Woof and Stuff, aside from the horrendous name, was the top pet day care center in Miami. The type of place celebrities dropped off their pets when they went on their fifth honeymoon or had to shoot on location in some remote spot for a few months. The owner, George, knew me from way back. I had gotten him acquitted on a pot charge, when prosecutors were still filing those.

I gently placed the dog on the counter, rubbing behind his ears, as George came out from the back.

“Another dog?” he said.

“This little guy was just sitting on the sidewalk. No tags. Looks like he hasn’t eaten in a while.”

George began running his hands over the dog, checking for injuries. “What is it with you and dogs anyway? You spend more here than any other customer I have.”

“They’re innocent in a way we’re not. How long, do you think?”

“Well,” he said, checking the dog’s teeth, “he’s beat up pretty good. Probably been on the streets a long while, so we’ll need some time to get him healthy again, but he’s particularly cute, so I would guess we could get him adopted in about a month, maybe.”

I took out a stack of cash and put it on the counter. “Good family, Georgie.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. If I find out you’re giving these little guys away to some abusive pricks, you are not going to believe the legal hellfire I will rain down on this place.”

“What’dya think, I got into this business because I hate dogs? Good families, I know. I even do background checks just for you. They’re going to good homes. Don’t worry. By the way, how come you don’t got any? Someone loves these guys as much as you, I’d figure you got ten of ’em at home.”

I shook my head. “I prefer to be alone.”

I rubbed the dog’s ear a little more, then let George take him into the back for a bath and shots while I left.

The firm was a mess of phone calls, faxes—because some government agencies wouldn’t update the tech they used no matter how much money taxpayers dumped on them—and people shouting into phones. I tried to sneak into my office, but Tim Gordon met me in the hall.

A small man with a bald head so shiny it could burn your retinas under strong light, he ran up and hugged me.

“Dude, come on,” I said.

“Sorry, I know you don’t like to be touched, but that Green case was huge. Entertainment Tonight called and wants to interview you.”

“Pass.”

“Hey, come on, you can’t buy publicity like this.”

“I’m tired, Tim. You take it.”

His mouth fell comically open. “You . . . really?”

“It’s all you, buddy. Have fun.”