Triple Cross

The line went dead. The editor stared at her phone, her anger turning to the kind of rage only a scorned woman knows.

“No, no, no,” she said, punching in the number again. The line disconnected after one ring.

Liu grabbed her coat and shoes. “This is not happening! You are not ghosting me, Thomas Tull! You owe me!”

The editor charged out her door and down the hall, muttering, “He’s at the Ritz. Thomas always stays at the Ritz. He’ll be at the bar and—”

Glass shattered. A voice roared in pain from the office on the opposite corner of the building, near the elevators.

Liu stopped and stared; she heard choking noises coming through the open door. She hurried over and saw Hardaway sitting at his desk, hunched over and sobbing.

“Bill?” she said, the bad feeling in the pit of her stomach growing. “What’s happened?”

The publisher looked up at her, ruin in his face and rheumy eyes. “They’re gone,” he said hoarsely. “Both stillborn.”

“No,” she moaned, stepping into his office. “You must be crushed. Cynthia?”

“In shock,” he said. “We’re both in shock. It was our last chance to have kids and … she’s sedated. I want to be.”

Liu swallowed. “Bill, I know this isn’t the time to talk about the offer I made.”

Hardaway stared at her blankly. “How much?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Liu said. “He didn’t take it.”

He blinked. “Tell me that’s not true.”

“He took a higher offer. One book. Eleven point two million for world rights.”

“Eleven point two?” the publisher said, sounding stunned. “Well, that’s … why didn’t you offer twelve?”

“Twelve million?” she said angrily. “We’d have to sell almost a million and a half copies in hardcover to make that—”

“So what?” Hardaway snapped, red-faced. He got to his feet. “You should have counteroffered it.”

“There were no counteroffers heard, Bill,” she said. “His terms. Make the best offer by five, that’s it, winner takes all. I tried to tell you that this morning and—”

“What was your best offer?”

“Ten.”

“Ten?” he shouted and then shot her a disgusted look. “Were you trying to insult him? Drive him out? The man who made your career and this house? The man you still have—”

“No, I don’t,” Liu shouted back, cutting him off. “And we made him, Bill. Not the other way around. I thought ten million was insanely generous. I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Hardaway roared. “You lost the golden goose on the worst day of my life, Suzanne! For that, you’re fired!”

“Fired?” she said, shocked into a whisper. “Bill, you can’t—”

“I just did,” he said coldly. “Get your things and clear out. I need new blood in here before everything around me dies.”

TRIPLE CROSS

CHAPTER 1

A WALL OF RHODODENDRON bushes prevented anyone in the neighborhood from seeing the interior of the compound: a rambling white Cape with dark green shutters and a four-bay carriage house set on three landscaped acres.

Though it was dark now, the killer the media had recently dubbed “the Family Man” knew everything beyond the rhododendrons was picture-perfect. The lawns were lush and cut so precisely, they looked like green jigsaw-puzzle pieces set amid flower gardens ablaze with spring glory and color.

The sprinkler system goes on at four, Family Man thought, glancing at the phone. Two a.m. More than enough time.

With latex-gloved hands, the killer started the book-size Ozonics ozone machine attached to a belt, tugged up the hood of the black hazmat suit, and donned a respirator mask and night-vision goggles. Family Man padded across one piece of jigsaw lawn to a walkway and the junction box of the alarm system.

It was disabled in six minutes.

Around the back, by the pool, the killer went to a bulkhead. It opened on well-oiled hinges.

The Schlage dead bolt on the basement door was no match for the technician’s skills. It turned in under a minute.

After two careful steps, then three, Family Man halted inside and listened a moment before peering around the basement. The floor was bare. The wall cubbies and shelves, however, were filled with artifacts of a suburban family, stacked and organized like a Martha Stewart dream.

The killer started up the stairs, knowing that on the other side of the door lay a short hall and the kitchen. And a dog, an aging Labrador retriever named Mike.

At the door, Family Man reached through a Velcro slit in the hazmat suit, took out a baggie containing a cheese-and-anchovy ball, opened the door, tossed in the bait, and closed the door with a loud click.

The killer stood there, taking slow breaths with long pauses and listening to the sound of dog nails clicking on hardwood floors. The ozone machine purred, destroying all human odor.

Mike snuffled at the door, clicked over, and slurped down the treat.

Fifteen minutes later, Family Man eased open the door and stepped into the main house, hearing the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall and the snoring of the dog lying just a few feet away. Swinging the night-vision goggles around, the killer took in the particulars of the kitchen.