Triple Cross

“If you’re going head-hunting, why not go after the most high-profile head?”

“There’s probably some of that involved too.”

As Bree finished her stew, I put the rest in the fridge and cleaned up Nana Mama’s kitchen, bringing it up to a standard that would make her smile in the morning.

“Bed?” I said when I finished.

Bree said, “We haven’t talked about your day.”

I gave her a quick rundown of our meeting with Thomas Tull, our subsequent surveillance of the writer, and the high-speed chase.

“Do you think he knew you were chasing him?”

“He had to have seen the bubble flashing.”

“But he didn’t know it was you and John.”

I thought about that. “I don’t see how he could have made us.”

“No idea where he was going?”

“None.”

“Then bed,” Bree said and drained the rest of her beer.

Upstairs, after we’d brushed our teeth, gotten under the covers, and turned off the light, she snuggled into my arms and laid her head on my chest. I expected her to fall asleep immediately, but I could sense she was still on alert.

“What are you feeling?” I whispered.

After a pause, she said, “Like I’ve been used by someone with an agenda that I had a right to know about before I agreed to take the job.”

“A valid emotion,” I said. “What do you want to do about it?”

“Go to Cleveland with or without Elena’s approval.”

“Then you should.”

“But on whose dime?”

“I think we can afford a trip to Cleveland.”

She sighed and I felt the tension gradually leave her.

“I love you,” she murmured.

“I love you too,” I said, and drifted off.

CHAPTER 59

Potomac, Maryland

THE FAMILY MAN STOOD there in the shadows, highly aware of the respirator mask, which pushed against the goggles and the hood of the disposable jumpsuit. With latex gloves, the killer adjusted the goggles yet again before checking the time.

It was 2:45 a.m. More than a week since the last strike.

After a momentary thrill of anticipation, calmness settled over the Family Man, a mental and emotional cocoon that allowed near complete detachment.

That’s the goal, isn’t it? Full detachment from these necessary actions? Yes, and I have the right to a perfect life too. A dream life just like this.

The killer’s eyes ran up the sweeping lawns to a neo-Georgian manor with English gardens on seven manicured acres. Five bedrooms. Two offices. A stable in the back with stalls for four horses. A garage with bays for five vehicles. An outdoor basketball court. An indoor lap pool. A sauna. A gym.

It defied belief that two people could amass this kind of wealth and prestige at such a young age. But here was the proof, right before any doubter’s eyes.

Opportunity meets preparation, the killer thought, then lowered the night-vision goggles and left the shadows.

After padding quickly across the lawn, the Family Man reached a junction box through which the electric, telephone, and broadband lines connected to the residence. Quickly, the killer was tied into the house intranet and running a clever software program bought on the dark web that soon elicited the password for the alarm system.

With the system disarmed, the task ahead was easier. On a screened-in porch, the Family Man worked the lock to the sliding door of the kitchen and soon had it open.

Inside, the killer stood stock-still and listened. Elsie, the family’s beloved eleven-year-old German shepherd, had passed nine days ago. The chances of them having gotten a new dog this quick were low, especially since there had been no mention of it on any of the four family members’ social media accounts, which the Family Man had studied in detail.

Satisfied there was no new dog to make things complicated, the killer took in the kitchen. Even viewed in the dim light from a bulb over the red enamel six-burner stove, it was magnificent, with a long, stainless-steel sink with three different faucets and multiple cutting boards and racks. Pale gray quartz countertops, red cabinets to match the stove, and a dramatic island/bar.

Impressed, the Family Man made a mental note of that last feature, then left the kitchen, passed the small library and a larger office, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The upstairs was as well-appointed as the lower floor, with four bedroom suites off a central hallway.

The killer crept to the only one with double doors, drew out a baggie, and shook free its contents, which vanished into the carpet pile. Drawing the pistol and turning the master suite’s doorknob, the Family Man took courage from the belief that this was the logical next step.