Triple Cross

“Like a terrorist’s cell phone. Or the links between members of an organized crime group. Or the type of person who is likely to buy one of Frances Duchaine’s one-of-a-kind gowns.”

“I’m still not—”

“Or the people behind a sex ring. Or the potential buyers in a sex-slave auction.”

There was a long silence before Salazar said, “I would have no idea how to figure something like that out.”

“Start with something simple,” Bree said.

“Like what?”

“Check to see if Frances Duchaine or her company ever hired Paladin. And come to think of it, check to see if Ari Bernstein, her financier, ever worked with Paladin.”

There was another long silence before Salazar came back and said in a tight voice, “Sorry. I’m getting kicked in the ribs constantly now.”

“How much longer?”

“I’m four weeks out and this kid is already a beast,” the detective said, her tone softening. “Okay, Chief, I’ll take a look, but I can’t promise you it’s at the top of my pile today. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You will indeed.”

CHAPTER 77

THE WRITER LOOKED LIKE HELL.

Face swollen and red, his famous shock of hair a rat’s nest, Thomas Tull moaned when we entered the interrogation room at the federal holding facility in Alexandria, Virginia.

“Can I please have some pain meds?” Tull said in a thick, nasal voice. “My nose is busted, I lost two teeth, and my skull feels ready to split.”

His attorney, a high-dollar criminal defense lawyer named Lindy York, said, “You’re just adding to the police brutality by denying him proper medication.”

Ned Mahoney scowled. “The doctor denied it. His blood alcohol was three times the legal limit, and he had cocaine on board too. She said he shouldn’t have anything till he sobered up.”

“Which is now,” Tull said.

I took pity on him, reached into my pocket, and got out a small bottle of ibuprofen I carry in case my knee acts up. I shook out four and slid them across the desk.

“That’s eight hundred milligrams altogether,” I said. “Prescription dose.”

Tull snatched them up with his handcuffed hands, popped them in his mouth, shakily lifted the plastic cup of water in front of him, and swallowed them down. He drained the cup and said, “Tell ’em.”

Lindy York said, “Mr. Tull categorically denies having anything to do with the Family Man murders beyond his interest in writing a book about them and Agent Mahoney, Detective Sampson, and, of course, Dr. Cross.”

Sampson said, “We beg to differ, Counselor. We have a photograph of your client inside a house in Falls Church last night, armed and wearing the same outfit we’ve seen Family Man wear in other security footage.”

“Produce the picture,” York said.

Mahoney flipped open a file and slid a blowup of the video still across to Tull. “You shut off the main power to the house and found the auxiliary power to the safe room as well, but Mr. Allison had a third redundancy—battery packs—that got you.”

York stared without expression at the picture.

Tull blinked. “Jesus, that does look like me.”

“Thomas, not another word,” his attorney warned.

“It’s not me,” the writer said. “It can’t be. Where did you say this was taken?”

“In Falls Church, Virginia, not far from Lake Barcroft.”

“I was nowhere near—” Tull began but he stopped when Deputy Marshal Annette Cox knocked and stuck her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt, Agent Mahoney, but there’s something out here you should probably see ASAP.”

“We’re done here anyway,” York said.

“I’m not,” Tull said. “I was nowhere near Virginia last night.”

Mahoney stood. “Why don’t we give you a few minutes, Counselor, to consult with your client and get your stories straight?”

Mahoney gestured to Sampson and me. We followed him out the door, where Deputy Marshal Cox was standing, holding a sheaf of paper.

“Quantico did not want to e-mail you the results,” Cox said. “Your office rerouted it to our secure fax.”

Mahoney took the papers and scanned them. “The lab finished a preliminary mitochondrial analysis yesterday on those hairs found at the Kane murder scene—not a full DNA workup, but enough for them to feed the results into IAFIS. They got a dead-on hit this morning from U.S. military files.”

He showed me and Sampson the results page.

I was, frankly, astonished.

CHAPTER 78

WHEN WE REENTERED THE interrogation room, we had an entirely different perspective on the Family Man murders.

Lindy York, Tull’s defense attorney, was drumming her manicured nails on the tabletop, slight disgust twisting her lips. Tull looked a bit less dazed. “My client wishes to tell you where he was last night,” York said curtly.

Tull arched his eyebrows and shrugged. “I’m not proud of it, but I’m not going to prison for something I did not do.”

“Out with it,” Mahoney said impatiently.

He cleared his throat. “I was at a small get-together at a condo in Silver Spring.”

“Address? Owner’s name?”