Triple Cross

We make them understand that no one is safe, no matter their wealth or race. That’s the story we want them to hear. That’s the story we want them telling over and over again to each other, undermining their certainty, building the collective terror.

That last thought caused the killer to smile beneath the black mask.

It was remarkable what a scary story could do, wasn’t it?

CHAPTER 60

SHORTLY BEFORE EIGHT THE next morning, just after Bree left to catch her flight to Cleveland, I got the call about the Kane family. Sampson and I soon arrived in one of the toniest neighborhoods in Potomac, Maryland, and found Ned Mahoney and his forensics team waiting for us.

“No one’s been inside except the maternal grandmother, who came by to pick up her nine-year-old granddaughter for a trip to New York,” Mahoney said, leading the way through the gates and up the slight rise in the driveway to a neo-Georgian manor. “Grandma was hysterical when I tried to talk to her. EMTs are giving her something to calm her down. Her husband is on the way.”

“I gather the victims were big-time wealthy,” Sampson said.

“And young,” Mahoney said. “Irwin and Linda Kane, of Kane Tech Advisers. They made a fortune doing consulting work for the government—Justice, Pentagon, and CIA.”

“Any indication that that work is involved here?” I asked.

“As motive?” Ned said. “None so far. Sounds like Family Man all the way.”

After donning blue booties, hairnets, and gloves, we went inside through the garage door, which Mrs. Kane’s mother had opened with her key. The alarm system had been disarmed.

The lower floor looked untouched. The second floor was all crime scene.

The double doors to the master suite were open, revealing the Kanes dead in their bed. Irwin Kane had been shot through the temple with a small-caliber bullet. Linda Kane took one through the palm of her left hand and into her left eye and brain.

“She heard the first shot,” Sampson said. “Held up her hand to protect herself.”

“At this range, she couldn’t have protected a thing,” I said, feeling disgusted at the callousness of the act. There was no passion here. Quite the opposite.

We went into the other rooms and found Nate, age eleven, and Melissa, nine, dead in their beds. From a few feet away, you would have sworn they were sleeping.

I could not help but think of Ali. Almost the same age as Nate. They could have been classmates. Friends.

“Makes me want to punch a wall,” I said. “It’s just so …”

“Ruthless?” Mahoney said.

“I was thinking more like cowardly.”

Sampson said, “In what way?”

“Shooting them as they sleep. Probably with a suppressor on the gun. He’s unwilling to acknowledge the humanity of the targets. If they’d been awake, begging, he’d have to see them as fellow human beings. Executing them like this is a way of avoidance, a way to rationalize what is not rational. He doesn’t have to think of them as a mom, a dad, and two children. They’re just objects.”

“Targets,” Sampson said.

“But why?” Mahoney said. “What does he get out of this?”

I said, “Some thrill, no doubt. Other needs being met. And maybe …”

“What?”

“A means to an end,” I said. “A more concrete end than what we’re seeing here.”

“You’re saying these killings are part of a bigger picture?” Mahoney asked.

Before I could reply, Meagan McShane, a medical examiner, came to the doorway. “I’ve got a time of death on the mom and dad. Shortly before three a.m.”

A sheriff’s deputy in protective gear appeared in the hallway behind the ME. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “But there’s some guy out at the yellow tape asking for you.”

“Who’s that?” Mahoney asked.

“He says he’s Thomas Tull. You know, the writer?”

CHAPTER 61

THOMAS TULL HAD NERVE, I’d give him that.

Among fifteen lookie-loos and some camerapeople, the writer stood at the yellow tape, dressed to look dark and mysterious in black jeans, cowboy boots, shirt, and jacket. His sunglasses were black-framed wraparound reflectors. His hair was perfectly out of place. He smirked in reproach as Sampson, Mahoney, and I came near.

“I thought you might like to talk,” he said.

Sampson said, “What are you doing here, Mr. Tull?”

“I’m assuming something happened.”

The three of us ducked under the tape and surrounded him.

“I’m Edward Mahoney, FBI special agent in charge,” Ned said quietly. “Walk with us, please, sir.”

“What’s going on?” the writer demanded.

I said softly, “We can get away from here and talk quietly, or we can put you in cuffs, make you look bad for television, and take you downtown to talk.”

“I bet you make a lot of men shiver with that kind of chitchat.”

I shrugged. “Your call, Thomas.”

The writer took off his sunglasses and studied me. “Let’s talk quietly.”

“Good,” Mahoney said. “We’ll go up the street. My car.”