He slammed down a folder."Prints?" I asked disingenuously."Fingerprints," he snapped.I looked down at my hands curiously. "I didn't know that could be...done," I said, deliberately misunderstanding. "Has plastic surgery become that advanced?"He glared at me. "The records, not your fingers," he said. "You changed them, didn't you?" How would I do that, sir?" I asked politely.He heaved a weary sigh. "Jack, it's just not good enough," he said. "I know it's you. Your wife admits who she is, how about. Olsen around. I do not know if she is a widow or a divorcee, she is not the kind of person that you ask questions of. We genuinely do not like each other. I think she is overbearing. She thinks that I am wild, spoiled, disrespectful. While she is my landlady, I cannot wait to get out of there, and she cannot wait to have me gone. But, she still is very much in my fantasies. This story, embellished somewhat, is what I told to Tom. He is very interested in this, and says that he is going to look. More

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