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possible violation of the Village of Great Neck zoning code. Illegal deck expansion.”
    Jesus H! Strike two. Fairbanks looked at his watch. The conference call would begin in five minutes.
    â€œLet’s keep an eye out, Agent Russell. On everything. Especially that French family. Dismissed.”
    He was down to his final strike. He locked the door behind Agent Russell and made sure the aluminum blinds were shut tight. Then he returned to his desk, logged on to his computer. He typed in his primary password and his secondary password. And then scanned the home page. There, at the bottom right of the screen, was the icon hesought, that tiny computer monitor floating above the name NICK. He clicked and the screen flashed:
    YOU ARE ENTERING A RESTRICTED SITE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. PRESS ENTER FOR NICK. PRESS EXIT FOR HOME PAGE.
    Fairbanks poked at the Enter key.
    The screen flashed again then went dark. Several seconds later white letters scrolled against the black background.
    ENTER NICK AUTHORIZATION CODE
    He tapped at the keyboard.
    ENTER NICK PASSWORD
    He complied.
    RE-ENTER NICK PASSWORD
    He did.
    WHAT IS THE NAME OF YOUR DOG?
    He typed: HOOVER, J. EDGAR
    The monitor blinked. A dark blue background with the department logo and the screen heading appeared:
    NETWORK CENTRIC TOTAL INFORMATION COLLECTION, INTEGRATION, SYNTHESIS, ASSESSMENT, DISSEMINATION, & DEPLOYMENT.
    Then there was an entire paragraph of helpful legal information—the dozens of federal statutes that one was currently violating if they had no business on the site, followed by a list of potential consequences, up to and including the death penalty.
    â€œTYPE FIELD CODE” NICK asked Fairbanks.
    6-3-1.
    â€œC’mon, baby,” Fairbanks pleaded as he heard his computer gurgle. “Give me something. Anything. For once!”
    And then this:
    NICK HAS FOUND 0 THREAT PATTERN[S] IN YOUR JURISDICTION. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER. :(
    Strike three.

THE RECEPTIONIST
    MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 2004
    E ven as he crept through heavy rush-hour traffic, Morris Feldstein said to himself with a slight smile, “This will be a good day.” He tapped his steering wheel with his thumbs to punctuate the sentiment.
    Morris didn’t normally forecast whether or not his days would be good or bad. As they rarely fluctuated, he could tell you only two things with certitude. One was the score of the prior day’s Knicks, Giants, Islanders, Mets, or Yankees games. The other was that the day ahead would not be good, it would not be bad. It would just . . . be. Early in his marriage to Rona, he’d return home from a day of pitching pharmaceuticals to doctors, and she would ask, “So? How was your day?” Morris would stare at her expressionless, and respond with a languid “No runs, no hits, no errors.” After four years of no runs, no hits, no errors, she stopped asking.
    Today, however, was different.
    Today will be a good day , he thought.
    True, the Mets had lost to Saint Louis the day before. But Morris chalked that up to a pitching meltdown by Al Leiter in the third and fourth innings. Plus, it was Monday, which meant Rona was bringing in kosher deli for dinner. The morning offered slight relief from the recent heat. And he was on his way to a Celfex sales call at the office of Dr. Kirleski, where his favorite receptionist, Victoria D’Amico, worked.
    Victoria D’Amico always greeted Morris with an excited smile and a cheery, “Hello, Morris Feldstein!”
    And he was on his way to see her. With something special.
    This morning Morris had a gift for Victoria, tucked between three pens in his shirt pocket. He tapped his thumbs on the wheel again, to the overheated blaring on the car radio of The Angry Andy Morning Rant . Angry Andy was spewing about the Mets game in Saint Louis, with a chorus of grumbling ascent from Tony from Astoria, Woo from