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.
"I've read and screened your address to the Astronomical Society, and some of the things written about you. I'm preparing an article for Cutting Edge, and I'd like to interview you."
"I don't give interviews."
"I appreciate that, Mr. Ashkenazi, and I respect your feelings on it. But I still plan to write the article. The direction it takes, and what I feature in it, depends on the information I have."
For a moment he just sat looking at me via our connection. "An interview," he said. Sounding resigned. "All right. Where are you calling from?"
"L.A."
He grunted. "This evening then. I'll give you thirty minutes, beginning at seven. Do you know how to find me?"
"You're at 4231 East Encino Road. I assume that rental cars in Santa Barbara have the Montecito grid in their computers."
"They may, but I'm three miles outside Montecito, in the Rhubarb Canyon development. I don't know if they've extended the grid this far out yet. If you have any trouble, call. I'll tell Mrs. Bowser to put you through to me. My place is fenced, with a remote control gate. The call box will get the house, and someone will let you in. That's this evening at seven."
"Thank you, Mr. Ashkenazi," I told him. Mrs. Bowser! I could hardly believe it.
Then I got Sacramento again. I needed to get all the available information on his family, something I should have already done.