief oral justification. If it sounds reasonable to them, and if everything checks
out, the information downloads into your computer for your temporary use.
As for “temporary use,” you’re supposed to erase stuff within three business days of contract termination.
Actually they give you a two-day grace period. The information is flagged in their computer when you get it, and
they check contractor computers from Sacramento, to be sure the stuff has been erased. Obviously it’s possible to
hold out on them; make hard copies for example. But if you’re caught, it can cost your license, as well as a fine
and possible criminal charges.
Joe’s grace period is less than Sacramento’s. On the morning of the third day, the company checks. Your first
violation brings a reprimand. The second time you’re fired, or if you’re lucky as hell, put on probation. That’s
part of the orientation pack you get when he hires you. Plus Joe tells you himself, with his bushy black Irish-
Cornish eyebrows drawn up in a knot to make sure you take him seriously. He fires your ass, and the reason will
be on your employment references.
So anyway, I called up all the information on Ashkenazi in the state’s files, with the exception of tax and
census data. Tax records are accessible only if your contract is with the California Franchise Tax Board. Census
data isn’t available under any contract, and I’m told if you even ask, the state investigates you.
I learned a lot about Ashkenazi: His current address, past addresses with dates . . . all kinds of stuff. But the
most interesting item was that Arthur Aaron Ashkenazi was an assumed name. Just like Tuuli said. He’d been
born Aldon Arthur Ashley, and had legally changed it in 1973, seven years before I was born. There was no hint
of why.
There was nothing there to focus an investigation on except the name change, and offhand that didn’t look
very promising. So I decided to interview him. I’d present myself as a freelance writer doing an article on spec
for the pop-science magazine Cutting Edge.
I had his unlisted number from the state, but using it might bring questions I wouldn’t care to answer, so I
dialed his answering service, which was listed. The woman who answered had a face like a bulldog. I decided
right away he didn’t want calls from strangers.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Ashkenazi, please.”
“What may I tell him the call is about?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Mr. Ashkenazi doesn’t accept confidential calls at this number.”
I’d only waste my time trying to cajole her. “Tell Mr. Ashkenazi I want to interview him. If I can’t, I’ll have
to interview his twin. Tell him that. If you cut me off, he’s going to be madder than hell at you.”
Her look almost melted my set. I wished I’d looked up his twin’s name, if he actually had a twin. I shouldn’t
have overlooked that. Using a name would have been more convincing. After glaring for a couple of seconds, she
put me on hold. A minute later, Ashkenazi’s face appeared on my screen. He looked mildly annoyed, nothing
worse.
“What’s this about?” he said.