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. “You do?”“Sure. Do you know they’re from Ireland?”“I didn’t!”“Dublin, I think. I’ve wanted to see them but no chance to yet.”“That’s cool.”“Though I can see why it didn’t go over well with the other lads.”“Yeah, you can say that again. I mean, it’s a different sound. And not the kind of stuff you play for a talent show, you know, with adults there and stuff. It would rip their heads off.”“Maybe one song would be okay,” Muireann said, grinning.“Yeah ... Well, whatever. I was out of my brain that. More

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