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to tell me where the money is.”
    “It’s under the bed,” I said helpfully.
    “Okay.” A match flame erupted from his corner of the room, which ruined what meager night vision I had been working on. He lit a cigarette. “How much do you have?”  
    Well this was just silly. I put the water down and threw on the light switch next to the bed.
    “Don’t really know,” I admitted, in regards to the money. I blinked my vision clear.
    My visitor was a man of medium height and medium build, who had long, curly black hair that ran down the back of his neck and a scruffy, unshaven face with a prominent chin and a pug nose. Not what I’d call handsome. He had on black jeans and a deep blue collared shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck, with black combat boots. A tweed sports jacket was draped over the chair and I was guessing he had a tie he was supposed to be wearing in the pocket of it. Oh, and he did have a gun, but it was in a shoulder holster. I’d been holding out hope that he was just an over-enthusiastic employee taking the presumptive suicide watch on me a bit too seriously, but he didn’t look like someone who worked for a hotel; he looked like an undercover cop from a seventies TV series.
    “Is that better?”  
    “A little,” I said, still squinting. “Can I have one of those?”
    “Sure.” He tossed me the pack and the book of matches.
    “Thanks.” I lit up. I’m not a big smoker. Not sure why, since cancer has never been an issue for me. I think it’s how it makes my lungs feel. Granted, the odds of my needing to employ my long-distance running skills in this day and age are pretty slim, but still. “How’d you get in here?”  
    “Let myself in,” he replied.
    “I gathered that. I’m . . .” I struggled for a minute to remember which name I should be giving him. I know I said I practice that sort of thing, but I’m not generally pressed to come up with it before a shower. “Jason. Jason Stargill.”
    “Mike Lycos.” He stepped across the room to offer his hand, which I took. Big hands, hairy knuckles. I could have probably done something about the gun once he strayed close enough to touch, but I held back. Might have been because he hadn’t actually threatened me yet.
    “So who do you work for, Mike?” I asked.
    “Oh, I didn’t say?” he remarked, feigning surprise. He pulled out a wallet from his pants and held up an identification card. “I’m FBI.”
    “Can I see that?” He handed it to me. It looked legit, but since it was only the second one I’d ever seen, I couldn’t be sure. The picture matched, except in the photo he was wearing a suit. I gave it back to him and returned to my water. “What does the FBI want with me?”
    “We’re not sure yet,” he admitted. He returned to the chair, reached down under it, and pulled out a file folder. “Let’s start with this.” He stepped over and handed it to me. “Does this person look familiar?”
    Inside was a collection of photographs, the very first of which was a woman I did indeed know. “She introduced herself as Ariadne . . . terrible photo,” I added, tapping my finger on it.
    “It’s from her ID badge. Her government badge.”
    “She works for you guys?”
    He didn’t answer. I continued through the photographs and found various action shots of her, including one taken when she leaned in to whisper in my ear. “You look good in profile,” he commented. “That’s definitely your best side there.”
    “So who were you following that night? Me or her?”
    I didn’t get an answer for that either. He took back the portfolio. “Her name is Ariadne Papos. Up until about six months ago she was a systems analyst for the Bureau.”
    “Was?”
    “She walked off the job.” He dropped his cigarette butt into the bowl I’d been drinking from not so long ago.
    “Uh-huh,” I said, rubbing my eyes and trying to figure out just where the hell this was going. “And systems analyst means what