He drove at least half a mile before the road curved to the right around a grove of towering red oaks. Another quarter mile ahead he could finally see the farmhouse—if the word could be used to describe such a structure. The house was enormous—a sprawling construction of massive wood beams and white stucco walls with slate roofs sliced from the same Virginia bluestone that outlined the property. A hundred yards from the house the road turned from gray crushed gravel to smooth paving stone and the car suddenly fell silent, like a man stepping onto carpet from a hardwood floor.

So this is how the other half lives, was the thought that crossed Nick’s mind, but he knew it was nonsense. The other half lived nothing like this—no one did except for a blessed few, and that blessing was almost always handed to them on a silver platter. This was old money; there just wasn’t time for one man to earn all this in one lifetime. You could win a dozen lotteries and never afford a property like this, even if it was for sale—and places like Bradenton never were.

The driveway looped like a shepherd’s crook in front of the house; in the center was a fountain with a bronze statue of two rearing stallions in apparent combat. Nick parked his car and approached the house. The front door was actually two doors, both very wide, and Nick wasn’t sure which one of them would open—so he pushed the doorbell and stepped back a little, waiting for something to happen. After a few seconds the door on the left slowly swung open, and Nick felt a rush of cold air.

“May I help you?”

The man holding the door was not what Nick had expected: He was tall and athletic-looking, dressed in a dark suit with wavy black hair to match. Nick blinked; the man looked more like an Italian swimsuit model than a butler.

“I’m here to see Senator Braden,” Nick said.

The man looked Nick over doubtfully.

“You’ll have to excuse my appearance,” Nick said. “I came directly from work.”

“Work?”

“Yes—I’m in charge of the investigation at the Patriot Center.”

“Do you have an appointment with the senator?”

“I only need a few minutes.”

“Sorry—the senator isn’t at home right now.”

“I was told the senator would be here for the next couple of days.”

“Who told you that?”

“Like I said—I’m in charge of the investigation.”

The man considered this.

“Look,” Nick said, “tell the senator I have information for him about a recent development at the Patriot Center—tell him it’s something he’ll want to know.”

“You can leave the information with me,” he said.

It was Nick’s turn to look doubtful. “No offense, but—who are you?”

“I’m head of the senator’s security force.”