He didn’t settle down for the long night until he was certain the women were inside and the lights went out. Only then did he sigh with relief. He pulled out his Blackberry and typed in a message. I’m on top of it. Stay tuned.

Poke was an expert at sleeping with one eye open. He was an expert at so many things that sometimes he surprised himself. A sound he hadn’t heard in years jerked him upright. He looked down at the glowing numerals on his watch. Five o’clock. The sound he heard was a milkman banging his metal crates. This was a new one on him. He thought everybody bought their milk in supermarkets or Quick Checks, which just proved that in his line of business you learned something new every day.

This was the part of his job he hated. Waking up, having to go to the bathroom, wrinkled clothes, a scummy mouth, and stubble on his face. He turned on the car engine and headed for the nearest Mobil station, a few blocks away. He felt certain nothing was going to happen while he was gone. It wasn’t even light out yet.

Poke Donovan looked like an overripe pumpkin, round body, skinny neck, and narrow head. He also had a photographic memory and a mind like a steel trap. He wore glasses he didn’t need. He thought the glasses made him look benevolent, but in reality they made him look even scarier than he did without them.

Poke longed for a shower. It was how he liked to start his day. Steaming hot, then freezing cold, followed by a cup of freshly ground coffee. Not one cup but three. It was his morning ritual. Except on occasions such as this one.

Ten minutes to revitalize himself, and he was back at Sam Rainford’s condo. It was just starting to get light out. The milkman was gone. At the end of the cul-de-sac, a man in a jogging suit ran with a golden retriever. The streetlights were still on, casting everything in gray-and-lavender shadows. Poke got out of the car, reached in for his briefcase, then locked the door. The man with the dog was watching him. Maybe they had a Neighborhood Watch or something. He waved airily as he made his way toward Sam’s condo. He had a lockpick in his hand, but with the neighbor watching him, he was wary of using it. He pretended to ring the bell as his chubby fingers worked the pick. Two seconds later the lock clicked, and he was inside.