Free Nantucket Five-Spot by Steven Axelrod

“With the Lasharis looking clean and the Wynand boy informing on his friends, Delavane is the best lead we’ve got. I want someone senior watching the house for the next few nights. Donnelly—rendezvous with officer Ray at five, debrief him and set up your position.”
    Donnelly squeezed his throat with his thumb and forefinger, pulling at the loose skin below his Adam’s apple. It looked like he was trying to massage the words out of his throat.
    â€œI, uh—I have a date tonight, sir.”
    Tornovitch clapped him on the shoulder. “Not anymore.”
    Donnelly gave me a pleading look, but I was in no position to help. I was sure his surveillance would come to nothing. Tornovitch reminded me of those UFO freaks, stalking the perimeter of Area 51 in Nevada, hoping for a close encounter. But all the Air Force has squirreled away in Area 51 are unmanned stealth aircraft and cruise missiles. And all we had were bored teenagers with free phone service and time on their hands.
    Or so I thought.

Ezekiel Beaumont: Ten Months Ago
    Zeke Beaumont watched the panda. All he could think was, you’re still in jail, my friend. You’re a lifer. A swarm of kids tumbled past his legs, shouting and laughing. The panda glanced up, chewing meditatively on his bamboo. He didn’t care.
    Zeke had been inside for ten years but he had spent every waking minute of that time thinking about freedom, making plans, and organizing the future.
    The brig shrink had always advised him to ‘forgive and forget.’ Zeke had nodded, but he was laughing inside. That was for saints and Alzheimer’s victims. Zeke was proud of his memory. He collected grievances and this one was special. This was the biggest one of all, and ten years didn’t mean anything next to that. Neither did thirty years, or forty. It was never too late to set things right.
    He strolled back to the hotel on the wide, sun-hammered streets, the tall palm trees lined up like an honor guard against the cloudless blue sky. Zeke was wearing shorts and sandals, a light cotton t-shirt. He could feel the warm air on his arms and legs. That was freedom, wearing shorts on a hot day.
    Later he sat in the air-conditioning watching the TV with the sound off, nursing a room-service Tom Collins, assessing his progress. Things went so much faster in the outside world. Scooter had been depositing his money in the downtown Bank of America branch, just as he promised. Well, Scooter had good reason to keep his word. Scooter had his own grievances.
    Zeke had checked into the hotel, bought himself a laptop, wiped the operating system and installed Linux so he could work comfortably.
    He needed to find someone rich, someone casual about the purchases he made online, someone with a job that kept him moving around the country, someone single, someone with no immediate family, someone who wouldn’t be missed.
    Because the only foolproof way to steal someone’s identity, the only way to really make sure it stayed stolen, was to kill them—unfortunate but true. One slip and the ATM machine would eat the card. Two minutes later the police would have you flat on the sidewalk with your hands cuffed.
    Zeke narrowed the candidates to ten, but after studying their employment histories, as well as all the public information on real-estate transfers, driving records, insurance claims, school transcripts, marriages and divorces, income tax returns, travel itineraries, phone logs and e-mails, most of them had some disqualifying detail—a steady girlfriend, a nosy boss, a pimped-out car, some odd habit. One of them always played squash with the same partner. Another one owned a falcon. Any pet was a disqualifier—a dog was bad enough. But a falcon? Well, it took all kinds. This guy’s bird had just saved his life, though he would never know it.
    Zeke crossed another name off the list.
    Fourteen hours later, when the work was done, Zeke Beaumont was