Private

"You're wasting your time, Jack. And I've got a better offer." He made sure he had my attention, then said, "I want you to take over Private."

I guess he'd gotten to the part that was supposed to change my life.

"Dad. Remember? All that's left of Private are a lot of file cabinets in a storage unit."

"You're going to get a package tomorrow," my father continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "It's a list of all my clients-and the dirt I had on them. There's also a document putting your name on my bank account in the Caymans," he said. "Fifteen million dollars, Jack. All yours. Do with it what you will."

I raised my eyebrows. Private had once done first-class investigation for movie stars, politicians, multimillionaires, even the White House. My dad had charged the maximum for his services. But fifteen million? How had he earned that much, and did I really want to know?

"What's the catch, right?" he said. "Simple. Don't tell your twin about the money. Anything I ever gave him he snorted or gambled. This is your birthright, Jack. I'm trying to do the right thing for once in my life."

"Did you hear me say that I'm happy at Prentiss?" I said.

"I wish you could see your face, Jack. Listen to me. Stop being the 'good twin' for half a frickin' second and think this through. There's no such thing as good money and bad money. It's all the same. Just a medium of exchange. And this is an opportunity, a big one. Fifteen million dollars' worth of opportunity.

"I want Private to be remembered as the best. You're a smart, good-looking kid, and on top of that, you're a frickin' war hero. Bring Private back to life. Do it for me, and more important, do it for yourself. Don't talk yourself out of a really good thing. Make Private the best in the world. You have the money, the talent-and the compassion-so do it."

A guard put a hand on my dad's shoulder. He hung on to the phone, looked at me with a kind of tenderness I hadn't seen since I was five or six, and said, "Have the life you deserve, Jack. Do great things." He touched the glass with his palm, then turned away.

A week after my visit to Corcoran, Tom Morgan took a shank to the liver. Three days later, my father was dead. Part One

FIVE YEARS LATER, AND ALL GOING ACCORDING TO PLAN Chapter 1

PEOPLE TRUST ME with their secrets, and I'm not exactly sure why. It must be something in my face, probably my eyes. Guinevere Scott-Evans had taken a chance and trusted me with her life and career a couple of months back.

Now she gripped my hand as I helped her out of my dark blue Lamborghini. She moved her narrow hips demurely, straightening out the black dress that fit her perfectly. She was gorgeous, an A-list movie star who was also genuinely funny and smart enough to have graduated from Vanderbilt.

I was Guin's date tonight for the Golden Globe Awards, her way of thanking me for tailing her rocker husband, who, it turned out, had been cheating on her with another man.

Guin was grieving, I knew, but she had her game face on for the Globes. She wanted to be seen tonight with a hunk-her word-and I could tell she also wanted to feel desirable.

"This'll be fun, Jack," she said, squeezing my fingers. "We're at a great table. Everybody from Columbia Pictures, plus Matt, of course."

Guin was up for best supporting actress for a love story she'd made with Matt Damon. I thought she had a chance to win; I certainly hoped so. I liked Guin a lot.

The fans out front of the Beverly Hilton were enjoying the pregame warm-up, calling out Guin's name as we headed up the rope line, cameras snapping away. A fan pointed her phone at me, asking me if I was somebody.

I laughed. "Are you kidding? I'm just arm candy."

Guin let go of my hand to embrace Ryan Seacrest, who pulled her into the spotlight. The fans wanted her, but she put her arm around my waist and brought me into the shot at her side.

Seacrest went with it, admired the cut of my tux and asked my name. His brow wrinkled as he tried to figure out if he knew me-and then Scarlett Johansson arrived, said "Hi, Jack"-and Guin and I were shooed along the red carpet that ran through the gauntlet of bleachers up to the entrance of the Beverly Hilton.

Wrong time for my cell phone to ring.

"Don't take it, Jack," Guin said. "You're off duty. You're mine for tonight, okay?" Her smile dimmed, and worry shadowed her beautiful features. "Okay, Jack?"

I glanced at the caller ID. "This'll just take a second."

The caller was Andy Cushman, and I couldn't believe it. Andy was a rock, but the voice on the phone was strained to breaking with tears.

"Jack. I need you to come to the house. I need you here right now."

"Andy, this is not a good time. Trust me, it isn't. What's wrong?"

"It's Shelby. She's dead, Jack."

Chapter 2

DEAD? HOW COULD Shelby be dead? There had to be some mistake. But how could there be?