James Patterson - Truth or Die

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.

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, hell, 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 damn thing or not?”

“Hell, yes,” said Brennan, snapping to.

As Abigail stepped back with Shahid still looped on her arm, Brennan proceeded to give Beverly the same tutorial he’d given the men, albeit with considerably more care and attention. The more he talked, the more she hung on his every word like a rapt pupil.

“Like this?” she asked, unsure, propping the butt of the gun high against her shoulder.

“Actually, you want to bring it a little lower, sweetheart,” said Brennan, guiding the stock down a few inches.

“And I aim by looking through...?”

“You want to line up the front and rear sights,” he said, pointing them out.

“So now what happens?” she asked, closing one eye to aim.

“Now you try to shoot one of the clay disks that will be coming out of those little houses to your left and right,” said Brennan.

“Just one?”

He chuckled. So did more than half of the other men in the crowd. “Or two, if you’d like,” said Brennan. “Feel free to shoot them both. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little optimism.”

With that, he looked back at Shahid and gave him a wink.

“Okay, I’m ready,” said Beverly.

“Great,” said Brennan. “All that’s left to do is say—”

But Beverly Sands knew exactly what to say. Among other things.

“Pull!” she yelled.

As fast as the pigeons were released from the traps, they shattered even faster. First the low one, then the high one. Two quick blasts and they were blown to pieces... all over Abigail Brennan’s lawn.

Casually, Beverly handed the shotgun back to a stunned Brennan and immediately looked down at her hand.

“What do you know?” she said with a perfect shrug. “I think I broke a nail.”

I’d been around a lot of good defense attorneys, and the best of them were always lightning quick on their feet while oozing grace under pressure at all times. They also knew a no-win situation when they saw one.

In other words, there was no way Josiah Brennan was taking his turn with that shotgun.

“All right, then,” he said, turning to his guests with the best self-deprecating laugh he could muster. “I think it’s lunchtime.”

The menu back on the patio was an eclectic mix of upscale and down-home. Next to the grilled New Zealand baby lamb chops were baked beans and corn bread. The napkins were linen, the utensils plastic. If the red velvet cake and the trifle were too rich for you, there was a tray of Rice Krispie treats made by the Brennans’ nine-year-old daughter, Rebecca, who looked like a mini-me of her mother.

I figured a half hour to eat and mingle and blend in with the crowd. Then it was time to get lost. As for my permission to wander aimlessly in someone else’s home, that was as easy as three words. “Where’s the bathroom?”

I made sure to pose the question to Mr. Henchman, since he was the only guy whose job it was to make sure I didn’t do what I was about to do. In his mind, at least for a few minutes, I was accounted for inside the house.

“Down the hall, second left,” he told me.

Closing the door behind me in the bathroom, I counted to thirty while staring at an equestrian-patterned wallpaper that even Ann Romney would’ve passed on. In case Mr. Henchman was standing watch, I then flushed the toilet and ran the sink for a few seconds.

But he wasn’t standing watch. I was a guest, after all. That would’ve been weird.

Walking out of the bathroom free and clear, I immediately turned into Monty Hall on speed. What’s behind door number one? And two? And three?

Pay dirt came with door number four. The mahogany bookshelves, the studded leather couch and matching armchairs, the painting over the marble fireplace depicting a mute of hounds in pursuit of a fox — basically, just the overwhelming stench of testosterone — left no doubt that I was in Brennan’s home office.

And sitting atop a huge partners desk the size of a pool table was the whole reason for my being there. Quickly, I reached for my new prepaid cell phone and dialed Owen, who was waiting back at the hotel.

“Okay, I’m standing in front of his computer,” I said. “It’s a laptop, a Toshiba.”

“That’ll work,” Owen said. “You remember what to do?”

I did. First, I had to install the flash drive he’d given me, only it wasn’t a flash drive. It just looked like one. Owen called it a “phantom” because it overrode any and all password requirements — from accessing internal documents to e-mail accounts — and left no trace of the user. It would be as if I had never even been there. A phantom.

“Okay, we’re up,” I said, staring at the desktop page. Thankfully, it booted up quickly. “We’re on his wireless network. Ready on your end?”

“Ready.”

I brought up Internet Explorer, typing in the Web address Owen had given me, which was a series of numbers that meant nothing to me until he explained that it was pi multiplied by pi to the tenth decimal. Yeah, that figured, too...

“Do you see it?” he asked.

“Yep.”

The “it” was a site he’d named Moonshine, because, according to Owen, it was homemade and always did the trick. The kid was like a Vegas magician, the way he had a name for everything. The difference being, his tricks weren’t illusions. They were real.