After about twenty minutes, a young policewoman showed up, accompanied by a soundtrack of radio squawks and static. She was short and plump, and walked with an awkward, duck-like gait, encumbered by the arsenal of objects suspended from her belt. She also looked absurdly young: this must be the shit work they assign to the rookies, Vera thought, going down to the Avis agency on a Tuesday morning to take a car-theft report. "Mornin, maam," chirped the recruit, as if on a social call. She plopped herself across from Vera, legs planted apart. "Morning," Vera replied, warily. She had hoped for a little more gravitas from the LAPD. And she hated to be called maam: it made her feel middle-aged-which, she supposed, she was. The secretary brought the cop a Diet Coke, which she popped gratefully, blotting the condensation from the can on her uniform sleeve. (Wheres my Coke, Vera thought peevishly, I who have been sitting here for half an hour, after an enervating, not to say traumatic, experience?) Then, with both elbows on the desk and half an ear on the constant unintelligible crackling of her radio, the policewoman got down to business, filling out her form. It soon became clear that Vera was not the injured party in this situation, not even a player. The issue was between the con artist and Avis, or, more precisely, Aviss insurance company. Vera, in legal terms, was not the victim. (Then why, she won- dered, do I feel like one?) She was not even the character in the detective story who, combing her memory for significant details, has to describe the event. The cop took her name and address- Vera de Sica, 211 East Second Street, New York-but didnt ask for a narrative of what had happened. Vera felt cheated, as she had been rehearsing this very narrative in her mind and was now on the fourth or fifth draft, a model, in her opinion, of clarity and economy. Nor did the young woman even ask for a description of the suspect, which Vera had also been rehearsing, and which she provided anyway, using the lingo of TV cop shows-Caucasian male, mid- to late thirties, five eight to five ten, average weight, belly, baldish, well spoken, short-sleeved white shirt, no obvious scars or tattoos. She couldnt remember the color of his eyes. This bothered her. But the cop wasnt writing any of it down anyway: there was no place on the form for description of perp. Although she felt robbed of her star-witness moment, Vera did establish, to her immense relief, that she wasnt liable for anything-that shed have to pay the rental fee, two days worth, nothing more. She didnt really understand this-she had, after all, personally handed the car over to a thief, thoughtfully leaving the keys in the ignition for him-but she wasnt going to complain. After the policewoman left, Vera gave her credit card to the secretary, who returned with a receipt and a paid-up copy of the rental agreement. Being cautious by nature, Vera asked for a written statement from Av Excerpted from User I. D. by Jenefer Shute All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.