Triple Cross

“It’s real,” Bree insisted. “M sent men in helicopters to kill my husband and his partner last year deep in the Montana wilderness. They’d gotten too close to Maestro operators who were assassinating corrupt federal and local law enforcement agents and destroying the Alejandro drug cartel.”

Ellis said, “I remember reading about those killings and the cartel, but I don’t recall any reference to an M or Maestro.”

“The government wanted to keep it quiet,” Bree said. “They didn’t want to glorify a vigilante group, figuring it would bring out the crazies.”

“Especially when they’re killing law enforcement,” Salazar said. “Corrupt or not.”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” Ellis said. “Even if M and Maestro exist, I certainly don’t have enough to give Mr. Volkov the slightest leniency. And I do have other things to do. We’ll let him stew, see if he remembers more in a few days.”

“C’mon,” Salazar said to Bree. “We’ll go find you a ride to Penn Station and me a ride home to my baby.”

Bree was about to agree when she remembered something Alex had asked her to do while she was in New York.

“Can I go ask Volkov a question for my husband first? It’s about the Family Man murders in DC.”

Ellis shrugged. “Fine by me. If he’ll talk.”

CHAPTER 103

Alexandria, Virginia

ON THE SIDEWALK OUTSIDE the federal detention facility, I kneaded the knotted muscles in my neck with one hand and held my phone tight to my ear with the other. “You’re sure that’s what Volkov said?”

“Hundred percent,” Bree replied. “I recorded it.”

“Volkov know you were recording?”

“He did.”

“Send me a copy?”

“Of course. Guess who Volkov said hired him to kill Duchaine.”

“No clue.”

“M.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. M offered him twenty million in Bitcoin to do it.”

“Does Volkov know who M is?”

“No. He was always contacted through Tor encrypted messages, just like you. And he said M tried to hire him to kill the people at Paula Watkins’s place, but he refused.”

M was behind the Duchaine killings. How had that happened?

I was about to ask that when Bree said something, but her voice faded in and out like it was coming in over a shortwave. “Say that again, Bree.”

But the reception was even worse.

“One of us is having phone issues. I’ll see you at Union Station at seven thirty.”

“Love you” was all I understood before she broke the connection.

I pocketed my phone and looked up to see Mahoney and Sampson waiting. “Anything yet?” I asked.

Ned said, “Agents went into Haps Premium ten—”

His phone buzzed with a text; he looked at it, then nodded at us. “Cold/cold.”

We were soon in one of the rooms the detention facility set aside for law enforcement and attorneys to meet with prisoners.

Tull came strolling in wearing irons and a smirk on his face, which was less swollen but still black-and-blue.

“I saw on the news they were arrested,” he said, his words sounding clearer than the last time we’d spoken. “I told you they were framing me, and you’re finally coming to your senses, Dr. Cross. Finally seeing the light.”

He said it all with such satisfaction that I let him revel in it for several moments.

“I’ve always been a little slow on the uptake,” I said eventually. “I’m curious. Is that how you’ll write it? That Moore and Liu framed you to hide their roles in the murders?”

“Their roles?” he said with condescension. “Lisa’s a stone-cold killer. And Suzanne would stab her own mother in the back if it suited her purposes.”

“Moore admits she called up Google Earth on your computer and pinned the position of the Allisons’ house and the Kanes’.”

“Did she? What about the murder weapon?”

“What about it?”

“I read that they found Lisa’s fingerprints on it.”

“Partials.”

Tull laughed scornfully. “Some serial killer. Doesn’t even know to wipe her weapon down before she plants it in my storage unit.”

We said nothing.

His smug smile returned. “When am I getting out? I’ve got a book to write.”

I leaned forward, said, “I’m thinking you’ll have plenty of time to write that book.”

The writer blinked and retreated slightly. Good. I wanted him off balance.

Then the smile returned. He tilted his head. “When can I get out?”

“Just a couple of loose ends to take care of and you’re free as a bird, Thomas.”

“Let’s knot them up, then.”

I sat back. “There’s another explanation for why your hair was at the Kanes’ crime scene. Something other than that Lisa Moore planted the hair before she went on a killing spree in order to frame you and send you to prison.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You planted it,” Sampson said. “You planted your own hair.”

CHAPTER 104

THERE WAS A LONG pause as the writer looked at us with increasing incredulity. After a moment, he threw back his head and howled with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks. We watched him until he composed himself.

“You’re killing me.” Tull chuckled. “Why in God’s name would I ever do that?”