Free Unidentified Woman #15 by David Housewright

Corolla?” I asked. I recited the license plate number. “It’s parked a couple blocks down with a clear view of the doors.”
    Smith and Jones glanced at each other. Disappointment etched their faces.
    “I told you we should have walked the perimeter,” Jones said.
    “Do you want us to run the plate?” Smith asked.
    “I got it.”
    “Are you sure?”
    I hesitated. They both seemed so earnest, so wanting to be involved. Well, it probably is boring being a security guard watching locked doors all day.
    “Do you have resources?” I asked.
    “Yes,” Smith assured me. “Oh, yes. We do.”
    “Run the plate, then. Don’t do anything foolish, though, okay?”
    I was concerned because not too long ago a woman sued the state for invasion of privacy after she discovered that nearly every law enforcement officer that she had ever encountered—over a hundred guys!—had pulled her record at one time or another for no better reason than to learn her name and marital status. Yes, she was that attractive. She was awarded a million-dollar settlement, and the Department of Public Safety had been clamping down ever since.
    “We’re on it,” Smith said.
    “Just a name and address for now, guys. If we need more, I’ll let you know.”
    Smith and Jones were both smiling when I caught the elevator.
    Spreading joy wherever you go, McKenzie, my inner voice said. What a guy.
    *   *   *
    The TV was on when I entered the condo; TCM was broadcasting a John Garfield film. I loved old movies and stopped to watch a few scenes. Fifteen was lying on the sofa facing the screen, sound asleep, the remote in her hand. Somehow she had managed to work it, amnesia or no. I slipped the remote from her hand, turned off the TV, and covered her with an afghan that I took from the back of a chair. I went to the PC and started compiling a list of names, one hundred in all, half alive, half dead—it was actually a lot harder than it sounds. While I typed them into a Word document, the landline rang. The sound of it woke Fifteen, who looked around as if unsure where she was or how she got there. Her head snapped toward me when I picked up the receiver and said, “McKenzie.”
    “Mr. McKenzie,” Smith said. “We ran the plate.”
    “Go ’head,” I said. I deliberately ignored his name for fear that Fifteen would know who I was talking to.
    “The owner is Doug Howard, age twenty-four. His permanent address is on Portland Avenue in Richfield, Minnesota. His driving record is clean. Not so much as a parking ticket. Is that helpful?”
    “Very much.”
    “Should we try to get a look at his criminal record?”
    “Not now,” I said. “Maybe later.”
    “Okay.”
    “Thanks for calling.”
    “Anytime.”
    I hung up the phone. Fifteen cocked her head as though she expected an explanation.
    “My insurance guy,” I said. “We’re still working out the details on my car.”
    Fifteen nodded as if she knew it all along.
    How did you become such a good liar? my inner voice asked.
    Practice, practice, practice, I told it.
    “So, how do you feel?” I asked.
    “Much better. Almost normal.”
    “Ahh, to be young again with all recuperative powers still intact.”
    “You’re not that old.”
    “It’s like a used car. It’s not the years, it’s the mileage that counts.”
    Fifteen didn’t say if she agreed or not.
    “Did you see your friend?” she asked.
    “I did.”
    “What did she say?”
    “She said pretty much what you told me she’d say. She’d still like to see you, though.”
    “Maybe later, okay?”
    “Okay. In the meantime, one thing Jillian told me is that your memory loss might not be complete. You remember the price of things.” I gestured at the HDTV above the fireplace. “You remember how to use a TV remote.”
    “Actually, it took me a while to figure that out.”
    “She gave me a simple test that might give us an idea of the extent of your memory loss if you’re up to taking it.”
    Fifteen lifted her hands