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star of the video, hanged himself in his office. He was discovered by his father, Li Kunlun—the chairman of Cheng Mie Pharmaceutical.

“I want you to take a look at something,” I said to Breslow, opening the envelope.

It was the report from Ethan and Abigail’s autopsy.

Chapter 22

“AS YOU CAN see from the toxicology section, there were traces of the nerve agent cyclosarin found in both Ethan and Abigail,” I said. “Once they were trapped in that sauna, the murderer wasn’t taking any chances. He poisoned them.”

Breslow looked up from the autopsy report, his eyes narrowing to a squint. “In other words, that’s why you’re here and not there. We’re not looking for someone in Turks and Caicos, are we?”

I shook my head. “Cyclosarin isn’t exactly found over the counter.”

“Where is it found?” he asked.

“That depends on who you talk to in the intelligence world and whether they’re on the record or not. The only country that for sure has produced cyclosarin in significant quantities is Iraq. After that, high on the suspect list would be—”

“China,” said Breslow, beating me to the punch. He knew where I was heading with this.

Cheng Mie Pharmaceutical was rumored to have worked closely with the Chinese government on developing chemical weapons. Li Kunlun, the chairman, had even been an officer in the Chinese armed forces.

“So he blames me for his son’s suicide and kills mine in return?” asked Breslow, suspicious. “That’s not really the Chinese way.”

“Neither is wearing bunny ears and a diaper,” I said.

Breslow conceded the point with a slight nod. “What now?” he asked. “It’s not like you can question him.”

“Even if I could I wouldn’t yet,” I said. “Not without some link connecting means and motive.”

“Like Chinese passports coming into the island?”

“For starters,” I said.

“Do you want me to make a call to the U.S. embassy in Beijing? Perhaps they could help.”

“Who do you know there?” I asked.

“Everybody,” he answered.

Gee, why was I not surprised?

Still, I’d just as soon not be the suspended FBI agent who upended relations between the U.S. and China. At least not yet.

“No. Let’s not play that card until we know more,” I said.

I wrapped things up, telling Breslow I’d keep him informed. Then he walked me out. As he shook my hand in the foyer, I could tell there was something on his mind, perhaps a question left unanswered.

Sure enough. “I’m curious why you didn’t ask me,” he said.

“Ask you what?”

“Whether or not I was the one who hired those Italian prostitutes and gave them a video recorder.”

“It’s none of my business,” I said.

“It is if it led to my son’s murder.”

I stared at Breslow, wondering what he was doing. Confessing? Still sizing me up? Or was it something else?

Not that it really mattered. The reason I didn’t ask him was because I already knew the answer. It was straight out of those Encyclopedia Brown mystery books I used to love to read when I was a kid. Something he’d done had tipped his hand.

You’re not quite as cagey as you think, Warner Breslow.

Chapter 23

I COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time I pulled up to my house knowing that no one else would be there. Between Marshall and Judy, John Jr. and Max, there was always somebody who’d answer when I’d walk through the door and shout out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

I hadn’t given much thought to being alone before they all left. Now I was by myself, and it was kind of weird. A little sad, even. A little eerie, too.

I got the mail before heading inside, flipping through it as I grabbed myself a Heineken Light from the fridge. The boys had barely had time to unpack their bags up at camp, so there was no chance of getting a letter from them. Instead, it was just a couple of bills, some junk mail, and—

What’s this?

Sandwiched between the latest issue of Sports Illustrated and an L.L.Bean catalog was a small package, one of those padded manila envelopes. My address had been handwritten in black marker, and the envelope was sealed tight with a lot—and I mean a lot—of clear tape. We’re talking the whole roll.

Whatever was inside wasn’t getting out on its own.

I was looking so much at the tape that I didn’t notice something right away. The postmark was from Park City, Utah, but there was no return address. Not in the upper left corner, not on the back, not anywhere.

Oh, great. Cue the paranoid thoughts…

You could forgive an FBI agent for being a little…um…spooked when it