She snatched the bag, taking it into the room to empty out onto the bed. She found many of the usual things a woman carried in such a bag-lipstick, compact, tampons, tissues-and something few other women carried. "Oh my God," she said, picking up the black leather wallet.
The wallet flopped open to reveal a gold badge and identification for one Special Agent Samantha Young, Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI; she was an FBI agent! At least that explained the gun. The photo on the badge looked old, ten years old at least when her face was smooth and her hair long and black.
In a billfold she found more conventional identification. A Texas driver's license confirmed her name as Samantha Young-no middle name-born on July 22, 1959. She lived in Dallas in an apartment 8203 on 19953 Juniper Drive. Other than height, weight, and her status as an organ donor the license couldn't tell her anything.
The billfold held three hundred dollars in cash as well as three credit cards registered to her, a library card, and a paper card for something called the Frequent Diner's Club at Freshly's Deli. That's it? she wondered. No pictures of loved ones or pets. No notes or messages. No postcards or love letters. Not even any business cards. What kind of life did she lead back in Dallas? She would have to find out.
Among the items in the handbag she found a pair of key rings, one she assumed for her apartment and car back home while the other had a Thrifty rental agency key chain. The key chain listed her rented car as a 1999 Dodge Stratus. She decided to continue her search for clues there.
Before leaving the room, she considered whether she should take the gun. For all she knew someone had been trying to kill her and knocked her unconscious. If that were true, why didn't she have any bruises or cuts or bullet wounds? "Don't get paranoid," she said. She closed the suitcase on the off chance a maid happened in while she searched the car.
She opened the door to her second-story room and climbed down a set of cement stairs to the parking lot. A sign nearby identified the motel as the Southern Comfort Inn. Somehow that seemed appropriate, though she didn't know why.
There were several cars in the parking lot, but only one Dodge Stratus. She unlocked the passenger's side of the car, where a denim jacket lay on the front seat. Feeling a sudden chill, she donned the jacket, noting how heavy the left side of the jacket felt. She patted the lining, finding a hidden pocket and inside this a pair of handcuffs and a switchblade knife. She snapped open the knife, a thin six-inch blade springing out.