Triple Cross

Her feet crunched gravel; the door to the greenhouse creaked. But then the big Polynesian’s voice came through loud and clear: “Who are you? What are you doing here? You do not have permission to be here.”

And then Alcott herself saying, “It’s all right, Arthur. You have exceeded my expectations, Chief Stone. I predicted a phone call or a knock at my front door, not a barging into my greenhouse.”

Bree smiled when the billionaire laughed and said, “But then I guess you are a barging-in kind of person, aren’t you?”

After hearing herself say, “I guess I am. All elbows and knees,” Bree paused the recording. Alcott’s demeanor had been disarming. She’d liked the woman almost instantly, and when was the last time that happened?

Still, there was something about their interaction that had nagged at her most of the day. Bree fast-forwarded the recording to where she and Alcott were in the library.

She listened closely as the billionaire described her dear granddaughter’s downward spiral at the hands of Paula Watkins and perhaps Frances Duchaine. Alcott then said she believed some kind of cosmic justice had been done.

Bree heard herself say, “You won’t go to the journalists with the evidence I dug up?”

“Again, will that bring back my granddaughter?” Alcott replied. “The media will get its meat when Frances Duchaine goes on trial.”

“She claims she’s innocent.”

“So did Saddam Hussein.”

Listening to the recording, Bree again noted the chill in Alcott’s voice. The phone on the desk rang.

“Can you hold on a moment?” the billionaire asked. “I rarely get calls on the landlines anymore.”

Her footsteps were audible as she crossed to the desk. Bree heard her say, “This is Terri … Give me a minute, will you, Emma, dear? I’m with someone and I’ll need to pick up in another room … I am sorry, Chief Stone. This won’t take long, but it can’t wait.”

Bree listened to herself say, “Please. Take your time.”

Bree stopped the recording, rewound it several seconds, and hit Play.

“This is Terri … Give me a minute, will you, Emma, dear?”

Bree stopped the recording again, feeling puzzled. But what about? She played that sequence again.

“This is Terri … Give me a minute, will you, Emma, dear?”

Bree had that same internal response—something was off there, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. The inflection of the words? The tone of voice? The emphasis on certain syllables? What was it? What was being said on that tape that she wasn’t getting?

Bree listened two more times before yawning and glancing at the clock. It was nearly eleven. She needed sleep.

Climbing down the stairs, she thought, Emma is probably someone who works for Paladin in the investor relations office, and it’s nothing more than that.

CHAPTER 83

AT EIGHT FORTY THE next morning, a good twenty minutes before proceedings were scheduled to start, Sampson, Mahoney, and I were in federal judge Margaret Twoomy’s courtroom in Alexandria.

It was a good thing. By the time her bailiff told everyone to rise, the six benches on both sides of the main aisle were packed with journalists, attorneys, court buffs, and lookie-loos. Twoomy, a tall brunette with sharp features, took the bench and called the court to order.

“We have a full arraignment docket, so I would like to move quickly this morning,” Twoomy said, peering out at the audience. “Counsel, when your client is called and the charges are read, I want a simple guilty or not guilty. Are we clear? Guilty or not guilty. You’ll get a chance to tell your side of things when I consider bail.” The judge looked over at her clerk. “First case, Randy?”

“United States versus Thomas Adrian Tull,” Randy said. “Multiple homicide charges.”

Lindy York, Tull’s defense attorney, stood and carried her attaché case to the defense table as Danielle Carbone, the assistant U.S. attorney assigned to the case, said, “As many as nineteen, Your Honor.”

“Alleged homicides, Your Honor,” York said.

A U.S. deputy marshal led Tull into the courtroom.

The writer wore an orange jailhouse coverall. The handcuffs on each wrist were clamped to steel rings on either side of a padlocked leather belt. His hair was disheveled. His face was still swollen, and the area around his eyes had turned purple and dark.

“Judge, my client is obviously not being protected adequately,” York said.

“Mr. Tull?” Judge Twoomy said.

“My own fault,” Tull said hoarsely. “End of story.”

The judge looked at the marshal. “See that he gets medical attention.”

“Yes, Judge.”

“Charges, then, Randy.”

The court clerk read out a total of thirty-two charges ranging from first-degree murder of the members of the various families to conspiracy to commit murder in the case of the Allison family.

Judge Twoomy stared at Tull, who stood with slightly slumped shoulders beside his attorney. “How do you plead, Mr. Tull?”