“They always need trained medical personnel who don’t have a major addiction to electricity and running water,” said Becks sunnily. Kelly shot her an alarmed look before turning to me. She seemed to view me as the stable one in the room. I might have found that comic under better circumstances.

“I have a cover story,” she said. “A whole ID, even. Dr. Wynne paid to have it built for me. The files are on that card I gave you.”

“Who did he pay?” asked Dave, sounding suddenly wary. Alaric didn’t say anything; he just stiffened as both of them turned toward Kelly. They looked like they were waiting for something to explode.

Their reaction wasn’t surprising or as over the top as it might look. Dave and Alaric wound up taking over the bulk of the computer maintenance after Buffy died, at least until we could hire some permanent IT staff. They never approached Buffy’s level of competence—she was some kind of crazy computer virtuoso, and those don’t come around very often—but they’d learned a lot, and they hadn’t exactly started out as idiots. If anyone knew how easy it was to crack a cheap cover story, it was them.

“I don’t know who did the programming,” said Kelly, with increasing annoyance. “Dr. Wynne mentioned ‘the Brainpan’ once, but that was all. Everything was done through electronic transfer and encrypted messages. I never saw a face.”

Dave and Alaric exchanged glances, saying, almost in unison, “The Monkey.”

“It’s creepy when you two do that, so stop.” I raised a hand. “Somebody want to share the reason this makes us not panic?”

“The Monkey is possibly the single best identity counterfeiter in the country.” Dave shook his head. “If you want an ID that can stand up to anything, you find a guy who knows a guy who might be able to put you in touch with one of the Monkey’s girlfriends, provided you’re willing to pay a deposit on faith.”

“How much ‘anything’ are we talking here?” I asked.

“Scuttlebutt says one of the news anchors at NBC has three felony convictions and an ID by the Monkey,” said Alaric.

“First, never say ‘scuttlebutt’ again,” I said. “Second, good to know. All right, Kelly, you’ve got an ID. So who, exactly, are you supposed to be?”

“Mary Preston,” she promptly replied. “Dr. Wynne’s niece.”

“Right. Alaric, can you—”

“Already on it,” said Alaric, turning to one of the computer terminals that had yet to be torn down.

“Good. So ‘Mary,’ does this mean you have a paper trail?” I turned back to Kelly, who was starting to nod. “How much of a paper trail?”