It was four o’clock on the dot when Vinny Paloma was almost finished loading up the Post’s delivery truck with the morning edition of the paper. He’d been doing the same job for the past twenty-three years. Most times he liked what he did because he got to read the headlines before anyone else. Even though it was four o’clock, he had his route timed so well that he could take a good seven and a half minutes to scan the front page and sip the hot coffee he bought at the 7-Eleven around the corner. He loved routine, thrived on it.

Vinny settled himself in the cab of the truck the moment he loaded the last bundle of papers into the back. The first sip of the strong brew was always the best; almost like an aphrodisiac. He looked down at the paper in his hands, then reared back at what he was seeing in front of his very eyes. He didn’t need to read the article, the headline was enough for him. Today he was going to be three minutes late on his route.

He hauled out the laptop he always carried with him and kept on the passenger seat of his truck, powered it up, and sent an e-mail to Dominic Russo, his wife’s brother, who had been a victim of identity theft ten months ago. He knew his brother-in-law would send his e-mail to all 120 people in his address book, and those 120 people would send it to another 120 people, possibly more, possibly a little less, and on and on it would go around the country. Then he hit his own address book and knew for a fact he had close to 250 people listed—his bowling team, softball team, neighbors, relatives, the kids’ friends’ parents, the whole congregation at the church, and friends he’d met online.

Then, just for the pure hell of it, he went to eBay and sent an e-mail to a few sites where he’d bought items, asking the sellers to pass the word along that the Post was this close to bringing in the heads of the largest identity theft ring in the country.

He was about to close the laptop and get on with his workday when he thought about how he was forever sending e-mails to television shows. He checked a particular file and fired off e-mails to Joyce Hart, Joe Scarborough, Chris Matthews, Bill O’Reilly, and Nancy Grace. His wife, Ginny, loved Nancy Grace. Ginny always said if government had a dozen Nancy Graces in office, there would be no problems in the country. Come hell or high water, at eight o’clock every single night, his house went silent, and if a ball game was on, he had to go into the bedroom to watch it on their little twelve-inch screen while Ginny rooted for Nancy Grace and whatever cause she was pursuing.