Follow the money.

Not that the trail was easy. Tracing the t.i.tle of the lab where Wittmer picked up the serum required a little more than a field trip to public records at city hall.

Whoever owned it didn't want anyone to know. Check that ... they really didn't want anyone to know. The tangled web of trusts and LLCs was chock-full of misdirection and red herrings, not to mention the kind of firewalls designed to keep the most serious hackers on the sidelines.

Of course, there's serious ... and then there's Owen. After a while, I simply stopped asking "How did you do that?"

From Georgetown to Delaware to the Channel Islands to a different bank in the Channel Islands and then back to Delaware, the money moved like a carousel, around and around.

But one thing stayed the same. Brennan's law firm.

What was more, Brennan had personally drafted all the LLC agreements, including all filings with the state, the most boilerplate of legal doc.u.ments. That was like hiring Mario Batali to heat up some Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s for you. In a word, overkill.

Or maybe for a White House chief of staff taking no chances, just the right amount of kill.

Problem was, we were still missing that proverbial smoking gun: something that directly linked Brennan to Clay Dobson or whoever else owned that lab behind M Street.

Owen had hacked Brennan's law firm's network to no avail. Now the question was whether Brennan had a personal computer at home.

Good thing my face had healed, because it was time for my close-up.

I was on.

CHAPTER 82.

HEY, ROOKIE, look out for the left hook!

During my first year with the Manhattan DA's office, when I was as green as a plate of peas, the chief a.s.sistant district attorney-a former Golden Gloves welterweight champion from Jersey City-used to put up his fists and bark that at me before the start of every trial. In other words ... expect the unexpected.

"Watch your step," warned Mr. Henchman.

"I'm sorry, what?"

The guy pointed to the ground as we walked through the French doors. "The drop-off," he explained.

"Oh," I said. That's what you meant.

And with that, I stepped down onto a ma.s.sive patio of blue slate with gra.s.s edgings, immediately wondering if I'd perhaps stumbled upon the set of a Ralph Lauren ad.

There were about fifty people, evenly split between genders. The men were all in blue blazers with Popsicle-colored slacks-cherry, orange, and lemon. On the women were sleeveless sundresses exposing tanned and toned arms.

Suddenly, I was keenly aware of the fact that I'd been wearing the same pair of brown chinos for the past three days. At least the sport coat and white b.u.t.ton-down were new, purchased just for this occasion.

"He's over here," said Mr. Henchman with a glance back over his shoulder at me.

After another twenty feet, he peeled off at the exact moment that Brennan turned around to face me as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

"I know everyone else here, so you must be Trevor Mann," he said, flashing a near-blinding grin. He promptly extended his hand. It was hard not to notice that in his other hand was a double-barreled shotgun.

At least it wasn't pointed at me. Not yet.

No sooner did Brennan shake my hand than he practically spun me around so he could introduce me not just to the two couples he was talking to but to the entire guest list.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, playing up what remained of his Southern drawl after decades in DC, as well as a few years in Manhattan. "I think it was Will Rogers who famously said that you never get a second chance to make a good first impression. With that in mind, I have a favor to ask you all."

He promptly put his arm around me as if he'd known me for years.

"This here is Mr. Trevor Mann," he continued. "He's an esteemed professor up north with the Columbia Law School, which, much to the chagrin of my Confederate flagwaving father, happens to be my alma mater. Mr. Mann called me two nights ago because he's also a freelance writer for the New York Times and they're looking to do a profile on me for their Sunday magazine. So the favor is this: Should Mr. Mann corner one of you at any point this afternoon and ask for your opinion about me, here's what I need you to do. Lie with impunity."

Everyone laughed, except for the Jessica Lange look-alike who weaved her way toward me, rolling her eyes.

"You'll have to forgive my husband, there's nothing he likes more than the sound of his own voice," she said.

"Mr. Mann, may I present my beautiful and brutally honest wife, Abigail," said Brennan.

The polite smile she gave me soured quickly as she caught sight of the shotgun in her husband's hand. "Josiah, you promised," she said.

He turned to me with no admission of guilt. "Have you ever done any skeet shooting, Mr. Mann?"

"No, I never have," I said.

"Terrific sport, but the wife hates it, I'm afraid."

"What the wife hates is having pieces of clay birds scattered all over her lawn," said Abigail.

"They're called pigeons, darling. Though would you rather I shoot at real birds instead?"

Abigail linked her arm in mine. It was flirtatious, but it was also an act. If I had to bet, I'd wager she was even smarter than her husband. "Have you ever noticed that, Mr. Mann?" she asked me. "The way lawyers have a comeback for everything?"

"I think that's what makes them lawyers," I said.

Brennan liked that answer. "Did you know that Mr. Mann here used to be quite the practicing attorney himself?"

"Used to be?" asked Abigail.

"Mr. Mann made a principled stand in a rather noteworthy trial up in New York," said Brennan.

"Some say principled, others say boneheaded," I pointed out.

"Indeed," he said. "That's the dilemma of a man's integrity, isn't it? One way or the other, there always seems to be a price to pay." Brennan held my stare for a few moments before flashing that blinding grin again. "Now, c'mon, let's go dirty up my wife's lawn."

CHAPTER 83.

SOCIAL ETIQUETTE may vary from country to country, but in the good old USA, when the host of a party asks his guests if they'd like to watch him show off, there's really only one answer.

Looking like a preppy parade, everyone followed Brennan off the patio to a long stretch of gra.s.s that was somewhere between a six and a seven iron. Off to either side were the small houses-or traps, as they're also called-for launching the clay pigeons. One trap releases high, the other low.

Okay, so I lied to Brennan. It was more like a fib, really. I'd been skeet shooting before. Twice, actually. Speaking of my principled stand, the head of the hedge fund where I'd been general counsel was a huge fan of the sport. I'm sure he must have missed it terribly during his two-year stint behind bars.

Then again, in these white-collar-crime prisons that double as country clubs, maybe the skeet course was next to the tennis courts.

"Who's first?" asked Brennan as we gathered in a semicircle around him. Translation? Who wants to suck at this first so I'll look that much better when it's my turn?

There were no takers, which hardly seemed to disappoint Brennan. If anything, he relished the apprehension among his invited male guests.

Finally, he got his volunteer. By choosing him.

"Harper," he said, pointing. "I believe you're the youngest of the firm's partners, isn't that right?"

Poor Harper, whoever he was. The guy stepped forward with a forced smile, taking the shotgun from his boss like a vegetarian picking up a double cheeseburger. Clearly, he was a city boy. Probably the only hunting he'd ever done in his life was for an apartment.

Brennan provided him with a quick tutorial before giving nods in the direction of both traps, each being manned by a guy sporting the universal hired-hand pose: feet slightly spread, arms behind the back, fingers clasped.

Pull!

Harper missed terribly with both shots. On the bright side, he didn't kill himself or any of the rest of us. Same for the other "volunteers" Brennan summoned after him. No one could shoot a lick.

"Your turn, Mr. Mann," I kept waiting to hear, and to be honest, the thought of shattering at least one of those little clay suckers, if not both, was feeling pretty d.a.m.n good.

Brennan, however, never looked my way. "Perhaps it's time I give it a whirl," he announced instead.

But before he could even reach down into the box of sh.e.l.ls by his feet, his wife, Abigail, chimed in with a nod to t.i.tle IX and her fellow women. "What about one of the girls?" she asked.

Brennan didn't miss a beat. "Honey, we both know how much life insurance I have. The last thing I'm about to do is hand you a loaded gun."

"I wasn't talking about me," she said once the laughter subsided. "Perhaps one of our female guests would like to try."

"You're right," said Brennan. What else could he say? "How about it, ladies? I didn't mean to exclude you."

But of course he did. Had I truly been writing a Times profile on him, I probably would've noted that less than ten percent of his firm's partners were women.

Still, as with the men, there were no takers. Just silence.

"C'mon, now," he prodded. "I promise you won't break a nail."

Wow, he really just said that, didn't he?

No one was groaning, though. Instead, the guests were too busy turning in search of the voice that had suddenly called out from the patio.

"I'll give it a shot," she said.

CHAPTER 84.

ON A scale of one to ten for entrances, it was easily an eleven.

Stepping off the patio and joining the Ralph Lauren ad on the lawn was the quintessential Benetton couple-a stunning all-American blonde on the arm of a handsome Middle Eastern man.

That said, all eyes were on the blonde.

She, too, was wearing a sleeveless sundress, entirely white with a plunging neckline, but amid all the tan and toned arms of the other female guests, hers appeared a little tanner, a little more toned.

"Shahid, you made it!"

Our semicircle around Brennan did a Red Sea part so the couple of the moment could greet the host and hostess. All anyone else could do was watch and listen as the man, Shahid, introduced his plus-one, Beverly Sands.

"Beverly and I only just met, so you need to make me look good," said Shahid with a tug on his royal-blue blazer.

"I think you look pretty good already," said Abigail, linking her arm with Shahid's. This was clearly her signature move.

"Actually, I was going to ask the same of you, Shahid," said Brennan before turning to find me among his guests. I stepped forward. "Trevor Mann, I'd like you to meet a client of mine, Shahid Al Dossari, and his friend, Beverly Sands."

"Very nice to meet you both," I said, shaking their hands.

"So you know, Trevor's writing a profile of me for the New York Times," Brennan explained.

Shahid nodded, impressed. So did Beverly. But for a split second, before her nod, I could've sworn there was something else. A sort of look she gave me. A squint. In a word ... doubt.

Or, h.e.l.l, maybe it was just the sun in my eyes.

Whatever it was, it came and went, her attention returning quickly to Brennan. Specifically, the open shotgun nestled over his forearm.

Playfully but with an edge, she asked, "So am I going to shoot that d.a.m.n thing or not?"

"h.e.l.l, yes," said Brennan, snapping to.