As soon as he hopped off the roof, the Doberman started yipping and whining reproachfully, nipping at his heels all the way to the kitchen.

"Oh, shut up," Stranahan said. "She'll be back."

Mick Stranahan's sister was married to a lawyer named Kipper Garth, inept in all aspects of the profession except self-promotion. He had been one of the first personal-injury hustlers in Florida to advertise on television and billboards, attracting a stampede of impressionable clients whose cases he dealt out like pinochle cards to legitimate attorneys in exchange for a slice of the take. As even his rivals conceded, Kipper Garth helped to pioneer the preposterous notion that finding a good lawyer was as easy as dialing up a plumber in the Yellow Pages.

It pained Stranahan that his sister Katie had fallen for such a shyster, and that she'd stayed with him despite serial philanderings, scalding IRS audits and a ruinous gambling addiction. A cranial injury inflicted by a jealous husband had forced Kipper Garth into an early retirement, and in short order he'd burned up the family savings wagering on British cricket, a sport he never bothered to understand. In the face of bankruptcy he had reopened his practice, inspired by advanced pain medication and a fresh marketing angle. A new series of TV commercials featured him tooling around a law library in the same wheelchair to which he had been confined during his homebound rehabilitation. The aim was to present himself as both lawyer and victim, qualified by empathy (if not expertise) to specialize in disability litigation.

Always a trend hound, Kipper Garth had come across a newspaper article about a pair of lawyers who drove around South Florida scouting restaurants, shops and office buildings for wheelchair accessibility. If a place didn't have the required ramps or lifts, the lawyers would recruit a disabled person-often a friend or relative-to sue. Typically the case would settle before trial, the owners of the building eager to avoid headlines implying they were callous toward the handicapped. The scheme was perfectly suited to Kipper Garth's singular talent and soon he was back in tall cotton, overseeing half a dozen runners who scoured the tricounty area for wheelchair-ramp violations.

Throughout good times and bad, Mick Stranahan contrived to avoid his sister's husband, and timed his visits to Kate's house on days when Kipper Garth was gone. Kate was always happy to see Mick, though she maintained a long-standing ban against discussing Kipper's multiple character flaws. Theirs was one of those marriages that Stranahan couldn't hope to understand, but he had come to accept it as unbreakable. He saw no reason to inform Kate that he now required her husband's slithering assistance.

"Sorry, Mick," Kipper Garth told him. "No can do."

Stranahan was skeptically inspecting the wheelchair slanted in a corner of his brother-in-law's spacious bayfront office.

"I still need it on occasion," Kipper Garth said preemptively. "I get spells."

A putter was propped against one of the wheelchair's tires; three shiny new golf balls were lined up on the carpet.

Stranahan sat down in front of the desk. "Does the bar association know you can walk? Or is there no rule against impersonating a cripple on TV?"

Kipper Garth bristled. "It's what they call a 'dramatic re-creation.' "

"Try 'misrepresentation,' " said Stranahan, "with the stink of fraud. How about it, jocko? Are you going to help me, or do I make the phone call?"

"Katie would never forgive you."

"She did the last time."

Kipper Garth's neck turned crimson. Many years earlier, Stranahan had voluntarily testified against him in a grievance hearing that had unfolded poorly for the lawyer. Disbarment had seemed inevitable, until a cuckolded husband had beaned Kipper Garth with a jai alai ball, knocking him out of action and thereby sparing the Florida Bar a mountain of paperwork.

"Mick, this really isn't up my alley." Kipper Garth, smoothing his necktie and brushing invisible lint from his lapels. "Here"-he reached for his Filofax-"let me give you some names."

Stranahan leaned over and grabbed his wrist. "It's boilerplate, jocko. A first-year law student could do this blindfolded."

Kipper Garth pulled his arm away, though not too assertively. He knew enough of his brother-in-law's volcanic history to avoid physical confrontation. He also knew that the wheelchair caper was but one of many transgressions that Mick had learned about and, strategically, kept to himself.

Stranahan unfolded a yellow piece of lined paper and pushed it across the desk, saying, "That's everything you'll need."

The information seemed innocuous and straightforward. Kipper Garth was sure that his secretary could format a suitable document with the office software. "All right, Mick, I'll do this for you," he said, motioning toward the double doors. "Go ahead and bring her in."

"Who?" Stranahan said.

"The client."

"Oh, she's not here."

Kipper Garth looked puzzled. "Why not?"

"Because she's missing."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, she is and she isn't," Stranahan said.

"You mean, like, Amelia Earhart-type missing or escaped prisoner-type missing?" Kipper Garth was clutching to the hope that his brother-in-law was joking.

"It's complicated," said Stranahan.

"But I'll need a signature, obviously."

"Tell you what. Just leave that part blank."

Kipper Garth felt his gut tighten. "The signature is supposed to be witnessed."

"I was counting on the blind loyalty of your secretarial staff. Hey, I almost forgot-date it in early March, would you?"

"For next year?"

Stranahan said, "No, this year. Date it four weeks ago."

His brother-in-law's voice deflated to a plaintive rasp. "Mick, come on, I could get prosecuted for this."

"Aw, they wouldn't do that to a man in a wheelchair."

"I'm serious! The shit hits the fan, I'll deny everything."

"I would expect no less," Stranahan said.

Kipper Garth held up the yellow paper and shook it. "What the hell's this all about? What have you got yourself into?"

Mick Stranahan glanced impatiently at his wristwatch. "We're wasting precious time, jocko," he said. "Chop chop."

For the second day in a row, Charles Perrone called in sick to the water district. Ricca came over and brought him lunch-a ham sandwich, nacho chips and a lobster salad. What the neighbors might think of his voluptuous female visitor was no longer high on Chaz's list of concerns; he had more urgent problems.

"What's the matter?" Ricca asked.

"You name it."

"Wanna talk?"

"Nope."

He led her to the bedroom and undressed her. Twenty-five minutes later she rolled wearily off the mattress and re-fastened her bra. "I'm sorry, baby. I gotta get back to work."

Chaz Perrone flicked at himself, as slack as a noodle, under the sheets. "I can't fucking believe this."

"Hey, it happens to all guys. Like I said before." Ricca was in the bathroom, trying to sound as if she wasn't disappointed. She emerged brushing her hair with military briskness. "You'd tell me if there was someone else, wouldn't you, Chaz?"

"Jesus."

"I don't want to be the last to know."

He said, "Keep talking and I'll be shopping the Internet for an implant."

She picked up her handbag and kissed him on the nose. "You'll be okay, baby. You're just having a tough time moving on, that's all."

"Don't start. I'm begging you."

"After the memorial, you'll be good as new," Ricca said. "Once you say good-bye to Joey, it's back to your old studly self."

Chaz scowled. "I already said good-bye."

"I don't think you have. I think that's the problem."