Triple Cross

The computer tech typed on his laptop. He looked at us. “You got me there. The phone was on the entire time, just not transmitting or receiving data.”

“Is that possible in this day and age?” Mahoney said.

“If the cell tower or the satellite went down, sure, it could look like this.”

“Perfect,” Tull said. “Call Verizon. That’s my carrier.”

“We will,” Sampson said. “Count on it.”

“In the meantime, am I in or out of this investigation?” the writer asked me, John, and Ned.

“As far as the FBI is concerned, you are out,” Mahoney said.

Tull looked like he wanted to argue but said, “Fine, I’m out for the time being. Am I free to go home and get some work done? You’ve got my phone and car signals. They’re not electronic ankle bracelets, but then again, I’m not going anywhere.”

Ned glanced at me and Sampson. I said, “We do know where to find him.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cross,” he said sourly. “Appreciate the support.” He plucked his phone and car keys off the tech’s bench, saying, “It would be easier if we cooperated, you know. I’ve written three books and worked with multiple police agencies, and this is the most static I have ever encountered.”

I said, “We tend to keep people at arm’s length until letting them in is warranted.”

Tull paused at the rear of the van. “Suit yourself. I’ll write the book one way or another.”

With that, he jumped down and was gone. A few moments later, we heard the RS 7 fire up with a low-throated rumble and roar off.

Mahoney looked at me and Sampson. “What do you think? Is he our guy?”

I said, “I’m leaning that way, but let me call the folks at Paladin.”

“Why?” John asked.

“In the data dumps from around every prior Family Man crime scene, the analysts at Paladin found localized blackouts of all digital information.”

Mahoney said, “But Tull’s blackout was not around the crime scene.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m interested in seeing if it happened other times around Tull’s place in the past month or so.”

“Preferably close to the times of death.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And if anyone can figure that out, it’s Ryan Malcomb and his team at Paladin.”

CHAPTER 65

Hunting Valley, Ohio

THERESA MAY ALCOTT REMOVED the gardening apron she wore, went to a sink, and washed her hands.

“Can you finish up for me, Arthur?” she asked. “I’m going up to the house with Chief Stone for a cup of tea. Shall I send some down for you?”

Arthur was still regarding Bree suspiciously, but he nodded. “Tea would be nice. And don’t worry, I’ll have everything ready to put in the ground come morning.”

“Seven sharp. I have meetings from nine on.”

“Seven sharp, Terri.”

Bree followed her out of the greenhouse and listened as Alcott chanted out the vegetables and herbs that would be “accepted into the ground” the following morning.

“How do you eat it all?” Bree asked.

Alcott led her out of the garden and up a short rise to the house. “What we don’t eat is donated to multiple food banks and school-lunch programs in the Cleveland area. Nothing goes to waste. And everything’s organic.”

“Was this always an interest of yours? Gardening?”

“My mother was a gardener, but I hated it as a girl. It was only over time that I came to appreciate the power and fulfillment of helping to nurture something to life.” The billionaire said it was similar to her cattle ranch outside Jackson. “The ranch was my late husband’s passion,” she said, opening a rear door to the house. “He made me see the beauty in being part of the greater food cycle.”

They entered a mudroom, where Alcott kicked off her rubber boots. Bree slipped off her sneakers and padded after her down a short hallway that emerged into a beautiful, immaculate, yellow-and-white kitchen.

A woman in her forties sat at the table. She put down her People magazine. “Terri?”

“Tea, please, Marie. In the office?”

“Coming up.”

Alcott motioned for Bree to follow her down another short hall to an expansive office. The desk was huge and cluttered. Several computer screens glowed on and behind it.

“My reckless command center,” Alcott said.

“Looks like you have a lot on your plate.”

Alcott smiled and pointed her to one of two overstuffed chairs flanking a small cocktail table. “You have no idea.”

“You’re probably right.”

The billionaire took the other chair, sighed. “You must think me cut off from the realities of life.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Alcott. You seem surprisingly genuine.”

“Call me Terri, and bless you for that. It took years in therapy and more than a few monthlong retreats in India after Gil—my husband—died for me to get to this point.”

She chuckled wistfully. “And now to your loose ends,” she said, sobering. “What has brought you to my greenhouse door, Chief Stone?”

“Tell me about your granddaughter.”

Alcott’s face fell. “Olivia. Olivia May. My younger daughter’s second child.”