Untraceable Page #2

MARSH (cont’d)

He stole all my financial data...all

my passwords...which I just happened

to have conveniently gathered in a

file called “Passwords.” I also

threw in a keystroke recorder, so I

can follow him. He’s run up a half-

million bucks in fraud in the past

three weeks.

GRIFFIN:

What’s he into?

MARSH:

High-end tech and low-end porn.

GRIFFIN:

Are you sure it’s a guy? If it’s a

woman, she could be my soulmate.

Ping! A sixteen-digit number appears on the screen.

MARSH:

My dummy Am Ex. Let’s hope he uses

it.

The screen changes to ebay.com.

MARSH (cont’d)

Huh. I’m surprised he has the

patience.

The screen changes to the item page of a CONSERVATIVE, GOLD,

SWISS WATCH.

MARSH (cont’d)

Okay, it’s a “Buy It Now” item.

Fine, buy it now, a**hole.

(ping!)

Thanks.

5.

Marsh starts working her keys at a furious pace, her hands a

blur. Even Griffin, who’s used to it, watches in wonder. He

glances over and sees other workers glancing out of their

cubicles, watching, as well.

.

MARSH (cont’d)

I’ve got his IP address. Now I’ll

get his physical one.

Phone directories appear. Marsh, typing with one hand and

not even looking at the screen, begins typing on her second

keyboard.

MARSH (cont’d)

There it is.

A profile pop up: SANDRA HOBBS, 221 BAYSHORE BOULEVARD,

TAMPA, FLORIDA 33611.

GRIFFIN:

So it is a woman.

MARSH:

Fifty-six years old.

GRIFFIN:

Damn, a year past my cut-off.

MARSH:

An ER nurse. Lived there her whole

life. No priors. And no history

of on-line purchases.

GRIFFIN:

It’s not her.

MARSH:

It’s gotta be a neighbor, coming in

through her wireless router.

Marsh’s hands are a blur again. On one of her monitors, we

see a SATELLITE VIEW OF TAMPA. The shot tightens and

tightens, moving closer to Earth. With her mouse, Marsh

circles a house, seen from a 100 feet above.

MARSH (cont’d)

Okay, Sandra Hobbs lives here.

Continuing to work both keyboards, Marsh looks back and forth

among the screens. She circles another house.

6.

MARSH (cont’d)

Sam Barrow, age 39. Computer

programmer for the school district.

Moved in six weeks ago. A renter.

GRIFFIN:

That’s your guy.

Griffin wheels his chair back to his station. Marsh types

quickly. A mostly-filled-in application for a search warrant

fills a screen. She types in Barrow’s name and address.

On the other monitor, she brings up a list of Assistant U.S.

Attorneys. She points and clicks. We hear a dial tone.

Ringing.

WOMAN (O.S.)

U.S. Attorney’s office. Sally

Stiles speaking.

Marsh slips on a headphone and mutes the speaker.

MARSH:

Sal, Jennifer Marsh. Great, you?

Oh, that’s wonderful. Listen, I need

the name of an Eleventh Circuit judge

I can bother. Yeah, right now.

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