And though he'd known Joe since he was a kid straight out of Special Forces, the guy's intensity still managed to make Roger more than a little nervous.

Roger breathed a sigh of relief when Joe began to let his big body relax into the chair, his glare mellowing to a frown.

"So let's hear it, boss." Joe ran a hand through what was left of the heavy black hair that had been past his shoulders only days ago. "Who am I? What's my story?"

Roger reached for the dossier, flipped open the cover embossed with the Drug Enforcement Administration shield, and read aloud.

"You're Joseph William Mills.'"

Joe let out a sharp laugh. "Jesus tap-dancing Christ! Mills? Could you possibly have been a little less Wonder Bread?" He shook his head. "Go on."

Roger stifled a chuckle, agreeing that the name hardly fit Joe's, infamous Latin-lover looks. "We're going Middle America here, Joe."

"I'm all over it."

Roger laughed out loud at that "You're a mystery writer trying to get published. You live off your investments. You work at home. Keep to yourself. Divorced. No kids. Moved from the city to start over. A private kind of person."

Joe mumbled something probably crude and probably in Spanish, Italian, or Greek or some combination thereof. Roger raised an eyebrow.

"Go on," Joe said, crossing one long leg over a knee. "This is good. I can't wait to hear the rest."

Roger scanned the file. "Hayden Heights subdivision. Soccer moms and corporate dads. We've done background checks on everyone and the place is squeaky clean. The house is a nice, modern split-level with four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a patio, and a pool. And it's all compliments of the U.S. Marshals Service." Roger winked. "They owed me one "

"Plush. Give the marshal my regards. But why the hell do I need four bedrooms?"

"Well, for one thing, you'll be meeting with the supervisory agent in Cincinnati, a guy named Rich Baum. He could really use your expertise while you're in town."