Jim woke up on Sunday lying on his side, with Dog tucked into his chest, and the television on mute in the background.

The on-the-side part and the soundless TV were standard operating procedure. Dog, however, was a nice addition: Warm, friendly, and he smelled like summer air for some reason. The only time it got a little disorientating was when Dog dreamed, his paws twitching, his jaw working, muffled growls or woofs coming every once in a while.

You had to wonder what he dreamed about. Clearly, there was running involved, given all that footwork, but hopefully it was because he was doing the chasing.

Jim arched his neck and checked out what was on the television. The local news was featuring that almost beautiful but very blond newscaster, who evidently covered weekend mornings. As she ran through her reports, images appeared to the left of her head and taped footage replaced her every now and again. School board vote. Pothole problem. At-risk youth program.

And then a familiar picture flashed: Vin's face.

Jim shot up, grabbed the remote, and hit the volume...and could not believe what he heard: Vin arrested for beating his girlfriend. Bail to be set shortly. Devina in the hospital for overnight observation.

"And in other news," the anchorwoman continued, "there has been a second brutal attack downtown. Robert Belthower, thirty-six, was found after midnight in an alley not far from where Friday night's two victims were shot. He is now at St. Francis Hospital in critical condition. No suspects have been identified yet in the crime, and Police Chief Sal Funuccio issued a statement urging caution..."

Jim stroked Dog's back. Holy shit...Vin diPietro was a lot of things, but a woman beater? Hard to believe that, given the way he'd gone after those two college kids for harassing Marie-Terese. And another guy found in an alley? Although maybe that wasn't related to the -  As if on cue, because this shit storm clearly needed another tornado in the mix, his cell phone went off.

Jim picked the thing up from the bedside table without looking where it was - a little trick he'd taught himself thanks to having worked in the pitch-black a lot. Amazing how sound made up for sight. "Good morning, sunshine," he said without looking to see who it was.

His old boss's voice was about as cheerful as he felt. "She doesn't exist."

Jim's hand tightened its hold, even though this was not a surprise. "You couldn't find anything?"

"Didn't say that. But your Marie-Terese Boudreau is an identity cooked up by a guy in Las Vegas. As far as I can tell, it was created about five years ago and first used by some lady who ended up in Venezuela. Then your girl bought the documents the year before last, traveled east and settled in Caldwell, New York. Address is One Eighty-nine Fern Avenue. Has a cell phone." The digits rolled off his boss's tongue and went right into Jim's razor-sharp memory. "On her income taxes, her W-twos are from a place called ZeroSum, and then at the end of last year, for about a month, the Iron Mask. Occupation listed as dancer in both places. Dependent is one."

"Who is she really?"

There was a pause. "Well, now, isn't that the question."

The satisfaction in that deep voice was not the kind of thing you ever wanted to hear: It meant your balls were in a vise grip and someone with a sadistic stretch a mile long had his hand on the crank.

Jim closed his eyes. "I'm not coming back. I told you when I left, I'm out."

"Come on, Zacharias, you know the drill. A toe tag is the only way you're truly done with us. The only reason I let you have a little vacation was because you were too close to the edge. But what do you know, you sound soooo much better now."

Jim fought the urge to punch his fist through the wall. "For once in your miserable, godforsaken life, can you do something without expecting anything back? Try it. Maybe you'll like it. You could start now."

"Sorry. Everything is a negotiation."

"Did your father beat the morality out of you? Or were you just born a shit?"

"You could ask him, but he's been dead for years. Poor guy got in the way of my bullet. Damn shame, really."

Jim bit his frickin' lip and clenched every muscle in his jaw and neck. "Please...I need to know about her. Just tell me. It's important."

Naturally, Matthias the fucker didn't fall for the mother-may-I shit. "The 'favor' I supposedly owe you only gets you so far. Then if you want more, you have to give me something to earn it. Up to you. And before you ask, the assignment I have in mind is right up your alley."

"I don't kill people anymore."

"Hmm."

"Matthias, I need to know who she is."

"I'm sure you do. And you know where to find me."

The line went dead, and for a moment, Jim seriously considered firing the phone across the room. The only thing that stopped him was Dog, who lifted his sleepy head and somehow managed to drain the urge right out of Jim's arm.

He dropped the phone on the bedspread.

As his mind raced and his temper seethed, he didn't know what the fuck to do with himself...so he just reached out to the animal and tried to pat down the fur that was sticking straight up between his ears.

"Get a load of this 'do, man. You look like Einstein when you wake up...you really do." Eye contact was everything when you were in jail.

Vin had learned this during his forays through the juvie system: Behind bars, how you met the stares of the guys you were in with was your Hello, My Name Is...and there were five main categories.

Junkies had unfocused peepers, usually because they couldn't control their optic nerves any better than they could their sweat glands, bowels, or nervous systems. As the prison equivalent of lawn sculpture, they tended to pick a place and stay there, and for the most part, they kept out of the drama because they didn't instigate and easy targets were a bore.

Dime-sizers, on the other hand, who were usually on their first trip through the penal system and more than a little freaked out, had stares like Ping-Pong balls, all willy-nilly, not-for-longs, their eyes bouncing around. This made them perfect candidates for ridicule and verbal harassment, but generally not fists - because they'd be the ones who'd yell for the guards at the drop of a hat.

Motherfuckers, in contrast, had seeker stares, always probing for weakness and ready to pounce. They were the ones who picked at everyone and loved playing the harasser, but they were not the dangerous ones. They instigated, but let the hotheads follow through - they were kids in the sandbox who broke toys and blamed it on others.

Hotheads had crazy eyes and loved to fight. All it took was the slimmest of openings and they were ready to go to town. 'Nuff said.

And finally, you had your bona fide sociopaths, the ones who didn't give a fuck and could kill you and eat your liver. Or not. Didn't matter either way. Their eyes drifted around, ocular sharks that swam in the middle distance of the room for the most part - until they ID'd a victim.

As Vin sat among a representative sample of the above, he was part of none of these groups, falling into a category that was fairly atypical: He stayed out of people's biz and expected others to extend the same courtesy. And if they didn't?

"Nice suit you got there."

With Vin's back against the concrete wall, and his eyes on the floor, he didn't have to glance up to know that out of the eleven other guys in the holding bin, he was the only one with a pair of lapels. Ah, yes, a motherfucker stepping up to the plate.

Vin deliberately shifted forward and put his elbows on his knees. Bringing his fist into his palm, he slowly swiveled his head toward the guy who'd spoken.

Wiry. Tattooed up the neck. Earrings. Hair cut so short that his skull showed. And as the SOB smiled like he was looking forward to a meal he intended to enjoy, he flashed a chipped front tooth.

Clearly he thought he had a dime-sized newbie by the tail.

Vin flashed his own teeth and one by one cracked the knuckles on his striking hand. "You like my threads, asshole?"

As the reply came back at him, Mr. Personality was instantly cured of his this-is-gonna-be-funsies. His brown eyes did a quick measure of the size of Vin's fist and then returned to the steady stare that was locked on him.

"I asked you," Vin said loud and slow, "do you like my threads, asshole."

While the guy considered his answer, Vin hoped the response was obnoxious, and something about that must have come through: As the rest of the men made like spectators at a tennis match, going back and forth, back and forth, the tension eased out of the motherfucker's shoulders.

"Yeah, it's real nice. Real nice suit. Yeah."

Vin stayed right where he was as the other guy settled back on the bench. And then one by one he met the stares of the peanut gallery...and one by one the men looked down at the floor. Only then did Vin relax a little.

As half of his brain stayed plugged into office politics, such as they were, the other part went bad to churning over how the hell he'd ended up where he was. Devina had lied through her teeth to the police, and so help him God, he was going to find out what the fuck had really happened. And "buddy"? What the hell was she talking about?

He thought back to the blue dress that had smelled like men's cologne. The idea that she'd been fucking around on him made him dangerously psychotic, so he forced his brain to consider the more important stuff. Like, oh, the fact that she had been beaten by someone other than him, but it was his cock and balls in the clink.

Christ, if only his security system at home had the same kind of monitoring shit his office did. Then he'd have a video of every room, twenty-four/seven.

The chiming of keys announced the arrival of a guard. "DiPietro, your lawyer is here."

Vin got up off the bench, and as the door slid open with a clang, he stepped out and put his hands behind his back, presenting himself to the guard for cuffing.

Which seemed to surprise the guy with the keys, but not the ones who'd just witnessed Vin be all ready to Rocky it with the motherfucker.

There was a click, click and then he and the badge walked down a hall to another bank of iron bars that had to be released by someone on the far side. After that they hung another right and a left and stopped in front of a door that was something out of a high school, the thing painted blech beige, its window marked with chicken wire embedded in the glass.

Inside the interrogation room, Mick Rhodes was leaning back against the far wall, his wingtips crossed, his double-breasted suit the kind that Mr. Personality would also have approved of.

Mick stayed quiet as the guard released the cuffs and ducked out of the room. After the door shut, the lawyer shook his head. "Never expected this one."

"That makes two of us."

"What the hell happened, Vin?" Mick then nodded up at a security camera, indicating that attorney-client privilege was probably more of a theory than an actuality here in the station house.

Vin sat down at the little table, taking one of the two chairs. "No fucking clue. I came home around midnight and the cops were in my place - which had been trashed. They told me Devina was in the hospital and she said I was the one who'd put her there. My alibi is airtight, though. I was at my office for the whole afternoon and into the evening. I can get them videos of me sitting at my desk for hours."

"I've seen the police report. She said she was attacked at ten o'clock." Shit. He'd assumed it had happened earlier.

"Right, we're going to talk about all that where-were-you stuff a little later," Mick murmured, as if he knew the answer to that one was complicated. "I've pulled some strings. Your bail's going to be set within the hour. It'll be a hundred thousand or so."

"If they give me my wallet, I can do that right now."

"Good. I'll take you home - "

"Only to get clothes." He never wanted to see the duplex again, much less stay there. "I'm going to a hotel."

"Don't blame you. And if you find you need some privacy from the media, you can stay with me in Greenwich."

"I just need to talk to Devina." He needed to find out not only who had busted her up, but who the hell she'd been sleeping with. He had a lot of friends...a man like him with money like his? He had friends all over the fucking place.

"Let's get you out of here first, okay? And then we'll talk about next steps."

"I didn't do it, Mick."

"Do you think I would be dressed up like this on Sunday morning if I thought otherwise? For God's sake, man, I could be cozied up with the Times right now."

"At least that's a priority I can respect."

And Mick was true to his word: Thanks to a quick hundred grand taken off his debit card, Vin was out of the police station and getting into his buddy's Mercedes by ten thirty a.m.

Getting released was hardly cause for celebration, though. As they went over to the Commodore, Vin's head was an utter mess, spinning out of control as he tried to find some kind of inner logic to the whole thing.

"Vin, buddy, you're going to listen to me because I'm not only your frat brother, so you can trust me, but I'm also your lawyer. Do not go to the hospital. Do not talk to Devina. If she calls or reaches out to you, do not interact with her." The Mercedes eased to a halt in front of the Commodore. "Do you have an alibi for where you were between ten and twelve last night?"

Staring out the windshield, Vin remembered exactly where he had been...and what he'd been doing. The decision was clear. "Not that I can give the police. No."

"But you were with someone?"

"Yes." Vin opened the door. "I won't be involving her - "

"Her?"

"You can reach me on my cell phone."

"Wait, who is this 'her'?"

"None of your business."

Mick braced his forearm on the steering wheel and leaned across the seat. "If you want to save your ass, you may have to reconsider that."

"I didn't hurt Devina. And I have no idea why she would want to frame me for this shit."

"You don't? She know about this 'her' of yours?"

Vin shook his head. "No, she doesn't. Call me."

"Don't go to that hospital, Vin. Promise me."

"Not where I'm headed next." He shut the door and strode over to the Commodore's entrance. "Trust me."