I turned on the computer. While it powered up, I raced around the condo, Sam’s orange mug in my hand as a pathetic excuse for a weapon, trying to determine if anything else had been touched. Nothing appeared to have been moved or taken. I went to the closet in the master bedroom and found the clothes of Sam’s that I’d shoved out of the way that morning. They looked the same.

Sam, I thought, were you here?

But if he had been here, why come in and leave again? Was there something here, in the place we spent much of our time that he’d needed? If all he wanted to do was use the computer, surely he could have done that anywhere. Unless there was something saved on this computer that he needed.

I hurried back to the office. The computer was on now, and I opened the browser Sam preferred. I clicked to see what sites had been recently viewed. ChicagoLions.com, ESPN.com, Netflix, Amazon, GoToMyPC and a few others. These were the sites that Sam regularly accessed. Nothing new.

Time to check his e-mail again.

I opened GoToMyPC, but the same message popped up-Invalid e-mail address or password.

I got onto his Yahoo! account. New messages that had accumulated over the course of the day-e-mails about rugby, junk e-mails from the flower shop on Wells where he often shopped for me, a few messages from a group of college friends trying to get together, one from a cousin in San Jose.

I read each of the e-mails closely, trying to discern hidden meaning beneath the mundane text. Until I suddenly remembered that someone had been in my apartment and on my computer, it appeared. I opened the browser I usually used. But that only showed the Web sites I viewed often-JPMorgan, AOL, OpenTable.com, PickettEnterprises.

I stopped and looked back at the first one-Morgan Stanley, my bank’s Web site. I paid my bills online, but I hadn’t done so for two weeks. The bank’s site shouldn’t have been the last one viewed. My pulse picked up once again.

I logged on to the bank’s site, then clicked on Login History.

“Oh my God,” I said aloud, sitting back.

According to the history, my account had been logged in to a half hour before.

I paced my apartment, clutching my cell phone.

I called Mayburn, who answered on the second ring. “Someone was in my house.” I told him the whole story-how the dead bolt wasn’t locked, how the place felt recently inhabited, how the computer had been warm. I told him Sam knew my passwords and that my bank’s computer had been logged in to an hour before.

“Any funds missing?” Mayburn asked.

“No.”

“Any transfers?”

“No, nothing. Why would Sam log in and then just leave?”

“Assuming you’re right about someone breaking in.”

“Are you saying I don’t know when someone has been in my house and on my computer?” My voice raised in irritation. “Look, I know I’m supposed to be your protégé or something, but now you need to return the favor. Now you have to help me. Trust me on this one.”

Silence.

“What?” I said.

“You’re being a pain in the ass,” he said calmly.

I stopped pacing. “No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are, but you’re entitled.”

I groaned, ignored the slam and told Mayburn about the guy outside Twin Anchors and about the gray Honda I’d seen twice. I gave him the plate number.

I heard clicking from his end, the sounds of a keyboard. “I’ll see what I can find about the plate number,” he said. “Meanwhile, if someone was in your place, and someone was on your bank’s site, why are you so sure it was Sam?”

“Because he knows my passwords.”

“He knows your login name and your password?”

“Yes.” I started pacing my apartment again. It had seemed so spacious when I’d bought it. Now it felt constricting.

“Do you change the passwords often?” Mayburn asked.

“No. I know you’re supposed to, but I never get around to it.”

“And do you use the same password for the bank that you do for other sites?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty easy to get them, especially if they’re on your computer.”

“Great,” I muttered.

“Do you keep valuables in the house?”

“I have a small safe where I store some of my good jewelry and some savings bonds.”

“That still there?”

I went to the hall closet and peered past the pile of sheets and towels to the small safe. “It’s here.”

“Open it and check.”

I got the key and complied. “Everything is there.”

“Then I doubt Sam was in your apartment.”

“Why do you say that?” Disappointment flooded in. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted Sam to have been there. Even if he’d taken off again, I would know he was okay.

“Well, if Sam was going to come back into the apartment and take off before you got there,” Mayburn said, “one of the reasons might be that he was looking for something he left behind or something he needed, right?”

“I guess.”

I heard him typing on his keyboard again. “And none of his stuff was taken, right?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Okay, let’s think about another reason. If he was coming back to get some quick cash-maybe the jewelry to pawn or the savings bonds to cash-he knew where to get that stuff, right?”

“Yes.”

“And if it was he who got onto your computer and got onto your bank’s Web site, then he would have had some purpose in doing that. He would have made a wire transfer or done something to get himself some cash but, as far as you can tell, someone was just looking at your bank records. No action was taken.”

“Right, but what about the dead bolt? He always leaves it undone.”

“Someone probably bumped your lock.”

“Bumped? Is that like picking?”

“Sort of.”

“I had expensive locks installed when I moved in here.”

“Expensive ones are easier to bump, actually. They’re smoother.”

I walked to the door and peered at the dead bolt. “Wouldn’t there be damage to the lock?”

“Not if the guy was good.”

“What about the lock downstairs?”

More clicking sounds from his keyboard. “Is the downstairs one a dead bolt, too?” he said, his voice a bit distracted.

“Yes.”

“And does it lock again automatically when you close it?”

“Yes. And there’s also a back stairway that you can’t access from outside. It locks from behind as well. No dead bolt or anything.”

“Well, they could bump the front door in two seconds.”

“So you think it was the FBI?”

Mayburn exhaled a long audible sound. The sounds from his keyboard stopped. “Well, it was the feds following you today in the gray Honda.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s a government plate.”

“Then maybe the feds were following me tonight and got in the house, too?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it.”

I finally stopped pacing and sank into the chair in front of the fireplace.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I think you’ve got somebody altogether different tailing you.”