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have.”
    “How come?”
    He sighs, as if he can’t believe he’s been saddled with this fitness novice. “Because it’s the closest to everyday life. I walk in life, so I walk on the treadmill.”
    I nod. “If the trick is to imitate life, how come you don’t go to the jelly-donut-eating machine?”
    He begins a snarl, but it turns into a laugh. “Believe me, if they had one, I would.”
    We get to the treadmill, where I soon find that preparation is the key. Vince prepares by attaching his stereo headphones to outlets allowing him to hear sound from the large-screen TVs. Then he adjusts those headphones so they won’t fall off his head should he ever decide to actually exercise. Then he adjusts the treadmill to the proper speed and elevation, which can best be described as slow and none. Then he hangs his towel neatly on the side bar, in case he should happen to sweat, which I don’t think is a serious possibility.
    I start my machine at a quicker pace with higher elevation, not too strenuous but enough to be of some possible value. Five minutes later Vince gets off, explaining that “this aerobic shit is good, but you don’t want to overdo it.” Ever the accommodating guest, I follow him into the locker room, where we take a whirlpool bath, in order to soothe our exhausted muscles.
    While Vince may not qualify as a gym rat, he’s as good a newspaperman as there is. His most valuable asset is his amazing knowledge about what is going on in the communities he covers. When it comes to northern New Jersey, he knows what is happening, who is causing it to happen, and whom it’s happening to.
    “Do you know a guy named Geoffrey Stynes?” I ask.
    Nothing registers on his face. “Nope,” he says. “Who is he?”
    I shrug. “Just a guy.”
    “Oh, just a guy? You sure? I figured he was just a fish, or just a tennis racket. You asked about him, now who the hell is he?”
    I’m sorry I brought it up; but my curiosity got the better of me. “It’s privileged,” I say.
    Vince is incredulous. “He’s your client? He’s your client and you’re asking me who he is?”
    “Forget I asked.”
    He nods and goes back to enjoying the water churning around his blubbery body. After a few minutes of silence, he asks, “You want me to check him out?”
    “I do.”
    “What’s in it for me?” he asks.
    “I promise not to tell anyone that I get more exercise using the TV remote control than you get in your entire workout.”
    He thinks for a moment. “Deal,” he says.
    We head back to the locker room to shower and change. According to the mirrors, I haven’t lost any weight as a result of the workout, even though I’m sure I burned off at least eight or nine calories.
    The locker room is as fancy as the rest of the place, and there are three or four televisions positioned so they can be viewed from anywhere. They are tuned to a local news show, and as I walk by one, I hear Alex Dorsey’s name mentioned.
    I look up and see a newscaster sitting at a desk and speaking. Behind him is a photograph of a man, and the type legend below his face is, “Arrested in Dorsey Murder.”
    I don’t know who the man is, but he sure as hell is not Geoffrey Stynes.

LAURIE IS WAITING FOR ME WHEN I ARRIVE AT the office. It is no surprise that she is fully briefed on the media’s version of the arrest; when it comes to Alex Dorsey, she is command central.
    The arrested man’s name is Oscar Garcia, a twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican immigrant living in Passaic. He is described as a handyman by trade and is said to have a few drug arrests, though no convictions, in his apparently less-than-illustrious biography.
    While Laurie’s awareness of the news was to be expected, her take on it is not. “There’s no way Garcia did it, Andy,” she says. “I know this guy.”
    “You do?”
    She nods. “He’s a small-time dealer who hangs out in Pennington Park introducing kids to the glories of cocaine. I busted him once.”
    “The