Three hours later Sam demanded a refund for the “Spy” program. The manager cheerfully returned her money. It was almost as though Douglas Cosmo Rainford, III, did not exist. She tried a global search with no results. Now what? I was married to the man for God’s sake. I must have had a brain freeze for the entire six weeks I was with him. Either that, or I’m the stupidest woman walking the face of the earth.

Sam pushed the swivel chair away from the terminal as she contemplated her problem. She watched as the manager refilled her Starbucks cup. He grinned. “We use their coffee. Are you having a problem?”

Sam nodded. “I’m trying to find someone, and I’m not having any luck.”

“Bureau of Vital Statistics. Everyone is born somewhere. If you can’t find a person through the bureau, that should tell you the person might be using an alias. Motor Vehicles is another good source.”

Sam shook her head. “I already tried that.” The manager shrugged and walked away with his coffeepot.

Two students came in, paid for time, and logged on to terminals. No threat there, Sam decided. She continued to mull over her problem. Credit cards! Douglas had used a credit card to pay for their honeymoon. Maybe…She turned around, logged on again, and started to type. She was able to email the accounts receivable department at the hotel where she’d honeymooned. Her message to someone named Harrison Rollins was simple.

My credit card company has billed me twice for my stay.

Can you fax me a copy of the paid bill?

Sam turned to wave at the manager. “What’s your fax number?” He rattled it off, and Sam typed in the number. Where are you, you bastard? Ten minutes later the fax came through. The manager ripped it off the machine without bothering to look at it and handed it over along with a slip of paper showing her the charge amount for the use of the fax machine. She paid it willingly.

The name on the bill was Douglas C. Rainford, III. The address was that of the Prizzi law firm. “Shit!” Sam said under her breath. Another dead end.

Now she was getting mad. Damn mad.

Paper trails. Always follow the money. That had been one of the answers on one of the FBI tests at Quantico. Another answer to a multiple choice question had been C; ignore no possibility, no matter how remote or ridiculous it might appear.

Lawyers. Scum of the earth. Even Shakespeare agreed, saying, first, kill all the lawyers. Prizzi. The pompous little weasel. Lawyer-client confidentiality. No help there either.